Parenthood of Thirst

"I'm starving of thirst."  I gasped clutching my throat in silent-film style over-acting.

"Get a glass of water" said my friend who had us over for the Family Day holiday.

Family Day, in case you're wondering, was invented (like most holidays are) by the Canadian Government a few years ago after exhausting research indicated that most Canadians go bat-shit crazy during the corridor between Valentine's Day and Mardi-Gras. It seems those weeks are particularly harsh in the Canadian climate-- resulting in many families being either snowed in (à la The Shining) or, seeing no vacation time in sight, feeling snowed into their jobs (à la The Shining).  So the government, ever concerned with the welfare of its citizens, created Family Day in an effort to lower the alarmingly high stats of death-by-animal-topiary.  Or something like that. Plus I think Martin Luther King Jr. day is the same day, or near it, and Canadians wanted to honour someone, too, but we aren't American; it's a slippery slope if we start honouring people from other countries-- where do we stop? Canadians are so polite we'd probably never work again for all the honouring-honourable-people-from-the-world holidays we'd take. No bueno.  So we celebrate Family Day, a fake holiday, so that the entire continent (except Mexico, I guess) can sleep in and hang out together.

"I'm starving of thirst." I exclaimed as I slammed the empty glass down on the kitchen table like a triumphant frat boy finishing a drinking game.
"Why are you so thirsty?" my friend asked unhappy that I probably dented her wooden table with my ferocity.
"More importantly, what's the water equivalent to starving? I know there is one. But what is it?"

My kids were doing laps around her kitchen, to her living room and back again.  Kiddo #1 was pretending to be a fairy princess, Kiddo #2 didn't give a crap what she was doing and was just running after her and giggling.

"I'm going deaf of thirst!" I said, as I filled the glass a second time.
"No. That's not right. Can you pass the fajita stuff?"
"Yeah. Well, you're not starving of thirst. Or going deaf of thirst. But what is it?"
The sizzle of the fajita veggies hitting the hot pan made a sound that made Kiddo #2 say "Whatsat?"
Kiddo #1 stopped and said, "Hey, buddy! It's the food cooking. Now let's pretend YOU'RE a giant rain cloud and I'm a fairy and I can't get wet because the water messes up my wings and I can't fly and then, I have to get home to a giant birthday party, but I can't get there fast enough if I walk. Ok? Go!"  Kiddo #1 began flitting around while Kiddo #2 looked at me, raised an eyebrow, threw his arms up high in the air and began screaming and chasing her all over again.

"You'd think two English majors would be able to figure this one out, eh?"
"I'm something of thirst. What is the word?"
My friend flipped the chicken and tapped the spatula on the side of the pan.
"I'm freezing of thirst? No." I gulped back more water. Whatever the right word is, that's exactly how I feel right now.

I'm up here for Family Day, despite having left Husband at home (which technically means I didn't have my whole family with me but he had to work), because this friend is my Very Best Girlfriend (if you search that on the blog I'm sure you'll get all the hilarious references to how important VBGs are in a life) and she IS family.

"I'm sweltering of thirst. I'm suffocating of thirst?"
"Keep trying, Mamacita."  Thanks for the support, VBG.   My kids continued racing in circles around VBG's upstairs while hot things cooked and spattered on the stove. Squeals of laughter rang through the house. Or whatever. I found them joyous because they weren't tearful or obnoxious super sonic screams (which are ever-present poolside and make me want to murder parents that can't seem to hear them, but maybe after living with Screamers, they have gone deaf. With thirst. Frick. What is that word?).

"Elizabeth, would you have kids again if you could go back in time and talk to yourself like those Freedom 55 commercials?" (if you're not Canadian, you won't get this. I'm sorry (and oddly happy at my little inside joke because inside jokes make you cool). I think if anyone else asked me this question, I would being some  panic attack that she was criticising my parenting skills, or telling me my kids suck, but that's never her hidden agenda. Rather, VBG can't hide anything, so if I knew she thought I suck as a parent, she'd just ask me "Do you think you're a good parent?" I know she just honestly wants to know.

Nonetheless, I stop worrying about my dire need for hydration and look at her, silent.  There are a few ways I can answer this question including just asking her why she wants to know, so I'm silent trying to figure out what tactic with which to respond.  I mean, really, no one is supposed to ask that. It's kinda like asking "Hey, uh, are you a man or a woman?" or saying "I think I just ran over your cat."  Only childless people ask it; there's an unspoken understanding that all parents have about having kids and whether you'd do it all again.

And, there's the response that all parents are programmed to respond when a childless person asks such a question: "Why, I'm shocked you'd even ask! Of course I'd have kids again! I love every single minute of every single day. There's nothing I would change and no amount of money I would take to trade for having children."

And then, there's the answer you give when two mothers get together.  They can be more honest in their thoughts: "Oh man, I love my kids, but some days I'd like to put them on Ebay."  And they laugh about how one of their kids puked 9 full ounces of milk directly into her bra and how her other kid put a personal pizza on the DVD tray and pressed play. Ha ha ha.

But, see, when you're with your Very Best Girlfriend, a person with whom you have never lied, bent or otherwise did malicious things to the Truth, it's hard to look her in the eye and really answer either one of those.  The biggest lie is that parenthood is rainbows and glitter. But the Truth is that some days are the worst days in the event horizon.  And, frankly, neither one I'd tell a friend, or that green alien from The Flintstones. The Great Kazoo? I don't remember-- and don't be shocked. I can't remember the simple word for dire thirst either.

So, I took another glass of water and said, "Honestly, yes. I would. But, also honestly, I would tell myself a few other things, too. Like: parenting is awesome. But even when it's not, chances are you're too tired to be too upset about it anyway so don't put off having kids if you're worried that you'll have to be perfect. Plus, you'll be too tired to be perfect.  And while we're at it: choose your partner wisely. Don't marry for looks or money or love. Marry for looks and money and love -- two outta three is only ok in songs."

VBG looked at me skeptically. "Looks and money and love? Sounds a little golddiggerish to me."
"Golddiggerish? Nice one. While you're inventing words, why not come up with one that means "extreme thirst."  Anyway, yes, all three are important.  If you love your partner, and he's cute, that's great, but if he's unemployable, or a money-idiot, you won't have a very good life with kids. Kids cost exactly whatever you earn. If you make $20, they cost $20. If you make $2 million, they cost $2 million. So make sure you've at least got $20 or all the love and handsomeness in the world won't get you by. I hope Husband married me for all three."

"Interesting..." I'm sure she said more than that, but Kiddos #1 and 2 came flying into the kitchen pretending to be rocketships (making loud blast-off sounds and jumping like kangaroos).

And, since I was already doing what 30-something people do best (which is to say "being right about everything and expounding in righteousness at the first sign of a captive audience") I continued. "Also, make sure the person you choose is your equal: you don't need another father, or another child-- you're going to be too tired to want an extra of either of those. ...  I'm thirsting of thirst?"  I put down the empty glass and listened to the chicken crackle. I realized that the only thing I was listening to was the crackle and went on a hunt for the kids. As I went downstairs, I called out over my shoulder "Also, I would have kids again, but a GPS implant in each of them would be handy. But I'm too tired to invent one."

Very Best Girlfriend continued cooking while I untangled my son from her vacuum hose. I found my daughter trying to stand on her head while wearing boots on her hands. I didn't even ask what was going on. I righted everyone and returned them upstairs and took another drink.

"I'm blind with thirst? Hmm. Why is this so tricky?"
"Well, having kids is."
"Huh? Oh. Yeah." (truth be told I had no idea what she was talking about because I'm too tired to maintain thoughts for more than 2 minutes)

"I like "suffocating with thirst" but I'm sure that's not right. Sounds poetic though." I stare at my cup and it reminds me of VBG's question.  Would I have kids again? "So anyway, here's the deal: having kids is just like having a baby. Well, like I guess when you have a baby you have a kid, but I mean, like, no one tells you about the shit parts of being pregnant. No one really, truly explains what happens to your body afterwards, or any of that because... well, I suppose part of it is to ensure continuation of the species. If women really knew what having kids would do to them physically and emotionally, I think they'd probably not do it. If men knew what having kids would do to them physically and emotionally, I think they'd probably not do it, too.  But the body does this miraculous thing where you can't physically remember 5 minutes ago, or like, the simple word for extreme thirst, so you have nothing to compare your current situation.  Like, is cleaning this puke/milk out of your bra the worst thing ever? I have no idea: I'm too tired to remember whether I was in a P.O.W. camp during some international war event. In truth, I won't remember that kidlet puked his entire stomach into my boobs in 10 minutes, so who cares? It's an extreme version of "living in the now" that happens when you have kids."  I take another swig of water. I think I've finished off my daily requirement just sitting here postulating. It's making me thirsty, all this chatter.

"I'm dry with thirst? I feel like the closer I get the further away the word goes. Sigh. Plus, kids are amazing. That's the other part-- even after all the shit and puke and screaming and untangling from vacuum hoses, kids are like glasses of water. You didn't know what you were missing but one sip and you can't live without them. But you sure as hell can't remember the word for it."

"Parenthood." said Very Best Girlfriend.
"Yes. I'm Parenthood of thirst."

Sounds right to me.

CSI: Canadia

Some clarification is in order.

Apparently, in the dead of Winter it is mostly impossible for an entire garage to reek of dead animal when it has only been in there a matter of an hour.

However, I think I should also clarify: it wasn't in there only an hour.  I, Sherlock Sunnen, have figured out what the stink is/was and how long it was brewing.

You see, gentle reader, even after putting the noxious fume-spewing garbage bin in the middle of the driveway (which I'm sure impressed the neighbours), the garage still stunk. Oh, it stunk less, but not much less.  Not "I removed the offensive source" less.

So, I put the baby in his Pack and Play for a nap.

I dismantled Kiddo #2's crib this week to punish Husband for working too much-- yes, I know, it makes no sense but don't pretend you've never done anything to fake-punish your partner for doing something s/he didn't even know s/he'd done. You know, those times you accidentally burned the toast, or the team uniform didn't make it into the dryer and is wet for the big game ... or when you take all the soap out of the shower, wait for him to get in, then crawl into the bathroom and take his towel, too. 


Whatever, Judger. 


Anyway I also thought Kiddo #2 was ready for that transition, since Kiddo #1 was already in a toddler bed at 16 months without issue.  But, I forgot that Kiddo #2 is not in fact, Kiddo #1.  And, Kiddo #2 is being a bit of a butt hole about this transition, and thusly won't stay in his bed. 


Apparently I'm a touch on the under-slept side recently, so at 2am, after getting up with him every hour the first night, and every hour the second night to return him to his new, wonderful bed, I hauled myself downstairs and rummaged/banged around until I found the Pack and Play and reassembled it. 


Oh, fine. 


I wasn't looking for the Pack and Play. I was getting the pieces to reassemble the blasted crib. I'm not sure how I thought I was going to get the parts of the crib upstairs with my eyes still shut (it's how I pretend I'm still asleep when I'm up with kids in the middle of the night. Cute trick, eh?) but I was desperate to get some sleep. So, as I was banging around looking for the bits of the crib at 2am, and happened upon the Pack and Play, which made infinitely more sense, and brought it up instead. 


Tomato-To-mah-to, my judging friend.

Where was I? Right, so Kiddo #2 was in his Pack and Play singing and laughing (hopefully soon to be sleeping) and off I trotted to the garage, put down both the doors (they were open trying to 'air out' the stink) and waited 10 minutes.

What did I do for 10 minutes? I'm guessing I didn't tweet, facebook or pinshit, because I definitely would've been longer than 10 minutes. 

Anyway, when I returned to the closed garage, I was gagging before Parliament could sing "We Want The Funk, gotta have that funk, awwww." (or if you're younger than that, reference this one: I was gagging before the Glee Cast got to "We Want The Funk, gotta have that funk, awwww.")

Frickdy, right? Wrong!

I realized instantly that Vaga-kitty (oh, that's vagabond + kitty, not vagina + kitty) had been living in our garage.  See, the night before, I went out to the garage to get a can of Coke.

I drink one at dinner and it keeps me off the junk during the day-- I'm sure F. Scott Fitzgerald would be proud of the many things I learned from "Babylon Revisited," including a) how to be a proper, recovering alcoholic, and what it looks like when your whole world changes overnight, but I digress.


While I was in the garage getting my coke, I heard a cat jump off something. Knowing we don't have a cat, I rationalized that the sound was just the car poop falling off the back of Husband's tires. (car poop: that slushy stuff that accumulates behind your tires as you drive around in the Winter) I returned to the house. Elementary, Dear Watson. Wait. I don't think that goes there yet.

I got my trusty magnifying glass and uber-scary gas mask, donned my checkered hat and cape and returned to the scene of the crime.  Immediately, I realized that Vagakitty (I really hope you're saying Vay-guh-kitty, and not Vah-jah-kitty in your head as you read this.) had made a home in our garage for at least the 24 hours prior to its tragic end.  Yes, I found the sleeping spot (and cried for the poor, sweet thing again), but more importantly I found the two spots where it decided to use our garage as a litter box.

It's good that I found that after I'd cried in pity at the wee bed, because there were no tears as I took the scrub brush and various gross cleaning supplies to scrub that mess outta my garage.

I finished my task and opened the garage doors in triumph!
And then, two hours later, the damn stink was back.

So I googled "get rid of cat spray?" and an array of answers popped up, ranging from "vodka in a spray bottle" and "baking soda and peroxide in a spray bottle" to "It's impossible to get rid of cat piss. Paint that or move."

That last one was particularly helpful.

Not having vodka (rather, not having any that I would needlessly throw on cement) I pulled out my rubbing alcohol and sprayed that on it.

And then, an hour later, the sink was back. Less back, but still there. And now there was the faint smell of nail polish remover mingling in the air.

So I broke into Kiddo #1's science experiment (a volcano) and took out the baking soda and vinegar bits and tossed them liberally on the stinky spots. Um, if you choose to use this method, which also mostly works, go out and just buy new baking soda. Don't "be frugal" and use the stuff you already committed to the experiment. Red food colouring is just as hard to get out of cement as cat hormones mixed with pee. And it looks waaaay worse when mixed with dead animal and cat pee smell.

The Garage: left side mine, right side Husband's. 

I'll let you know if I ever get the scent of this poor animal out of our garage, and if I ever get Kiddo #2 into his toddler bed full time. And, heck, while we're listing off stuff, I'll let you know if I ever paint Kiddo #2's new bed and dresser, if my hair ever gets to my shoulder blades and if they ever actually make a size called 'bucket' at the coffee shop.
Elementary, Dear Watson, Elementary.

Slip Slidin' Away

Rizzo, our 10-year old Jack Russell terrier, has politely requested I send her for some therapy, and barring that, at least medicate her.  She's having trouble, she says, with the events of the past few weeks in this world.

I'm making lunches here-- what on earth could you need, Rizzo?

Me: Whitney Houston's death is really bothering you that much?

Rizzo: What? Seriously? No. Sure, she could sing, but like, we all knew she would be meeting up with Amy Winehouse at that big party in the sky any day now. (pause) That's why I'd prefer some talk therapy to drugs, actually. I don't want to start down the slippery slope. 

Me: How did you learn the term "Slippery slope?"  You're a dog.

Rizzo: Wow. Yeah.  I'm referring to the pond outside.  All you have to do is take an anti-anxiety pill and get on the waterfall to catch the fish, and BAM! You're in the pond slapping the water like it's a new born baby hiney. It's a slippery slope, once you've had some pills. Very slippery. That's all. 

Me: Ooooh. Got it. So, you want me to call that Dog Whisperer guy?

Kiddo #1: (enters wearing pyjamas, a tutu, a glitter hairband, and winter boots)  (singing) Slip slidin' away. Slip slidin' awaaaaay...

Seriously? I wish I was making this stuff up. I swear she started singing that while Rizzo and I were discussing the merits of medication versus therapy.  

Whatever.

So we're talking about all this not because of the untimely death of a singing superstar, but actually because this conversation occurred prior to that one:

Me: For the LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY GET DRESSED! The bus is going to be here in 10 minutes and you're wearing your pyjamas! 

Kiddo #1: Some people go to school in their pyjamas. 

Me: (sighing) Yes. Sort of. Those are parents who are walking their kids to school who are wearing pyjamas. I think those parents don't have jobs, so they go back home to look for work in their pyjamas afterwards. Or something.

Kiddo #1: You don't have a job. I think you should wear your pyjamas to take me to school, since I just missed the bus. And then we can match.

Me: It's not... I'm ... They are... I... (sighing) It's not the same. And. That other bus that just went by the house wasn't your bus, but that one that is stopped there, IS. And you're not going to school in your pyjamas, and neither am I.

(enter Husband, who left for work some time ago)

Husband: I. UmBethI. Um.

Me: Be right there. (you know the tone your partner uses to alert you to something horrific without saying (or spelling) anything? Yeah. That's what this dialogue just was.)

I glance down the hall and see Kiddo #1's shadow dancing in her room, so I pluck Kiddo #2 and put him in his highchair with some goldfish crackers.  Everyone's happy.

I ran to the garage to find Husband pacing back and forth. 

Me: Um?

Husband: Beth. I hit a cat. I don't know where it even came from. It was just there.

Me: Frick. Did any of the kids see you?

Husband: No, a bunch got on a bus, and the other bus went around my truck to block it.

Me: Wow. It's a frickin' crime scene.

Husband: It's black and white.

Me: Well, yeah. I guess so. You hit it.

Husband: No, I mean the cat.

Me: Oh thank heaven! (I'm not a cow-- the neighbours have a dark grey and white cat that is indoor/outdoor) 

From here, I went back inside and had the first conversation with Rizzo and finally got the kids ready for school, pretending there wasn't an ominous cloud of death in our otherwise happy garage, while Husband "took care of things." Boo. 

Outcome for feral cat: no bueno. 

Outcome for Husband: probably fine. 

Outcome for ME: SHITE.  

Why you ask? Oh, because Husband had some meeting he had to get to, so he put the cat in a garbage bag (after checking for a collar and knocking on neighbour doors) and left it, BAG OPEN in our garage. Door shut. 

Soon the mushroom cloud of stinking death overtook the garage.  Sooner still, that pulsing stench was also mingling with the scent of vomit. My vomit. That happened when I left the house to put the kids in the car and took a deep breath.  I slammed the door shut and hustled the kids around to the front door and put them in the car from there. (my car isn't in the garage anyway because of the bed I'm still not allowed to paint, yet have the paint for).  After I got them in the car, I went back in, gagged to the garage, gagged my way to the bag, closed it with one hand (while the other held my coat to my mouth and nose to prevent more stench from getting inside me) and placed the bag in the garbage bin, hoping that would somehow fix the problem. (it didn't, in case you care)

But back to Rizzo, because I'm sure you're not really wanting a blow-by-blow account this morning's events.

So she's asked for some talk therapy. Why? Well, because our house, since we've moved in, has become the place where animals go to die.

Roughly 6 months after we moved in, while I was super pregnant with Kiddo #2, our beloved kitty, Ferris died. He was 13, had a grade 4 heart murmur and it was from natural (heartbreaking) causes. Actually, the vet told us he probably wouldn't live to 2 when we got him, and then Ferris would have to be an indoor cat because his heart was so bad-- this cat was the Dane Cook of cats-- hilarious, always doing something zany, crazy and funny, but also a proficient slayer of all things edible to cats. Not that Dane Cook eats mice and birds, but whatever.  I cried and cried when we lost him.

Then, 6 months after then, we lost our black lab, Finnegan. Finnegan was plagued with anxiety which made him rather special needs. But he was such a wonderful, good boy (when he wasn't having panic attacks and leaving shit soup all over the floor).  He and Rizzo were besties, and she hasn't really been the same since we lost him.  In fact, truth be told, none of us has been. He was a pretty big member of our dysfunctional family. 

And then we got Katty (Cat-ee) Kiddo #1's reward hamster. That was 3 weeks ago. And she was "playing sleep-dead" last week when Kiddo #1 went to feed her. It wasn't quite the same attachment, nor reaction to hearing she died from any of us. I felt bad for that, but also good (kinda) because I think it meant we've explained death proficiently for our 4-year old. 

But today's poor, homeless cat has shaken me. We've lost more animals in our new house (in the last two years) than we've lost in the 13 years Husband and I have been together. 14 years? Whatever.  

I would assume we've angered the Gods of Animals or Wildlife or something, but on that same note, I feel like we've had enough sacrifices that they should be pleased again. Unless -- maybe they're holding out for virgins or something? If that's the case, Rizzo should be much less anxious-- she and Finn were besties, but she and her cousin Rocky are more-than-friends. Winky winky. 

So now the question becomes one Zach Galafanakis would ask: How do you throw away a garbage can? What do you put it in? (piano keys twinkling in the background)  

An Early Valentine To The One I Love

My Dearest Valentine:

We've been together a long time; I'm starting to forget what ma vie was like before we were together (granted, the recent addition of children to our life makes me forget many, many things) and I'm totally ok with that.

It's funny that you were in my life when I was a teenager, yet I don't remember you that well. We connected in Math class and then kinda lost touch until my early 20s. I was busy filling my life with parties and general mayhem, but your void was very present.  What were you off doing, I wonder, while I was busy missing you in the wee hours of the morning?  Who were you snuggling while I watched a new day break with nothing to keep me warm than a large cup of coffee? 

I guess I may never know. 

Yet, here we are, so many years later, and all I can think about most days is how much I love you. When I wake up in the morning, stretch and then realize you're already gone for the day I start making plans about how I can be with you again.  

My eyes burn missing you; my heart longs for you to be near me once more.

I wonder if, today, when you return after lunch, whether I will be able to lay my head on a pillow and know you'll envelope me? Oh, Sleep. My beloved Sleep.  Sweet, sweet, Slumber: I am yours.  

Let's get one thing straight though: I have valued your friendship and love over the years. You didn't need to give me Mono (Again. For almost a year.) for me to appreciate you. Trust me, after getting through two newborns, countless sicknesses and dogs that have middle-of-the-night emergencies, I covet my time spent under covers with you.

But this new thing, this Neverending Mono, is killing me. I've gone from merely adoring you, Sleep, to junkie status overnight. I wasn't kidding when I said I wake up and immediately begin preparations so I can go to sleep again. I think of nothing except you, Sleep. Well, except for like, an hour and a half after I've had a 4-hour nap, then I can function on a semi-normal basis.

I say "semi-normal," though, because I spend that hour and a half unable to walk or really think, but feeling marvellous.  I make text and email plans with friends and loved ones that I've been neglecting because of my sleep addiction and have grand ideas for the near future.  

But then, you overtake me and I fall prey to your powers. I awaken hours later, shaking and extremely irritated that our time together was so short (no matter the length).  I have no memory of the plans I made (and have since flaked out on) because all I can think of is how and when I will sleep once more.  I want to cry when I hear the baby has also awoken: all I want is another 15 minutes. And, Sleep, it's totally unfair that I can't just hustle the nearest shady looking character for some more like a normal junkie does. 

You sit there smug in the knowledge that you have the market cornered; here I am, in my Princess Leia costume begging for mercy. 

So, my dearest Sleep. My love, my heart, soul, brain, and ability to exist in regular society: Sleep, please fix me and make me whole again. Bring me to a place where I can love you like a friend again, because this addiction is beginning to affect my ability to work, parent and be a wifey.  If I promise to build a sleep alter and pray to you every night, would that help? What if I wrote a whole bloggy letter to you announcing your awesomeness to the world? Please. I'm on my hands and knees, which is dangerously close to laying down completely and we know what happens when that takes place: you win. Again.

Just know that whatever it takes I'm willing to do it. All for you, my dearest Sleep. 

As for you, Mono, you free-loading bastard, consider yourself served: get the hell outta my house and don't come back. Ever. Screw you and your life-force sucking ways. You stink like rotted, raw chicken guts in the August sun. 

Yeah, I said it. 

E

Awesome, Mommy Awesome!

I can't sleep.

Rather, two nights ago, Kiddo #2 misplaced his Poochie and no one has been able to sleep since. Of course, after a certain point of exhaustion, slumber overtakes even the most forlorn of toddlers, and Kiddo #1 and Husband quickly followed suit.

Not me, though. All I can think about is how Poochie is gone and how much that sonofaquilt means to my sonofa... ha. At 2am, that sounds really hilarious, by the way. That must be why infomercials run late at night-- the shoddy acting and unbelievable claims are much more acceptable when you're running on insomnia and waiting for the benedryl to kick in.

(PS, if you have trouble sleeping, a Doctor once recommended to me to take a benedryl. I thought to myself, "But I'm not allergic to sleep. I just can't get there." and the Dr said that it's a non-addicting way to take the edge off an overactive mind and get some sleep. I've been using it (randomly, without addiction) as needed, ever since.)

All of us have scoured the main floor; yesterday I decimated Kiddo #1's room thinking (since Kiddo #2 loves to hang out in his sister's room while she's at school) maybe Poochie was stuffed into one of the many wee boxes full of "treasures" and "collections" that exist within its walls. Hell, I even checked Katty's cage (our new hamster) in case she had him in her giant fluffy nest.

Nope.

I then moved into Kiddo #2's room and tore it apart. It was a much faster, since he doesn't have 4 years of stuff, only 1.5 years worth, but the search was also fruitless.

I ripped through the living room, the kitchen, I checked inside the hutch where my amazing dishes are (hoping against hope that Poochie was not actually in with my good dishes) and turned to the pantry. After a morning of anti-climatic "Ah-Ha!"s, I entered our bedroom and began scouring it as well.

During my time searching, digging, opening, moving, sweeping (which was interspersed with random fits of fatigue and tears) I did not find the missing friend. I did, however, find my missing belt, three pairs of Kiddo #1's shades, 16 magnetic letters of the alphabet (nowhere near the fridge) and the Mount Everest of single socks. I'm pretty sure I saw my virginity in there, too, but it's been gone so long I don't think I would recognize it anymore anyway, so I let it be.

I invited neighbours. I bribed Kiddo #1 with a pony. I tried to get the dog in on the bloodhound action (she wasn't really into it, being a Jack Russell Terrier. BUT she did vow to leave no stone unturned if only I would let her please, oh please, search the hamster cage, please.)  Kiddo #2 followed me around chanting, "Pooooocheeee... pooooocheeeee..." and rubbing his eyes.  Then I realized the only place I hadn't yet searched was our garbage.

Frick.

This is gag-tacular. 

I put two plastic grocery bags on each hand (who actually keeps rubber gloves in their house?), opened a new, black garbage bag and headed, mournfully, into the garage.

I ripped open the bag and was overcome with the stench of 5 overnight pull-ups, 5 disposable (nighttime) diapers, countless poops (we cloth diaper and sometimes flush the poops, sometimes forget and trash them), rotten celery, many fetid milk bags OH! And what's this? Oh! Raw chicken bits. Oh praise! The gag reflex is so strong I briefly wonder if I'm actually pregnant, then dismiss the thought with the next gagging breath I take.

I tried focusing on good things that smell wonderful, like baked bread or newborn baby heads, but I can't get passed the stench.

I put the stinking bag into the 'fresh' one, tie them hastily shut and gag my way back into the house. Without Poochie. That was Sunday night.

By the time the Cleaning Fairy appeared on Tuesday morning, I was beside myself with glee: if anyone could find Poochie, it would be our wonderful, thorough Cleaning Fairy. Oh the hope that filled my heart with joy and happiness. But, alas, no.

Even she didn't find him.  Husband and I decided to suck it up and check the basement. Oh, we'd been down there countless times before Tuesday and didn't find him, but that didn't necessarily mean Poochie wasn't there.

Our basement is unfinished BUT, it's not a free-for-all. The framing is up making our basement a maze of nooks and crannies, of boxes, and wires (and boxes OF wires); it's the English Muffin of basements. Yet, once again, nothing.

So, I went back out to my nemesis.

There, taunting me with a stench that would straighten your pubic hair (unless yours is straight, then yours would curl), I faced the raw chicken once more, just to be sure. Oh, don't worry-- if Poochie HAD been there, he would have stayed there-- I'm not messing around with frickin' salmonella or who-knows-what. But I just had to be sure, either way, of Poochie's whereabouts.

At this point of frustration and disgust (whilst thinking, "Gee, I bet if inmates had to sort our garbage at the dump every day of their imprisonment, crime rates would plummet.") I gave up, cleaned myself up, and got into the car.

I drove up and down my street with the windows down calling "Pooooocheeeee" as though the stuffed animal might hear me and return.

And, now you're caught up. It's 2am and I can't sleep.

See, Kiddo #2 starts daycare tomorrow (well, in a few hours) and the thought of him being in a new place, without his sister, and his Poochie, and having a nap is giving me anxiety. (I'm sure HE'd be fine, but I'm freaking out)

I reluctantly throw back the covers and haul my self downstairs to search the basement once more. I start in the farthest corner, my sewing room. I open boxes, I move things, I get on my hands and knees and crawl around (thus ensuring I also found every stray pin and needle I've ever dropped. Sigh.)

I look in stuff that is too small to hold the dog, I even brave the back room (where the sump-pump and werewolves live) to try and find that little dog.

And then. As if by magic, I see it. A teeny, tiny, wee brown dot.

You can actually see Poochie's wee brown ear in this picture.
And, you can, thusly, also see why it took us 3 days to find him. 

Triumph! With trumpets blaring (in my head) and confetti falling (on my head, in my head) I strut my awesome self upstairs holding the prized pal!

I was seriously torn between "Shall we wake the house to announce the triumphant return of Poochie?" and "I'll just sneak into his room and tuck Poochie into his arms without disturbing him."
I ended up doing the latter and I watch as my sleeping boy nuzzled the lost friend, snuggled into him and took a deep, relaxing breath.

I return to bed, only NOW I can't sleep because I'm SO. FRICKIN'. AWESOME!

I just lay there, staring at the ceiling almost waking Husband to revel in my FRICKIN' AWESOMENESS, but I don't because I don't want to commit to anything more than revelling. Revelry? No thanks, it's 3am.
Then, I remember! I have some leftover Lycra from a Gaga costume I made a couple of weeks ago (for no particular reason. It's just how I roll). I bust outta bed and float downstairs on clouds of awesome glory, created in my wake.

Sometimes (often) people ask me where I get my energy. Here's the truth: sometimes I get it from harnessing rage and turning it into something beautiful. Sometimes I get it from a well-timed manic upswing (although I'm not 'technically' manic, nor am I 'technically' ADD. But if it looks like a duck...).

And then, there are other times. These are my favourite times-- times when my energy level comes from basking in the glory of my own awesomeness. In fact, when it's that case, The Awesome Case, the only way I can possibly return to sleep is to create an homage to myself.

So, back into the basement I went, using my newly found pins and needles.  I busted out an awesome Lycra costume (complete with cape, but not mask, because I WANT people to recognise me and my awesomeness). Once that was finished, I pulled out my super awesome markers and some paper, wrote, drew and inked a comic book series based on (you guessed it) my awesomeness.



Hitting the stands this Spring: Mommy Awesome and her sidekicks, The Pterodactyl Ptoddlers VS Captain Cloaking: he can hide anything! Will M.A. be able to outwit Captain Cloaking before the Pterodactyl Ptoddlers start screaming???

Stay Tuned! (and for heaven's sake, don't take your eyes off Poochie!)

That's A Lotta Bull

I watched with glee as my cousin and her husband unloaded the Mate's bed and dresser, that her son had outgrown, into our garage. Well, ok. My husband and her husband unloaded the stuff while she and I chit chatted about the unseasonably warm weather and pretended to have sore backs.  Ladies-- the sore back is the best alibi-- it doesn't show up on x-ray, alcohol may make it better, AND it gets you out of everything. And I mean everything... get it? Wink, wink. Bless my wretched, sore back. Ha.

Anyway, as their truck was pulling out of the driveway and we were waving with smiley faces, Husband said, through smiley, clenched teeth: If you lay paintbrush to bed, you are declaring War.

I peed my pants a little when he said the war thing while smiling and waving. 

Me: Sorry? What? Did that even make sense?
Husband: Don't stop smiling. They'll see you! (pause) I said, if you pick up a paintbrush with the intent of modifying that bed, you are declaring War in our home.
Me: Did you take over for Kim Jong-Il when he died or something?
Husband: For the duration of our time with this bed and dresser, yes I am the North Korea to your South. IF you pick up a paintbrush, you are declaring war.

(thank heaven the truck just headed out of sight so Creepy Creeperson can stop smiley-threatening me)

I stop waving and look at my husband with my super-duper-incredulous face, which (I think) is kinda like this one:

Say whaaaaa?

He turns on his heel and gets himself between me and the direct access to our paint supplies. Who does this guy think he is? And also, when did he get so quick?  Laughing it off as some sort of stunt, I said, "Honey, darling, schmoopsie-poo, this bed and dresser are in great condition. Why would I want to paint them?"

"I'm on to you, lady. I know you're doing the "I don't want to paint it" crap so that you can convince me to decide it needs painting. Well, I'm not falling for it. I repeat: if you put paintbrush to bed, you are declaring war."

Eff-that! When did our relationship go from partner to parent? And, if so, how did HE end up with the parent card? I totally remember rigging that deck years ago. I'm starting to get miffed.

Now I have to do the old repeat-the-statement-as-a-question so I can buy some time for me to figure out my next move.

"Declaring WAR? Really? WAR?"

"Yes." he said simply. Frick. He's not really helping. And in my panic, all my stupid war metaphors and illusions have retreated into the trenches of my mind and are waving a white flag. No, that's a pair of tighty-whiteys they're waving, that's how desperate they are for a surrender.  

Frickin' nice. 

Thanks brain. 

Again. 

If I get out of this alive, I'm totally using high-fume paint and killing off a few more traitorous brain cells. 

Ha-haa. Winning.

Anyway, I'm frantically trying to pull up some lame Alexander The Great or Genghis Khan reference that might send him off balance while he figured out what I was talking about. Nothing. FRICKIN' BRAIN!  How am I supposed to trick Husband into letting me update (paint) the bed and dresser if I don't even have a second-- A FRICKIN SECOND-- to formulate a plan of attack?!?

Ladies, heed my warning: learn your history or you will be doomed to never be able to repeat it when needed.

"Well, but... it's uh, it's in good condition, but like, it's already... uh, been used by two other grown boys. (oh I'm onto something!!) Like, I just want to give the bed and dresser a chance to survive Kiddo #2."

"Not a bristle." He has crossed his arms, albeit playfully, and the more he protests the thing I hadn't officially yet proposed, the more desperately I want it. All I can think about is 15 different colours I could repaint the bed, and crazy stuff I could do to the dresser-- whole boy room themes are flipping through my head in rapid fire like the pig in Toy Story when he's using that remote to find the pizza commercial. 

Oh, Toy Story! That'd be a great theme, too! I could do the dresser as the Claw game and then the bed I could paint like Buzz Lightyear's ship. And put little white clouds on the walls and paint Rex and Woody and  like, like...

This is why teenage boys get nothing done; I now realise that updating Kiddo #2's bedroom has become like The Teenage Pursuit of Sex to me. (according to the American Pie movies anyway) All I can think of is how, and where, and when, and what... And the fact that Husband has all but threatened me with Divorce if I paint a damn thing in our house and how I. Just. Don't. Care. I. Want. This. So. Bad. 

Husband: You don't have to Craft Bomb everything that comes into our house.

Me: Craft Bomb? (Dang it! I'm giggling. Bah.)

Husband: (looking smug) Yeah. I said it.

Me: I don't want to cover it in glitter or scrapbook paper. I want to paint it espresso brown.

Husband: Don't touch it. 

Me: Why?

Husband: Because there's nothing wrong with it. It's in great condition. You're fixing something that isn't broken.
Me: Where does your dedication to boring come from exactly? 

Husband: I'm an engineer. Function over form.

Me: I'm an ... artist. Form over function. 

I'm starting to get annoyed again. Who does this guy think he is? Why is he even allowed to weigh in on something that doesn't concern him? Is HE the one doing the painting? No. Is HE the one that will be doing the design work? No. Is HE the one that will be doing the sanding/putty filling/washing/priming/first coat/second coat? NO! So why is he even allowed to have a voice here? It makes no sense. It's like listening to people that don't vote or pay taxes tell you who to elect. Seriously? No more talking for you.

I think he could sense the temperature was falling again, despite my initial giggle. 

Husband: I read your blog, by the way.  It was really funny. I loved it. It's the best one you've written yet.

Me: (squealing) Thanks! I loved it, too. Did you love the reference to Leonard Cohen? Frickin' genius, right?  Should I have put some flapping doves in the background of that picture or no? ... Why are you smirking? (pause) Are you kidding me? Holy frick you're smooth Husband. I'll give you that. But, you're not allowed to distract me with compliments and blog-love. No fair!

Husband: Seriously. Just leave the bed alone. It didn't do anything to you. 

So, Husband, what you're saying is that as long as I don't paint the bed and dresser, we're cool? Awesome. Cuz yesterday, when I was picking out the paint, I figured out what I want to do-- ROBOTS! I think I'll do the dresser as a giant, orange robot, the bed in espresso, the other random piece of furniture in espresso and then put some robots on the wall. Cute ones, retro ones. That must appeal to his nerd, right? Robots? 

Me: Husband-- I'm writing down some notes for my next blog-- what did you call it when I wanted to paint the bed stuff again?

Husband: Craft bomb.

Me: Ha. That's funny. All I can see is a canon filled with glitter that explodes and purple and black glitter gets on everything and then there are red streamers. I don't know where they came from, though.

Husband: Wow.

Me: Dang it! I just wrote "bloggy" on my phone and the frickin' autocorrect changed it to "blight."  Does Autocorrect even know what blight means?

Husband: Autocorrect is the blight on the iPhone landscape.

Me: Way to use the only example for blight. It's like the phrase used to explain Bane--everyone says "the bane of my existence" and they still don't know what that means.

Husband: So ... now you're mad at me for using a word in context?

Me: Well, that's what happens when you play with a bull. Sometimes you get a fun basketball game, and sometimes you get the horns-- and I've taken the liberty of tying a paintbrush to the tail of the bull that you're now a kabob of. Guess where y'all are headed.

Husband: War?