Laundry Orgami

Alert the media: My son has invented a new art form, Laundry Origami. He has an uncanny ability to transform ordinary soiled clothing into random intricate shapes as he peels them from his body and flings them in the general direction of his hamper. Today I found a shirt that he had formed into the statue of liberty and a jeans/underwear combination in the shape of Dick Cheney doing a downward dog. Not to brag, but he is quite gifted. Seriously, give my kid a sweater vest and a button down shirt and he'll twist them into a scale model of a Bavarian mountain village.

After discovering that he had created an exact replica of St Patrick’s Cathedral using only socks and a football jersey, I became curious as to how he accomplished such feats of dexterity.   One evening I asked him to change into his PJ’s then sat back to watch the show.  The spectacle that followed was nothing short of spectacular.  In fact it nearly defies description with mere words.  But I’ll try.  First let me say his athleticism was astounding.  It could best be described as the love child of Cirque du Soleil and a rugby match.  He flailed, he spun, he crab-walked across his desk.  I can’t be 100% sure, but at one point I’d swear he was levitating over his bed as he twirled his clothing above him, not unlike a New York pizza chef. 

Finally, when the dust had settled, I realized that I hadn’t dusted his room in quite some time.  I also saw, there on the floor, a perfectly rendered model of the Titanic made entirely of cargo shorts and his boy scout neckerchief.

Put On Your Lucky Underpants, People!! It's a Contest!!

So, I’ve been reading up on how to get more traffic on my blog and one of the suggestions I found was to use whatever means are at your disposal.  This seemed like good sound advice to me which led me to think that contests with prizes are always fun.  Since I can’t think of a good use for shedded dog hair (yet)  and there’s a high probability I’d get tossed in the clink if I sent homemade moonshine through the mail, I have decided that the first person to get me 10 followers on BNI will receive a randomly chosen, slightly used and possibly damaged McDonald’s Happy Meal toy!!!*   Exciting , right!!

Before those of you who know me rush to judgement and try to have me committed (again),  just consider that this makes perfect sense to someone who’s spent the better part of the last decade cleaning up after two young boys. It’s a win-win really, I get a clean(er) house/car and the lucky winner gets a nearly useless piece of crap that may possibly occupy a sugar-crazed toddler long enough to change a diaper or open a jar of mayonaise.  And that there is money in the bank people!!

So, for real, I’m not kidding I will send one lucky winner a Happy Meal toy as described above if you pursuade, trick, threaten, and/or bribe your friends into becoming followers of this blog!

*Caution!  Toy may be a choking hazard for small children... or large dogs... or irritating co-workers.

Eating Peaches With a Fork

Spoiler alert: This post is loaded with F-bombs…sort of.

My mom always said “Intelligent people don’t need to swear because they can always think of something better to say”.   Apparently her grandson did not get the memo.

Once upon a time, back when my younger son was just a wee lad of about 15 months or so, we ran out of applesauce.  This made him cranky.   But, undaunted, I decided to try some peaches for lunch instead.  In a vain effort to secure a nomination for Mommy of the Year,  I decided to turn the situation into a “teachable moment”.  I kept repeating the word “peaches” so that he might try saying it himself and thereby introduce both a new food and new word in one glorious moment of flawless parenting.  He gladly obliged after he tasted his new favorite fruit…only the way he pronounced peaches, he sounded like a Hispanic  housekeeper saying “bitches”.  (Imagine “beeches”)  Of course I laughed at this like an eighth grade boy on weed watching Nacho Libre.

Seeing my response only encouraged him so when I asked him if he liked the pee-ches (overly pronouncing the word),  he nodded emphatically and said “mmmmm, beeches!  Like beeches!”.  In fact he was so enthusiastic about his bowlful of beeches that he dropped his little ergonomic fork on the floor.  No problem I thought, I figured he’d just grab the little beeches with his bare hands and pop them in his mouth, but no.  He wanted his fork… and he wanted it now.  At this point it will come as no surprise that, when he asked for his fork he pronounced it “f#ck”.  Well, problem was, his “f#ck” landed on a dust bunny and since it had been covered it “beech” juice, all manner of gunk was stuck to it.  And this, my friends, is where it went from Jack Black in Nacho Libre to Al Pacino in Scarface.   In the 3.5 nanoseconds it took me to wash off that tiny utensil, my son flew into a rage screaming at the top of his lungs “f#ck, f#ck!! Beetches!!  Want f#ck!!! Want F#ck Beeches!!” 

 And that is why you will not see my son eating peaches with a fork in public until he graduates from college.   The End.

Salmonella Chicken Juice Hands

Is it just me, or are kids are bent on placing themselves in harms way despite our best efforts to keep them injury and illness free?  It’s like they have some uncontrollable primordial urge to reach into snake dens and lick road kill.   

Take for example the day I took my then 9 month old son to the grocery store.  I had him loaded in the shopping cart clipped securely into the seat atop one of those covers that go over the entire front of the cart.  Now I don’t want to brag, but I’m somewhat of a professional germophobe.  Therefore my shopping cart seat cover was about the size of a queen comforter with bright colors, wild patterns and interchangeable toys that clipped to the front.  When the whole shebang was assembled, my cart vaguely resembled a float from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Perhaps my son was just hungry.  Perhaps he was embarrassed.  Perhaps he did not want to be the Grand Master of Cerimonies at the parade.  Anyhow, he was cranky so I sped through the store as fast as I could which was just below the speed of sound, because neither of us really enjoys grocery shopping and one of us screams loudly when he’s had enough. 

Much to my chagrin, my son was not content to play with the half dozen age appropriate (and carefully selected to provide optimum visual and tactile stimulation) toys clipped to the front of the float, uh cart.  Instead, he felt my grocery list was much more engaging.  And hey, who could blame him, I mean it’s a piece of paper…with writing on it…..fascinating.  Anyhow, over the next few minutes a small tug of war ensued which resulted in him tearing off about half the list.  Seeing that it was the half with the stuff that I had already put in the cart, I just let him have it.  That was my first mistake.   Shortly thereafter, I was putting a poorly wrapped package of chicken in my cart and got slimey raw chicken liquid all over my hands.  Having nothing else to wipe it on,I used the underside of the comforter, uh cart cover and made a mental note to wash it in copious amounts of bleach after we got home. 

So, now I’m disgusted and distracted and just trying to get the heck out of there when I look at my son to find him smiling at me with blue lips.  Not suffocation blue, mind you, more like pen ink blue.  He had been gnawing on the grocery list and was still chewing on a sizeable wad of ink-soaked paper.  Upon seeing this combination choking/poison hazard unfold before me, I promply sprang into action.  Having forgotten my samonella chicken juice hands, I promply stuck my fingers in his mouth and thoroughly swabbed his inner cheeks and gums with rancid chicken slime.  It wasn;t until I had wrested every last scrap of paper from his little blue maw, that I realized what I had done. 

Figuring that they probably wouldn’t  take me seriously at the ER, I decided that I had time to pay for my groceries and go home to give my pediatrician yet another panic induced phone call.  The nurses at the doctor’s office were super patient and sweet and did not even laugh (too hard) when I told them the story.  They said he’d be fine, (which he was).  I, however, have still not made a full recovery.