THOUGHT

I truly respect how British television will put anyone on camera, regardless of their physical appearance. Or else everyone in that country is severely unfortunate looking.

Little Monkeys

While watching Dancing With The Stars tonight (yes, I know, this show will not help my nausea) I noticed that there was an awful lot of bass during the show.

[aside: For a Christmas present last year Dan *gave* us surround sound in our family room. This wonderful and expensive gift frequently causes people to exclaim, "What is wrong with your house!?" when they are visiting our vibrating domicile. Because of this...feature, I often turn off the down-firing bass (or, as my Dad calls it, the bottom-shooter). Dan discovered that I had turned it off this weekend and lectured me about acoustics and turned it back on.]

Figuring that it was the bottom-shooter, I ignored it at first. Then I noticed the bass thumps were happening when I was fast-forwarding the TiVo-ed show. I went upstairs to investigate. What I found was a small child jumping out of his bed. Over and over. When he saw me enter the room, he said to me, "Ahhhh!" (as if he'd been wondering what was taking me so long to come up there). "I'm all finished with this bed, I'm ready for YOUR bed." This prompted me to immediately check for puddles. Finding none, I tried to get the child back to a laying position, and it was then that I discovered every item in his room (except for the dresser) was under his covers. I guess that he meant that he was finished stuffing his bed. I removed all of the junk, and he fell back into bed and yelled, "GOODNIGHT!" which was my cue to leave as quickly as possible.

Trash Sauce

Jack is a wonderful child, but he has not always been a wonderful eater. He will drink milk at the rate of one gallon per hour, but will not consistently eat, or even SAMPLE his dinner.

Lately Dan and I have been taking the tack of ogres. He is not allowed to leave the table without eating at least half of his dinner, and frequently gets time-outs for screwing around. I enjoy this both because a) we can stretch a gallon of milk for two whole days now, and 2) I am no longer throwing away entire plates of food.

In a wonderful turn of events, the other morning he actually cleared his plate, mostly due to the aid of barbeque sauce. We let him dip his eggs and hashbrowns in it, and he loved it. (Thank you Dan for even thinking of trying this because I think that it sounds g-ross and would never have suggested it.) So the lovely barbeque sauce provides the lubrication necessary for a very picky 3-year old to swallow his food. But the BEST part of all of this is that Jack calls it, "garbage-Q" sauce.

Rated R

So my apologies in advance for this post, which is, as you may have suspected, a little on the unsavory side. Unsavory in the sense that if you are a normal (female) human, you may be offended. This is also for anyone who has a son who is not yet 3 (HA HA Megan!)--consider it a preview of coming attractions.

Dan was home to give Jack his bath the other night, and I left them alone to do the deed while I made our bed. (Yes, I was making my bed at 8pm. God does not care when you do it as long as it gets done.) I was innocently listening to their sing-songy conversation as they filled the tub and denuded, when Jack suddenly burst into a little number I happen to know that he made up himself. And the song went something like this: "Penis-hole! Peeeeenisss...hooooooole, little penis hole!" Now, admittedly, this is somewhat funny, but the truly disturbing part came when Dan joined in for the chorus. This is when I contemplated moving to Nebraska. Alone.

Party of Two

So I have been having the most ridiculous cravings lately, for those gross, processed, not-as-good-as-they-used-to-be Hostess Cupcakes. The ones with the white squiggle of "icing" on the top. Well, having never actually purchased a box of these, I just went to the grocery store, where you would think you could purchase this horrible treat, yes? NO. They didn't have them! I tried another grocery store, still NO CUPCAKES. I was getting frenzied. My Dad suggested that I try 7-11, however there are NO 7-11s in North Carolina! Then he suggested a gas station, but warned me, "Make sure they're not old." I have no idea how I was supposed to determine the age of these apocalypse-proof snacks. Finally today I found some sweet Hostess goodness at the Lowe's Food. I also found all sorts of things that I don't usually buy: crunchy Cheetos, creme horns, facial masques, bottled root beer, deli sprinkle cookies, and Rollos. All of this junk prompted the sweet lady checking me out to ask, "Are you having a slumber party honey?" To which I replied, "Yes, and I am the hostess!"

THOUGHT

Non-alcohol related barfing is several degrees less horrible than hung-over barfing. Although if I am barfing I would rather have had a LOT OF FUN the night before, and shockingly, I did NOT.

Another complaint: I was awake for 14 hours today before I was able to successfully ingest solid foods, and I am apparently still pregnant because I'm STILL CRYING at the tv (this time when the cowboy danced on Dancing With The Stars). I am a hot mess.

Digital Child

Jack loves computers. He loves to caress my laptop, ALMOST pressing buttons. And the cutest, most ironically southern thing about his fascination is that he calls it a 'puter. Pronounced, "POOTER." This always makes me laugh, ("Mommy, can I turn your pooter on??") so I haven't really corrected him, but after spending a few weeks with the genius child, I feel that I am not giving Jack a good jump into life by encouraging his hilarious vocabulary instead of makin' thangs raaaht.

So now he says, "COM-pooter."