Crappy Cake

Wiping a child's poopy bottom is always good times, right? Just when I least expect to get blogging inspiration, Deal plops a big one. Um, literally and figuratively.

While wiping his cute little double dimple bottom with the birthmark on the left cheek, he looks into the potty and remarks, "Lots of poop, Mommy. The poop is the cake, and the pee is the frosting. But don't eat that cake. It's fake. It came from my penis and bottom. It's really just poop, not chocolate."

Good times indeed. Is this just the beginning of my boys' lifelong infatuation with poop and farts? What's next, looking at poop logs trying to see images like when you lie on your back and stare up at the clouds?

On My Mind

Love
Today while I was playing tennis I noticed two guys on the court next to mine. They were your typical somewhat mushy 40-somethings. Socks pulled up a tad too high. Shorts a bit too short. Hanging on to every last receding hair. Tummies a bit paunchy. I was admiring the ease with which they hit a slice, one after another barely grazing the net with such grace. Then I about lost it. After warming up and before playing for points, they met at the net, joined hands, and prayed. Prayed! Before a lousy tennis game between friends! Aloud! Overhearing the prayer session made me hit three balls over the fence in succession. I left with an empty can and a head ablaze. Is this normal? Suck as I might, even I don't pray before tennis. Dear God, please let me actually hit a proper topspin tonight. Don't let me play worse than the 10-year old girl in my class. Let me earn at least two points based on my sheer skill rather than opponent error. I hate to think what these guys are praying for before business meetings, meals, and their annual physicals.

Jake
Is it just me or does Henry on Ugly Betty remind you of a geeky version of Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles? Oh, how my heart throbbed for Jake! Whatever became of him?


Woof Woof Howl
Do folks not hear their own pooches barking at all hours of the night? Must they think that no one outside the property lines hear? I assume the same when tantrum time hits, but that's just to save face as much as possible.


Forget Tantra, this is Tantrum.
Bird had the meltdown of the century this afternoon after karate class. We were playing perfectly happily at the playground with some friends. Then the killing began. Bird was squishing fuzzy caterpillar after fuzzy caterpillar. Each mini fur ball an innocent victim because someone told him that those creatures killed trees. When I told him to sit down and chill out for a bit, he lost his shit. I'm talkin' diarrhea proportions. He wailed to the car. He wailed in the car. He threw punches. He became the limp protester. He kicked my seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. All without stopping to breathe amid the wailing. I had to pull over on a side street, stop the car, and yank him out. Don't think for a second that I handled it with the aplomb of Obama at the last debate. I told Bird to calm down and buckle up lest I leave him in the mulch of some neighborhood boulevard somewhere miles from home. Out of sheer fear (hey, whatever works), he acquiesced. Then he promptly fell asleep. Head tilted. Drool puddling in the folds of his neck.

Damn me for reacting, rather overreacting, to the moment instead of stopping to figure out what triggered such a crazed response, especially considering what an otherwise stellar day he had. I lost my shit. Yes, I admit it. When we got home we all recovered nicely and ended up having a grand time at Dance Party USA with some neighbors. We rocked out to Sweet Home Alabama, Suffragette City, and A Little Less Conversation. When Bird shimmied up to me to take my hand and dance, I knew all was OK.

Pooped.
I have abstained from writing about Deal's potty training ordeal because the mere thought has worn me out. He was fully trained for two weeks in January and decided that urinating and defecating in his pants was a better idea. Yup, I guess he missed diaper rash and the overall filth in his pants. Since then he has been vehemently opposed to all things potty, unlike Bird who couldn't wait to rid himself of the nastiness that is excrement. We tried every tactic with Deal - being his Suzy Cheesecake cheerleader, being a hard ass, being Super Nanny. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. We tossed out multiple pairs of Spiderman, Sponge Bob, Scooby Doo, and Thomas adorned underwear. Soiled beyond salvation. Suddenly, last Friday, he decided that peeing and pooping on the potty wasn't so bad afterall. That light clicked on, and Deal has been one potty machine. Accident free for seven days. OSHA should hang up a placard.

The Life of Sisyphus

Remember Sisyphus? That cunning heel who was hauled off to Hades for a being a cheating trickster? His punishment was worse than languishing in August in North Carolina temperatures in Hades. Sisyphus is the guy who worked for eternity pushing a massive boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down again. Eternity is a long freakin' time. Like in forever. Always. E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. Imagine this: Roll the rock. Sweat. Cuss. Growl. Cuss some more. Feel sense of relief upon getting to the top of the hill. Wipe brow. Try to rest on a burned out stump somewhere. Think for a narcissistic moment that your quads and biceps will be chiseled after all this. Bask in glory for a fleeting millisecond. Rock rolls back down the hill. You look after it, feeling forlorn, worn out, pissed. Cuss. Cuss. Cuss. And so it goes on for Sisyphus...

I'm beginning to think that the routine of parenthood is a lot like the life of Sisyphus, minus those nasty images of hell and the punishment, of course. That's not to say that life isn't hellish at times, beause it most definitely is. I just feel like as soon as I get the rock to the top of the hill the damn thing rolls back down. Literally two minutes after the cleaning lady has left, the house is a minefield of Matchbox cars and Happy Meal toys. Damn Mac Daddy for getting all those free toys at work and feeling the overwhelming urge to bring them home. I don't even get a chance to breathe in the delicious just-cleaned-smell before I'm busy wiping up spilled milk that Deal literally cries over. He gets further agitated when I laugh at the ridiculousness of it. And for the record, Bird and Deal are not wholly responsible for the mess. I mean, does Mac Daddy not understand what the hooks in the mudroom are for (one specifically for keys)? The back of the kitchen chair and somewhere in the vicinity of the phone are not the appropriate places for storing his coat and keys (especially when the coat is suede and the keys are in tauntingly close reach of a 2-year old). Argh.

A Day in the Life of Sisyphus at Chez Dirt & Noise:

Clean up a poopy mess in Spiderman underwear that are now deemed unsalvagable. Potty training Deal is a whole other blog post that I can't bring myself to deal with. Pardon the pun. Bathe Deal since he is coated in poop. Find change of clothes that fit his ever-growing frame.

Help Bird wipe his bottom and fetch him dingleberry-free change of underwear. At least the Superman ones he had on are salvagable.

Cat throws up in four different places upstairs. It becomes a game to find the Casey puke without stepping in it. Clean it up while keeping kids and cat away from the yuck. (Incidentally, we found another pile of puke weeks, yes weeks, later caked on the floor of the guest room. Don't worry, Mom it wasn't while you were here.

Disinfect tub. Toss in a load of laundry. Throw what was in the dryer onto the pile of laundry the size of Grimace on the guestbed.

Speed shower. Wipe on Lash Exact black mascara (the BEST!) and Smashbox lip gloss so I can feel like a real human being.

Clean up toys that littered my room in the three minutes I was in the shower.

Remake the bed that Bird and Deal were wrestling on after throwing toys on the floor got boring.

Gather the troops to go on an adventure. Get downstairs, put on shoes and coats. Forgot to brush teeth.

Back upstairs.

Brush teeth while wearing shoes and coats despite the boys' lack of mobility bundled up in a down coat.

Trek back downstairs and get the bag of snacks and tricks ready.

Feeling pretty good now, just like Sisyphus must have felt as he approached the top of the hill.

"Moooommmmmm! Casey pooped in the living room! And the playroom! And in another place in the playroom!"

"Change me, Mommy. I'm poopy."

And so it goes, the damn rock rolled back to the bottom.

Cuss. Cuss. Cuss.