Crazed in the Kitchen

Here's a little bit of my latest blog post!

I came to an unsettling realization recently: I married the wrong man.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my husband. A lot. He is my best friend, my soul mate, an amazing dad, the whole package. But there’s just no denying that marrying him was a huge mistake. Another man would have been a better choice.

I should have married a pediatrician.

Think of all the worry I could have avoided! All the questions I could have had answered with no copay or waiting! Like, does my one-year-old wake up 5 times a night, every freakin’ night, because something is wrong with him OR because he’s a pain in the butt? And, is my preschooler hearing impaired or do all kids his age talk so loudly they scare the cats? If I had just married a pediatrician, the whole why-is-my-newborn’s-poop-dark-brown-instead-of-yellow-like-the-books-say-it-should-be fiasco would have just been a sentence in our parenting story, rather than a whole chapter. If I had married a pediatrician, the latest period of our lives—The Ear Infection Epoch—would have involved a lot less time watching Toy Story 2 in 20-minute increments in the doctor’s waiting room. (I think I have now technically seen the whole movie, in jumbled up bits and pieces.)

Matthew: Mommy, Car is the opposite of Train.

Me: Ummmmm.

...of my latest blog post, "How to Look Like A Chicken on Ecstasy:"

 Turns out I don’t look like Britney or Shakira or when I Zumba. Not at all. Turns out I look like a chicken on ecstasy. A sweaty, sweaty, chicken on ecstasy. (To be fair, I haven’t ever done ecstasy so I can’t be entirely sure of how a chicken would look while on it. But I’m pretty sure that if some demented farmer gave a chicken ecstasy, it would dance around and think “Holy Hell! I look like Molly in Zumba!”)

The good news is, I’m slightly nearsighted and if I just squinted up my eyes a bit I couldn’t really see myself in the mirror. Of course, then I looked like a constipated chicken on ecstasy, but I didn’t care because I couldn’t see myself!

Is called, "Chores? More Like, #WINNING!" about Mommy Games (aka housework).

Here's a little bit...

Beat the Garbage Truck: On Thursday mornings, sometimes as early as 7:30 am, our city’s garbage trucks begin their rounds in our neighborhood. Most of my neighbors manage to get their three cans (garbage, recycling, and lawn clippings) out to the curb before dark on Wednesday night, but sometimes we don’t quite make it. Then the next morning finds either me or my husband—wearing pajamas, of course—racing back and forth between the curb and the gate with the cans as the first of the three trucks lumbers toward our house. (Usually my 3-year-old, wearing nothing but his Thomas underpants, is standing on the sidewalk yelling “Go, Mommy! Go!” while his younger brother screams “GARBAAAAAGE TRUUUUCK!!” as loud as he can.) My very nice, very efficient, and very childless neighbor is often standing on her porch, fully dressed and nicely coiffed, waving politely as I run around in my jammies. She never has to/gets to play Beat the Garbage Truck. And, she always takes each can back to her driveway as soon as it’s emptied, so she never gets to play our next game…

Matthew has embellished his melting Wicked Witch routine. Instead of sinking to the floor while moaning, "I'm melting!" he now sinks to the floor yelling, "I'm melting! OH! I CAN'T HANDLE IT! I can't handle it! I'm melting!" No idea where that came from.

"Have you ever washed a cat before? I would not wish this experience on anyone (except maybe those horrible people who bring toddlers to scary movies rather than finding child care). I have never loved cleaning, but I do like that sense of accomplishment you get after completing a particularly tough job—like washing toddler vomit out of a car seat or scrubbing large blobs of dried glue off foam play mats. These jobs are no fun, but at least you have a sparkling clean product as a result of your effort. This is not true when you wash a cat. Because when you’re done your cat is clean, yes, but he’s also soaking wet and ticked off—with the sole goal in life of escaping the bathroom and flinging his wet body onto your new couch."   

Matthew: Mommy, I want you to have another baby. Because we don't have any girls in this family.

Me: But Matthew, when you have a baby you don't get to choose if it's a boy or a girl. So if we had another baby, it could be a boy. What would we do then?

Matthew: Well, then you would just throw it away and get another one.

Hubby: I'm going to take a shower and I want privacy. Do you know what that means?

William: Peek a boo!

I tried Google Translate. But, it had nothing to offer. You didn’t fail him, though. I think he spilled soda on his keyboard and the keys are sticky.

This makes me so depressed. One of my former students posted this on facebook:

"ihatee wenn chickss straightt gett a kiss n justt gett witt theree br likee da nxt dayy!!:/stuppid"

Two things:

1. WTF does this even mean?