Maybe it's time for a baby gate

Here's what Caleb is saying: "Hey, Mom, Evan and I are just going to run upstairs for a bit. Thought we might play with marbles and those itty-bitty little Legos my brothers like to leave laying around everywhere. Oh, and hey: would you mind bringing up a screwdriver so I could check the outlets? You're a doll."

Okay, so I made that up. He can't talk. But: he is absolutely hell-bent on self-destruction lately.

I think my 9-month old has thrill issues.

I should have HazMat on speed-dial

I am not a germophobe. I have pretty strong faith in the human immune system. And I have survived the potty-training of two boys. (With one more to go, at which time I will deserve a medal of honor.) I clean their biohazard bathroom with minimal hysteria. No passing out, and I only rarely yell, "This is disgusting!" I think I only vomited once, and that's when I was pregnant. I am not a bathroom wimp. Which is good, because the boys are pretty oblivious to the alarming stench and ick they produce on a daily basis.

I do, however, kind of have an aversion to port-a-potties. I don't think that's unreasonable.

So, given this information, imagine my horror. My seven-year-old son emerged from a port-a-potty this weekend gagging. And said, in a quiet and somewhat stunned voice, "I think I should probably wash my hands before I eat."

I do not want to know what happened in there.

What financial crisis?!

This could be the day that our financial system collapses for good, and nobody even understands what that could mean, and I'm scared.

That was my first thought this morning. Good morning, me!!!

It was closely followed by these thoughts: There may or may not be a presidential debate tonight, when we all need to consider our election choices very carefully. Great. (Let's hear it for strong, thoughtful leadership.) Oh, and PETA wants to use human breastmilk for Ben & Jerry's.

The world is falling apart. And I stubbornly refuse to write about it. (What could I possibly say, really?) Instead, I'm doing this meme I picked up from Sunshine, who is simultaneously funny and thought-provoking. (And she was totally my inspiration to write my very own blog.) I like the way she does memes: take it if you want it. But no obligation.

Anyway, the world is falling apart, and I thought this was fun:

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME (first pet, current car): Chocolate Odyssey

2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME (fave ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe): Vanilla Flip-flop

3. YOUR NATIVE AMERICAN NAME (favorite color, favorite animal): Orange Goldfish

4. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name, city where you were born): Kay Oskaloosa

5. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (the first three letters of your last name, first two of your first name): Meete

6. SUPERHERO NAME (2nd favorite color, favorite drink): Pink Gin

7. NASCAR NAME (the first names of your grandfathers): Harold Forest

8. STRIPPER NAME ( the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy): Love Twizzlers

9. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME (your fifth grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter): Davis Denver

10. SPY NAME (your favorite season/holiday, flower): Autumn Rose

11. CARTOON NAME (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now): Strawberry Pajamas

12. HIPPIE NAME (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree): Coffee Cypress

Now I'm going to read the news. Maybe I'll have something more than coffee for breakfast first....

Update: My gangsta name is the lamest ever. Ever. "Vanilla Flip-flop?" I cannot imagine anything more bland. Samantha kindly jolted my memory and reminded me how much I love Cherry Garcia ice cream (but only if it's not made with breastmilk). So I'm considering a gangsta name change: Cherry Garcia Stiletto. I really don't wear stilettos, but I'm pretending to be glamorous and/or sexy. It's my blog. I can do that. Oh, and since I've eaten, I could change my hippie name to Eggo Cypress. I could go either way on that one. (Maybe the whole vanilla-name-thing was accurate, after all.)

You were expecting "Wheels on the Bus," perhaps?

Here's what happened. A very kind woman from the public school system came for a home-visit the other day. It's this cool thing the school district does. Yea! She's come a couple of times now, and she's very nice, and gives me interesting tips about the kiddos' development. Great!

So she innocently (naively?) asked Evan if he likes to sing. He nodded and promptly broke into his totally-jammin'-best-rock-star version of "867-5309." If you grew up in the 80's, you know this song. The one about Jenny. If you did not grow up in the 80's, allow me to explain: the guy sings this passionate love song to a woman whose phone number he found on a bathroom wall.

Very Kind Woman looked at me quizzically. I didn't really know what to say.

"Well, that song was popular when I was in junior high..." I stammered. "I think he likes the numbers." At which point Evan very helpfully belted out the line, "For a good time... for a good time caaalllll...." (Here's where I started to feel that coveted Mother of the Year award slip from my grasp.)

Meekly, and rather ineffectively, I added, "He learned it from his big brother."

Which is true. Jensen really loves that song. He loves most songs, actually. Even if the lyrics are enough to set his grandmothers' eardrums on fire. (And then he teaches them to his little brother.) On a whim that night, I asked him his favorite songs. Here's the short list:

• Mama Mia by ABBA (he's loved it since he was maybe three)


• Lights by Journey (Ridiculously funny video. It's on youtube. We watch it a lot.)


• Any number of college fight songs (including the Universities of Michigan, Missouri, and Connecticut)


• Metallica (Nothing specific here. Just Metallica.)


• Beat It and Thriller by Michael Jackson


• I Hate Myself for Loving You by Joan Jett (and the Blackhearts!)

Two thoughts: 1) This is a pretty tame list. And 2) What have I done to my child?! And this is indeed all my influence. If Jeff had his way, the list would be largely Primus and Rush. (Less tame.) Although I was relieved he didn't include any Neil Diamond (too mortifying). And a little disappointed there isn't any Johnny Cash in there.

I'm guessing the Primus and Rush come later. I should probably warn his grandmas that they should protect their ears. I can't wait to hear what Caleb sings when he's four.

Quit copying me!

The little boys and I stand at the front door every morning to see Jensen off to the bus stop. He has made it very clear that we are not to walk to the bus stop with him. Nor are we to display any sort of affection outside the confines of our home. So we must be content with hollering un-embarrassing things at him.

Yesterday (and note how I artfully violate the no-public-display-of-affection mandate):
Me: "Good-bye Jensen! Have a wonderful day!!!"
Evan:" Good-bye Jensen! Have a wonderful day!!!"
Me: "Your shoelace is untied!"
Evan: "Your shoelace is untied!"
Me: "We love you sweetheart!"
Evan: "We love you sweetheart!"
Evan: [peevishly] "Mommy, will you quit copying everything I say?"
Me: "Good point, Evan."

These are not the reasons; or, did you really just say that?

Before I even start, let me clarify: I'm not bitter. Truly. It's just that, for some reason, people feel very free to share their disrespect for the whole stay-at-home thing with me. And I can only wonder why, when they know full well that I stay at home, they find this acceptable. I almost always play nice. But, hey, now that I have a blog, I think I'll use it to refute some of the stupid things people have said to me.

The following are NOT reasons that I am a stay-at-home-parent:

1. I am too stupid to maintain outside employment. Yes, somebody said it. And I guess I can only hope desperately that this is not the case.
2. Or, alternately, I am too lazy to hold down a job. Actually, my brother is the chief proponent of this myth. I don't know if he says it just to watch my head explode or if he really believes it. Either way I should probably beat him up.
3. Related to #2: I sit around all day and eat bon-bons. I'm not entirely sure what a bon-bon is. But I think I do occasionally eat something resembling a bon-bon. Usually when I'm starving and am running to try to save a child who is swinging from a chandelier while another one is doing something dastardly to the bathroom and the third needs to get to some school event 15 minutes ago and my husband has been gone for 18 hours and I didn't have a chance to eat lunch because the kids have been on an endless loop of "Mommy!" all day long and so I grab a handful of alleged "bon-bons" in order to not pass out from hypoglycemia. (And I usually don't even wash it down with a swig of vodka.)
4. I find homemaking to be immensely satisfying. This is wrong on so many levels. Don't get me wrong, I love to vacuum, but "immensely satisfying" is overstating it. It's not really why I get up in the morning.
5. I love to be the neighborhood babysitter. This was an assumption of a former neighbor. No amount of money would have been sufficient. Her kids were terrors.
6. I stay home because my husband expects me to. I cannot even imagine a universe in which I would marry someone who would harbor any sort of June Cleaver expectations of me. And if this is something that Jeff covertly desires, he is one disappointed man.

Now my children seem to think they want breakfast. So I'll be done. But I feel much better for having gotten this off my chest.

Today I play the martyr card

Jensen and I have had a friendly little running argument. About what Caleb's first word will be. He's remained pretty convinced that Caleb's first word will be, "Jensen."

I explained that, no, his first word will probably be a variant of "Mama."

He was a little disappointed, I think. But he understood. After all, little Caleb has spent almost all of his life directly in my presence. He grew in me for nine months... okay, 37 weeks (however many months that is). He knew the sound of my voice and the rhythm of my heartbeat before he was even born. And then, immediately after he was born (after an absolutely excruciating delivery during which I thought I might actually die, I might add), he was placed on my tummy, where I cuddled him with joy. I've held him for hours on end, carried him until I had to see a doctor for back pain. I stay home with him, happy to sacrifice career ambitions or even time to take a quiet shower. I'm the one who rescues him when he needs it. When he's otherwise inconsolable, I'm the one he wants. I get up in the night with him when he's teething or has a cold or has stood up and can't figure out how to lay back down. And, yes, he's been attached to my boobs for about 75% of his baby life.

So, as much as everybody wants to hear him say their name, I told Jensen it's mostly likely that he'll say mine first. It's only logical.

And so. The sweet baby for whom I have sacrificed mind and body and sleep and rational thought since I became pregnant with him uttered his first precious word last week.

He said, "Dada."

{sigh}