Psycho Clowns

Once, a long, few minutes ago, in the small town of (oh, let's say) Wallmount, moments before the local Hallo-luia Party, there appeared a psycho clown.

He was young, and inexperienced at being psycho (and a clown), so he made his brother an accomplice."We need a girl on our team, in order to be politically correct and all....", snarled the second psycho clown. And so, along came little S. She doesn't LOOK crazy, but don't let that fool you...all clowns are crazy, aren't they?

The trio braved the feeding of a large treat-bearing elephant, they fished for giant sharks (or was that a package of Smarties?), and they picked up innocent swimming ducks with their bare hands, all in the course of a few hours. (I don't have pictures of any of the games, sorry). They were generously awarded for their bravery.

The Mama and the Papa

B, S, and Z, if you are anything like me, some day you will want to know what your mama and papa were like when they were young.... young like we ARE right now. (Shut up, readers!)
So, I was gonna tell you, and I realized I couldn't think of anything to say, except to tell you what we DO.
Here goes, from morning to night on a typical day, when Papa isn't working:

We walk into the bathroom, we look into the mirror, Papa has to prop his left eye open with a toothpick (practically). Mama’s eyes are crossed, because both of us went to bed too late last night. We were probably reading a book until close to 2 am. (I read funny novels and memoirs about crazy people, and your papa reads theology and books about Alice in Wonderland.) Anyway, it is morning, and I make some sarcastic remark about how Papa "forgot" to do his hair. He ends up slopping some waxy stuff in it and calling it good. I am mostly satisfied.
We both eat cold cereal (with really thick milk, because the doc says you punks need whole milk till you are 3 years old).
Finally, we all get dressed, and take you somewhere fun, (the museum, the beach, the park, the local gardens, out to ice-cream, the store, anywhere but home) because despite the elation YOU feel about stacking blocks and doing puzzles, Papa and I would go crazy just sitting in the house all day

What else should I say? How 'bout random stuff?
I have to poop, always, without fail, every time I have to be in front of a crowd. This particular "need" almost always makes me late to whatever important event I am attending, such as my final exam in speech class and my wedding. I get a rash all over my neck and chest when I am in front of a bunch of people. (I have learned to wear a turtleneck....I have a short-sleeved turtleneck for summer. I'm not kidding. No, I did not wear a turtleneck in our wedding.) Papa is fine with speaking and being in front of people.
I love being busy and I love people. I take the three of you to a friend's house or we go out with friends almost every day. Sometimes twice a day.
Yet, I hate entertaining people. I don't like having people over, because I feel like I am responsible if they are not having a good time. I can't take that pressure. I hate one-on-one (probably for the same reason), sometimes even with my closest friends. I do better in big groups. Papa thrives on one-on-one.
My newest haircut makes me think I should be wearing one of those collared screen-printed sweatshirts...the kind with a schoolhouse on them (or a small, furry kitten). I'm sorry if those things have come back full circle in the 2030s (or whenever you are reading this) and you have one on right now. They remind me too much of my excessively wrinkly Sunday school teacher. The one with the flannel boards. If you are over 50, they might look glorious on you. Otherwise, take it off before you read any further.
When my life feels out of control, I care more about stupid stuff, like if my house is clean and if my hair is cute. Papa only cares about his hair and clothes when life is going smoothly (not right now).
I used to think I was mentally-impaired and that people didn't want to tell me the truth about myself. I used to make my mom promise I was “normal” at least once per week. Papa still thinks he is impaired, although he blames his crazy teenage experiences. :)
Both Papa and I will eat almost anything. We went to a banquet the other night, and looked up only after we had finished everything on our plates, to notice the mostly-full plates of the people surrounding us. Apparently, the chicken was dry and the potatoes were too garlicky. The rolls were too hard, and the veggies were soggy.
I was just glad I wasn't cooking. K and I eat more because it is food, I think, and less because of how things taste, (unless that something is cheesecake).
Also, I am reminding myself of my Grandma Owen a little bit, calling my husband Papa and all, but you know what I mean. He's Papa to you. To me, he is, um, funny, smart, sometimes witty (okay, not so much), and really, really nice.

Hiding

This is what Linda found while searching for L's shoe the other day. The lid was closed, she opened it, she found this:

Perfect Illustration

Remember awhile ago, I said that B is quite intense,(and that he gets upset if Z even looks at him funny?) Here is an illustration of that emotional side of B (kind of, although you might have to admit that Z is doing more than just looking at him funny!)
A very simple conversation:
B: "No ha, ha, Mom..."
Z: "Ha, Ha."
B: "NO, Ha-ha, mom!"
Z: "Ha, Ha!"
B: "NO, HA-HA, Mom..."
and so on....and so on:

Lion

Here is (dun-duh-duh-DAH!) one more poop story:

Mama: "Z, did you poop?" (I don't know why I asked, because he smelled like STANK! I'm sure I knew the answer.)

Z: "No, Mama. Z not poop! Z clean!"

Mama: "Are you sure?"

Z: "Yes, Z not stinky!"

Mama: "Are you lyin'?"

Z: "Yup."

Mama: "You are?"

Z: "Yup, I lyin' (lion). Roar! I'm a sheep too!"

Mama: "Oh," as a went to get the wipes and a new diaper.

Helping

B will NOT poop on the potty. He stays dry. He will not poop. Except in his pants, where he then informs me of his mishap by saying calmly and clearly, "Mom... (sing-song) I pooped (also sing-song). Clean me."

Someone told me to just let him run around free-sailin'.

Since he knows how to pee on the potty, he probably wouldn't pee on the carpet, and hopefully, he wouldn't want to just poop on the floor....
The goal is that he would tell me he had to poop, and I could casually respond, "Why don't we try the potty?" He poops once on the potty, and "Wallah!" Problem solved.

I tried this what-seemed-to-be-expert advice. He stayed dry all day. He didn't poop on the carpet (like I feared he might). We decided to eat outside.
B went around the corner of our house, came back calmly and said (sing-song, again, of course) "Mom....clean me."
I walked over to the side of the house to find a brownish log on our deck. S and Z were squatted around it, amused. Entertained. Proud of their brother.

And so, in the end, my bare-butted boy managed to foil my potty-training plan again!


Sis wanted to try the potty. She sat. And sat. And sat and sat.

She didn't go.

Finally, after deciding she was done, S ran to the kitchen to find her brothers. Two seconds later, I heard "Maaaama...I peed on the floor!"

I walked over to clean it up (luckily, it was one of the only places in our house that is not carpeted), and found Z "cleaning it up with his toothbrush". B's toothbrush was in his mouth, and I hoped like heck that he had not tried to clean up the mess as well.

"I cleaned it already, mom!," Z chimed.

"Thanks, buddy. You sure are a big helper!," I mumbled in return.