The Handbag of Mom

Back in the olden days when the skies were filled with the shrill cries of Pterodons, I carried a small little handbag if any. I had a credit card, my ID, and the key to my apartment. That's all I needed.

As most moms know, the bags get bigger as time goes by. The ones you carry, the ones under your eyes, etc.

This is the stuff I pulled out of my purse today:

Not shown: my wallet, my Microsoft security badge, a big wad of keys, a ziploc with coins (?), the crumbs of a thousand Cheerios and an appointment card from my chiropractor.

The Diaper Holocaust

What's the difference between this morning's diaper experience and the Holocaust? The Holocaust had survivors.

The baby's first diaper of the morning is typically wet. I change that and it's wet again within a few minutes. Short story: baby saves up a lot of liquid during the night. So, this morning, expecting business as usual I untape the baby's diaper and find:

A small lake of thin poopy liquid. There is no solid matter at all. It is like brown pee. Oh! I say, in surprise, and reach for the baby wipes.

In the 12 seconds it takes me to lift up the container of wipes and direct them toward the baby's resting place, she pees again. This new piss displaces the poopy lake and causes it to overflow its shores and run out all over my bed.

Um. Okay, so I lift the baby out of the miasma with one arm while I gingerly fold the diaper as best I can while surveying the damage to my bed. Baby starts crying as poo syrup drips off her legs and back. I place the fragile sodden diaper on the floor next to the bed as I start babywiping the baby. I'm trying to remove as much human waste from her skin as I can whilst hoping there is nothing left in her digestive tract.

While holding a naked baby in one arm and attempting to take the crap infested sheet off the bed, I manage to step on the poo-swollen diaper on the floor. My hand to God it sounded like someone doing a cannonball in the swimming pool. If the pool was full of watery shit.

So now I have a splash zone of shit on my bedroom floor, a screaming naked infant and a pillow-top mattress that needs to be burnt.

In the kerfuffle I somehow lost my bra. I am also wearing dirty socks today because I could not find clean ones. But they are 'wore them yesterday' dirty, not 'doused in fecal matter' dirty.

Scott Island

My son has trouble. This trouble stems from his head being firmly lodged in his ass. This tale of woe comes in two parts.

Part One

A couple months ago my husband attempts to drive Scooter to school in Bellevue. I say, "Scooter, what exit do you get off the highway?" My husband shushed me. "I'm sure he knows how to get there." o_O

An hour later my husband gets home and tells me that Scooter was so busy babbling about D&D that he didn't notice the exit go by and they ended up in Downtown Seattle. They turn around and head back over the bridge etc and Scooter gives more wrong directions. All the times I've driven him to school his head is in his ass.

My husband programs the college into my GPS as "Scott Is a Fucking Idiot"

One day for shits and giggles I let the GPS direct me to the college just so I can hear the GPS bitch say the name. She says "Approaching Scott Island a Fucking Idiot...on right"

Part Two

My husband comes home for a week and I take time off work. Ergo I'm not driving Scooter to school on my way to the office.

Monday: Scooter gets dressed and sits in the living room waiting for me to notice him. Sits through his first class, then goes out to take the bus. Misses the bus because he forgot to wind his watch

Tuesday: My husband drives him to school without incident.

Wednesday: Misses morning classes again. I drive him to afternoon classes on my way to drop off the car for repair. I rip him a new one on the way.

Thursday: I warned Scooter the night before that the car was still gone and he needed to get up early etc to catch the bus. Scooter tries to catch the bus and fails. There is an elaborate story as to how this happened. He missed the bus and then it missed him.

Friday: I drive him to class.

And then this fine morning. Doocheroo just overslept and I left him there. But first, I took a picture:

Ponies, Lies, and Fat Cats

My children are liars. Not just Scooter, Doodlebug is also an unrepentent deceiver. I fully expect the baby's first sentence to be a lie.

Some examples of their mendacity.

Fat Elvis the Destroyer

I'm on my way back from covering a video game tournament in Mexico when I get a text message from the kids back home: Elvis had broken the coffee table. O rly? How did he accomplish this?

Kids: He jumped up on it and it broke.
Me: That's hard to believe since I was dancing on it while singing selections from "Evita" a couple weeks ago. I'm certain I weigh more than Elvis.
Kids: maybe he hit it at just the right angle?

This lie is so stupid. I get home and the whole house is spotless, minus a coffee table. I know they're full of shit but it takes them over a year to admit it. They told me they really really wanted a new coffee table and so they threw the old one away so I'd be forced to buy a new one. Riiiight.

My Little Crew Cut
I come home from work one day and my daughter is indignant. She has found her two favorite My Little Ponies under her brother's bed. And they've been scalped! Long flowing manes and tails --the raison d'etre of these toys-- are now brightly-colored bristles. Scooter can't stop laughing. "Why would I do that? How would that possibly benefit me? And why is she looking under my bed?" All good points. This wizard of deception even convinced me that Doodlebug had vandalized her own ponies and PLANTED them in Scooter's room to FRAME him. She of course denied this. Two years after the fact, (and after torturing his sister by revising the My Little Pony theme thusly: "My little pony, my litle pony, I cut off all your hair") Scooter not only admits to giving the ponies buzzcuts, but his reasoning was this: He had to make a video for Spanish class and it was his intention to use his sister's ponies to create a Spanish remake of Charlie the Unicorn. I still don't understand why Spanish unicorns have crewcuts.

Still Unsolved
A few days ago I noticed some scratches on the door that leads from the livingroom to my bedroom. The scratches are about a foot off the floor and appear to spell out HELP. As if some close-to-the-ground critter is pleading for entry. Both big kids deny doing it. The baby can neither speak nor write. Fat Elvis is both illiterate and too lazy to take on such a project. So what? Am I to believe there is some baseboard demon lurking? I guess someone will 'fess up in a year or two.

Pimptastic Scooter