Quote of the Day: Fancy Pants

The scene: It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m hanging out with my big sis. In a very rare move for me, I’m wearing something other than total crap purchased a half decade ago at Target or Forever 21. This is quite surprising; to say I am typically not fashion-savvy is an understatement. As evidence, this was the best thing I could scrounge together for Christmas:

I just don’t care about fashion. It’s too much effort, I don’t know what I’m doing, it costs money, you have to try things on…no thank you.

But a couple weeks ago, I passed by the Gap while at the mall for some delicious Fatburger (when you have a toddler, these are the kind of thrilling outings you concoct for yourselves since they can’t be trusted to behave in normal society) and I saw some printed skinny jeans in the window. Again, I really don’t care about clothes, but for some reason I was drawn to these stupid pants. They just seemed…cool. I had nothing to wear them with and really no idea whether they looked good or not, but I wanted them. Behold:

This is not my hot body nor are those my cute shoes. Regrettably.

My defenses were down because I was in a burger-induced coma, and they were 30% off, so I purchased them.

Anyway, back to the scene at hand.

Shannon takes note of my decidedly “not me” outfit and asks where I got my pants. I explain about the Fatburger coma and then say, “they’re a little too cool for me; if only I were one of the twins, I could totally pull them off!”

To which she replies with some sage older sister wisdom: “Well, no one knows who you are when you’re out in public…for all they know, you ARE cool and you DO pull them off!”

So if you see a tattooed chick with gray roots (and yes, that’s roots as in “hair that hasn’t been dyed,” not boots as in “cool shoes I do not own”) and AWESOME pants…I am pulling them off.

Quote of the Day: TV is Important

The scene: It’s the end of a very long day of work, daycare, and general baby-wrangling, and TFW has finally arrived home from his own tiring day at the office. I greet him at the door and practically shove the baby into his arms before he even has a chance to put down his keys or kick off his shoes.

I immediately begin regaling him with all the vexatious details of my day, culminating with my description of Bubba’s exasperating behavior over the past hour. “I’m fairly certain your son is clinically insane,” I explain. “He tried to eat the lemons again and got pissed off at their OBVIOUS sourness, then he bit my arm hard enough to leave a mark; when we came inside he kept whacking the TV as if it was an iPad touchscreen, and then he threw half his dinner on the floor AND PROCEEDED TO BE MAD THAT HIS FOOD WAS GONE! I am so freakin’ tired!”

TFW nods sympathetically throughout my little outburst. When I’m done, he waits a moment or two, then asks a follow-up question:

“Wait…how hard was he hitting the TV?”

I’m about to unleash a verbal assault upon him (seriously, that’s your takeaway from your frazzled wife’s rant?!), but then I think about all the joy that TV brings me (Baseball! 30 Rock! Seinfeld! Forensic Files! Smash! Idol! Survivor! WRESTLEMANIA IN HIGH DEFINITION!!!), and I can’t help but concur with my dear husband’s alarm: the well-being of that magnificent projector of entertainment IS the most critical of all my concerns.

We might have a TV addiction.

Of course, the bright side of our acknowledgement of our pathetic mutual obsession is that I immediately forgot about all the other insignificant annoyances that had been bothering me as I rushed to confirm that the TV hadn’t sustained any lasting damage.

Don’t worry: the TV is fine. WHEW!

(and yes, that is indeed an empty iced tea jug on the floor next to him…I swear he has real toys; I can’t help it if plastic jugs make the best noise when you throw them! Well, I guess I could just move the recycling bin out of his reach, but that sounds like an awful lot of work and I’ve got TV to watch.)

Quote Of The Day: The Worst Thing

The scene: It’s Saturday night, and in an exceedingly rare exhibit of “going out and doing something like normal humans,” TFW and I are at the House of Blues for a Social Distortion show. We’ve left the baby at my sister’s house, and even though I made sure he was sound asleep before we left, I continue to fret as we wait for the band to start playing: what if he wakes up and my sis can’t get him back to sleep because he’s all tripped out that he’s in a strange place and we’re not there?! Or what if he’s teething — I didn’t give her the Tylenol instructions! What if he never stops crying??

(Never mind that my sister has two children of her own and is perfectly capable of caring for a toddler; my brain is impervious to such reason when I’m on a worrying tack.)

Eventually, TFW gets sick of me and tries to shut me up: “I’m sure he’s fine, come on now. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

That shuts me up, all right; I’m nice and quiet for the next several minutes while my brain conjures up every terrifying “worst thing” that could theoretically happen to my poor defenseless baby while his selfish Mama is out singing 20-year-old punk rock songs with a bunch of neck-tattooed compatriots. I’ve considered earthquakes, suffocation-by-stuffed-animal, kitchen fires caused by microwaved popcorn, and freak roof collapse and am just seconds away from pulling out my phone to check in when the band mercifully comes out to the stage and puts a stop to my insanity.

TFW motions to me to inch our way a bit closer to the front. I follow, but not before grabbing his arm and harshly whispering: “Don’t ever ask me that question again.”

PS: Bubba was fine and slept the entire time we were gone.

Quote of the Day: While You’re Up

The scene: TFW and I are snuggled up on the couch watching Top Chef, pausing it every two minutes to talk about how much better each dish would be if it didn’t involve seafood. In addition to all the breaks to critique these chumps’ food (because obviously we know what we’re doing and could do so much better ourselves), I’ve also gotten up twice to check on the baby, despite the fact that he’s been sleeping soundly for hours and definitely did not require any “checking”.

About halfway through the show, TFW decides he needs some water and heads to the kitchen. Not one to waste an opportunity, I strike:

“While you’re up, can you go check on the baby for me again? Oh! And bring me a snack! Something good; I don’t know what I want. Ooooh, can you make some tea, too? Please?”

He stops in his tracks. I get the obligatory eye roll, and this response: “At what point are you going to stop with this nonsense?!”

I’m actually not sure if he was referring to my compulsive need to constantly verify the baby’s alive-ness or my demands for snacks, but either way, we all know that the answer is NEVER.

Quote of the Day: That Weird Kid With the Twitch

The scene: It’s the morning after I returned home from my work trip, and I’ve brought the baby into our room for a quick family snuggle before work. As usual, Bubba wants nothing to do with this boring “cuddle quietly” nonsense and has embarked on a climbing/jumping/crawling exploration mission atop the hubs and myself. After wrangling him away from the curtains and plopping him back securely in my lap, Bubba does a cute little rapid head-shake move (like shaking your head “no”) I’d never seen him do before.

TFW practically leaps out of bed. “Did you see that?! He was doing that the whole time you were gone! What is it?!”

I shrugged, for once the unconcerned party. “I don’t know…he probably just figured out how to do it and he thinks it’s funny.”

“Please tell me he’s not gonna be that weird kid with the twitch! Every school has one…and no one likes him!”

And now, of course, I can’t stop noticing him shaking his damn head all the damn time. Thank you, TFW, for giving me a brand new worry to obsess over.

Although I’m not sure if being known as Twitch Boy at school would be better or worse for him than being That Kid Who Sits In Baskets:

Let’s just hope both habits don’t stick, or he’s in trouble.

Quote of the Day: Terrible Twos!

The scene: Like every Friday, I am working from my mom’s house so she can spend some quality time with her dear grandson (AKA I’m soaking up the free babysitting, without which my budget would be shot). As usual, my sweet five- and two-year-old nieces round out the crew at Grandma’s Complimentary Daycare Center And Full-Service Diner.

Carly, age two, is having a rough afternoon. She’s cranky (probably because Bubba woke her up from her nap….woops), whiny, and just generally contrary. She’s acting like, ya know, a two-year-old.

After Carly’s thirtieth refusal to cooperate with a plea to simmer down (“nnnnnnnNNNOOO!”), Grandma is sounding a wee bit bedraggled:

“Sigh. Two year olds. And just think…as soon as she’s done with this, it’ll be Bubba’s turn to be two.”

Sorry in advance, Grandma!

a two-year old, a saint, and a future two-year old

Quote of the Day: Bathtime Edition

The scene: Mama is bathing baby. In typical fashion, Bubba is splashing, eating the toys, taking giant gag-worthy slurps of disgusting bathwater (complete with his own filth and plenty of bubble bath), and alternating between attempting to stand up and trying to “swim” to the other side of the tub (equally dangerous pursuits).

Daddy is hanging out in the bathroom as well, keeping Mama company but staying well out of the splash zone. His bathtime participation is limited to Glorified Towel Rack.

After half-diving into the tub for the umpteenth time to rescue Bubba from certain doom (unfortunately, “sit on your bottom, Bubs!” apparently translates to “STAND UP AND GET THAT SHAMPOO BOTTLE! YOU CAN DO IT! NOW SWIM, SWIM!” in baby babble), Mama is soaking wet and has decided to put an end to bathtime.

Mama (to Daddy): “Alright, I’m over this. Hand me that towel. He’s having fun, but I’m irritated.”

Daddy: “I have a feeling you’ll be saying that a lot over the course of the next 17 years…”

Zing.