Open Your Textbooks to the Chapter on Middle Child

Boy-Child#2 is our kid in the middle. Nestled comfortably betwixt (yes! an opportunity to use that word!) Boy-Child#1 and Girl-Child with just over 3+ years on either side of him. If you open your child development textbooks and search for "middle child", his photo will appear just under the heading with the caption "Yeah, this is the kid we were telling you about". And it will be this picture:


He wears this face a lot and usually there are very loud sounds escaping that megaphone open mouth. He is an attention seeker. Let me correct myself. He is an attention must-haver-right-nower. No matter what activity he is involved in he is informing you and the world about it at MAXIMUM VOLUME. He suffers from Look at Me Syndrome. We've also discovered that at times it isn't so much that he's informing us, it's more that he's convincing himself that he enjoys whatever it is he's doing. Some for instances:

Roller coasters: "THIS IS AWESOME!" (ignore thoroughly terrified expression).

Trip to the ocean: "I'M SWIMMING!" (well, he's not drowning)

While he's quick to take credit for his success, as he should, he's just as quick to blame someone or something else when failure occurs. For illustrative purposes:

1. His shirt getting wet when slipping off a rock into the river is the rock's fault. Not that HE slipped off it. No. Just that the rock existed in the first place.

2. Not scoring high enough on Wii Fit. The couch was in his way and it needs to be moved. Not that he was anywhere near the couch.

3. Losing to his big brother on Mario Kart. His big brother was doing that thing called "breathing". Oh, I'm sorry, I stand corrected. Big brother was "talking" which was an absolute distraction from his game controller capabilities.

4. Striking out in his softball game. The pitcher didn't pitch the ball correctly. Do not try to reason with him that if that were the case then he should not have swung at such a poorly executed pitch. He's quick to inform you that he could have done a better job. In fact, he should be pitching to himself.

5. Getting tagged out at first base. Stupid dirt. It was all there and slowing him down. There was that one pebble that held him back otherwise he would have been safe.

6. Not getting the picture he is drawing to come to fruition on the page precisely as he'd envisioned. If he had just used that OTHER pencil then it would certainly have been the most perfect Spongebob ever drawn.

7. He would have been done with his homework if I hadn't asked him how it was coming along. I mean, he was ALMOST DONE, but you know, I distracted him.

8. Losing at the card game "Spoons" because the cushion was not attached properly to his chair. Somehow this prevented him from grabbing the last spoon in the game. Fricken chair.

Needless to say we've had several discussions about what it means to be an individual without having to be the center of attention and also how we have to accept responsibility for our choices and also how sometimes shit just happens -then of course the fine art of explaining the delicate difference of shit just happening [lightning/fire] and making shit happen [match/fire]. For example: Boy-Child#1 is teasing Boy-Child#2 and in frustration, hits Boy-Child#1. His defense is that Boy-Child#1 MADE him do it [with the teasing] because if there'd been no teasing he wouldn't have hit his older brother. We then had to have a talk about making choices and he - ignoring all other options - chose to hit his older brother. Now I know I didn't need to elaborate on that last bit for you but I appreciate you bearing with me so that I could just ...BLAAAGH! Get it out there, as it were. Because after that last talk with him, his retort? "Yabbut he was teasing me! He made me do it"!

Oh, don't mind me. I'll just be over here banging my head against this here wall.

Little Known Facts About Independence Day (Like How to Spell Independence)

This past Friday we celebrated, collectively as a nation, our country's independence. At one point or another in all of our lives as American citizens, we've been introduced to the Declaration of Independence and more than likely were given memorizing the preamble as a school assignment. The Declaration of Independence, drafted by Thomas Jefferson, was really just a "Dear John" letter, written in fancy old school English, letting Britain know that we wanted to break up with them. Not so much in an "it's not you it's me" way as it was "irreconcilable differences". It really all came down to how we were all, "your taxes blow, we don't have appropriate representation in parliament, so bite me". Because of improper early preservation techniques, there is an often overlooked faded subtext on the original copy. Here is what you've been missing:

Proper Celebratory Methods for all Future Independence Day Commemorations ... So Sayeth Yea Founding Fathers

1. A body of water shall be involved in some capacity, whether it be pool, ocean, river, lake, or slip n' slide.
2. The outside temperature must be one hundred degrees or more.
3. Those who've chosen the "river" or "lake" option shall encounter hoards of people who've neither bathed nor located a hair brush for several days in a row.
4. Fireworks are mandatory. Preferably a legal display put on by a local company with permission to do so. Idiots Everyone else will ignore the several posted warnings that the conditions for fire in the local parks and mountains are EXTREME. Those people are all, feh.
5. Barbecued tri-tip is the preferred meat. Hamburgers and hot dogs are an acceptable substitute.
   
6. Bathing suits are NOT optional when near the aforementioned body of water if small children are present. Also unacceptable is the offensive anterior boob cleavage. For those not in the know or who weren't near the company of lake or river dwellers, that would be the cleavage sneaking out of the bottom of your bikini top. It would behoove these offenders to occasionally set down the bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and do a wardrobe check.
7. Make at LEAST a three day weekend out of the celebration no matter which day of the week the holiday is being observed.
8. Purchasing a new mattress or vehicle from a kick-ass 4th of July sale? Optional.
   
9. And finally, when seeking accommodations, be steadfast in your search for one that boasts a properly functioning clothes dryer. Settling for one that seems to reach "still mostly damp" as its highest setting when you're trying to tidy up before leaving after a long weekend, will make you a tad cranky and everyone around you shall suffer.

I know what you're thinking. You were not aware of this astounding bit of historical trivia! It may not have been written exactly as above. Like the Constitution that followed it, the faded and little known subtext in the Preamble of the Declaration of Independence was intentionally written in ambiguous language so that it would accommodate societies in the future. My list is an example of a loosely translated historical document.

**No Declaration of Independence was actually used in the creation of this post

Twelve Years Ago a Man, a Pregnant Woman, and Some Friends Flew to a Tropical Island

"The only time I would ever tell a woman that I love her is when I plan to marry her"~ Mr. Farklepants circa 1994


On June 29th, 1996 a young Mr. Farklepants and his very pregnant girlfriend, Tootsie, had already been in Hawaii one week where they shared a rented estate paid for by very generous employers with their best friends two other couples. And on June 29th, just after brunch where Tootsie ate the entire buffet because she couldn't drink or smoke, enjoy the jacuzzi or do anything fun or reckless because of her delicate condition -and by the way gained twelve of her seventy pregnancy pounds on this trip alone and right now you're like, ONLY twelve?- ahem, after brunch young Mr. Farklepants declared to their friends that he would like to spend the day with just Tootsie taking a scenic drive around the big island of Hawaii.

So off they went in the little rental car that was straining heavily on the passenger side under Tootsie's considerable girth. Young Mr. Farklepants wasn't even kidding when he said drive AROUND the big island of Hawaii. Because they did exactly that. The entire perimeter. They stopped numerous times to get out and see the beauty to behold, but young Mr. Farklepants would quickly shove Tootsie back to the car and drive to the next place. When they finally made it to the deserted Kilauea visitors center, it started to rain. They parked and young Mr. Farklepants asked Tootsie to remain seated and dry while he determined if the view was worth getting wet for. He took the video camera that they had borrowed from their friends with him in the rain and all Tootsie could think was, "That is going to get all wet and then we'll have to buy them a new camera", because she is what we like to refer too as a worrywart. When young Mr. Farklepants returned he was very animated and excited and told Tootsie to go with him right now! And all Tootsie noticed was that he wasn't holding the borrowed video camera and was mentally chastising young Mr. Farklepants for leaving it unattended on a trail. See? Worrywart.

Young Mr. Farklepants guides his pregnant girlfriend to the rail that lines [what? Sorry. Was rail mentioned? Because there was no rail. Just certain death if you lost your balance] the rim of part of Kilauea. They both ooh and ahh. There is rain. There are NO OTHER tourists or anyone for that matter on the trail. They are completely alone. Tootsie turns to tell young Mr. Farklepants how she's concerned about the lack of a rail awe inspiring the view is and he impulsively takes her hands. "There is something I should have told you a long time ago" he says. Instantly Tootsie thinks oh my god he has children that he's never told me about and he's going to tell me right here. Worrywart.

But he didn't. Young Mr. Farklepants then dropped to one knee and said, "I love you" and then he proposed marriage to Tootsie who then cried like a big baby replied with an enthusiastic YES! As it turned out, young Mr. Farklepants had hidden the video camera so that he could record this event on tape (yes tape, 1996) but it didn't work. They finished their day driving the remainder of the perimeter of the island until they made it back to their rented estate. Tootsie had wanted to stop and call their friends to let them know they were going to be terribly late but young Mr. Farklepants insisted that it wasn't necessary. It turned out that everyone, their mother, and the kitchen sink were in on the days events. One of the friends had gone with him to buy the engagement and wedding rings. Rings which young Mr. Farklepants brought with him (in the body of a flashlight, no less) on their vacation.

At sunset on July 3rd, 1996, young Mr. Farklepants and his fiancee, Tootsie, eloped and were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Farklepants by a very old local reverend who spoke with a thick local accent and who Tootsie wanted to put in her pocket and take home with her.

It wasn't until yesterday while composing this entry years later, when Tootsie was a little older and [she thinks] a little wiser that she realized the symbolism of Mr. Farklepants proposing marriage to her at the edge of a cliff. A cliff that overlooked a volcanic crater that was at that very moment creating new pieces of the Earth. There they were at the edge, a proposal and a promise, to start a new life together. Although, it is possible that Mr. Farklepants may have already mentioned the symbolism in some way to her and she just forgot. Because she does that.

I love you Schmoopy! Here's to the days I want to wring your neck, the days I can't keep my hands off of you, and all those in between...Happy 12th Anniversary!

**Out of town until Sunday, Y'all!! Have a great fourth of July weekend and be safe**

Tootsie and Little Sis Thumb Their Noses at Life

We spent today at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Bored with conventional roller coasters, Dorothy Z and I paid the extra twenty bucks for some extreme Dive Devil(ing). Listen for the calls for "mommy" from Boy-Child numbers one and two. If you can hear them over all of that SCREAMING! Enjoy!

Before You Know it It'll be Condoms

Boy-Child#1 comes to me the other day and says to me in kind of a hushed voice, "Mom, I was playing basketball outside and, well, um, and my pits..."

Me: Your pits? What about em?
Boy-Child#1: Well, they're kinda, you know, sweaty.
Me: Oh. ..... Oooohhhhh.

He is at that age where it's time to start paying more attention to personal hygiene. He's also at that age where I make him take a shower daily. And he's at that age where I sometimes have to make him wash his hair all over again. It's called "eleven". It's also - and you won't believe this when I tell you - the age that he would drop dead on the very spot he is standing if he knew I was talking about his armpits with all of you. But I'm at the age where I'm all, "Eh. Get over it. They're armpits for Chrissake", it's not like his testicles are the topic yet. So I added "deodorant" to my shopping list and the baby Jesus was all, "Let's make this an extra special day for this lady" and sent a memo to retailers that the deodorant of choice is buy two get one free. And since it's the same one that Mr. Farklepants uses, he gets one too; and now it's become like a contest in my head only to see who will win the coveted EXTRA stick! That stick that is currently hanging out under the bathroom sink all kind of like an orphan; not really belonging and wants to find himself except it can't afford to backpack through Europe.

Now I'm feeling all nostalgic about my first deodorant, which is admittedly, and odd thing to have a sense nostalgia for.



It was Tickle! And it was a roll on. And, this part I remember vividly, it was very wet. The scent was strong and I would try to counter it with my Loves Baby Soft.


Allow me to transcribe the fine print in the ad for you: "Love's Baby Soft is that irresistible, clean-baby smell, grown-up enough to be sexy. It's soft smelling. Pure and innocent. It may well be the sexiest fragrance around." I started wearing this in 1981. I was in fifth grade. I was ten. And reading the marketing campaign for this product now, as an adult and grown-up enough to be sexy, freaks me right the feck out. This must have been the gateway scent that turned me into a hoo-er.

And Then She Peed on My Side of the Bed

Don't ask me what I did last Wednesday but I have an exceptional memory for recalling events from my youth. I impressed the hell out of my mother when I once described, as an adult, the exact floor plan of the duplex we lived in for the first couple of years of my life. Not only that but I remember precise details such as furniture arrangement and those cute little doors where the top portion opened independently of the bottom half and that my dresser drawers were built into my bedroom wall. That was the 1970's and it wasn't like it is now with digital cameras and unlimited photographs to piece together such recollections. There are precious few photos from that era. I just remember. I also remember when I was four years old my parents brought me along to the drive in to see a charming little movie called Bug were these cute little woodland creatures called mutant cockroaches were released from the Earth and started these adorable little things called fires. Like that one particularly cheeky roach that crawled in that lady's hair? Remember that one? And caught her on fire? Precious. Oh, I can joke about it now but for years I lived in fear that every bug that I ever encountered or imagined was going TO KILL ME.

I don't know how popular June Bugs are in your neighborhood but for those who aren't familiar, I'll explain: June Beetles, or Phyllophaga crinita [for you fancy Latin types and sexy Rhodes Scholars] are smallish, flying beetles that still exhibit prehistoric attributes such as their hard candy shell and dimwittedness. Their purpose in life seems to revolve solely around the attractiveness of a porch light, landing upside down; and after a series of convulsions, dying. What a fabulous and necessary creature! Ahem. So it wasn't long after seeing that movie that a screenless window was left open in the bedroom that my baby brother and I shared. I opened the door to find hundreds of these critters swarming the light fixture and I've been pretty much scarred ever since when it comes to all things bug.

When I was eleven I saw The Exorcist at a friend's house. I slept with my mother for two weeks and made her promise to wait until I fell asleep in my own bed for two weeks following that. Yes. I was eleven and sleeping with my mommy. It was The Exorcist. I don't really feel the need to justify anything, I think you'll agree?

Almost two weeks ago, the kids and I sat down one afternoon on one of those 114 degree days, and watched Beetle Juice. For the next week Girl-Child slept in our bed. And for the week following that has been an exercise in patience on our parts and SO MANY TEARS and FEARS on hers to sleep in her own bed because, she says "I don't like being with myself and the ghosts in my head". Translation: She doesn't like being alone and she's seeing ghosts. And I wonder if she'll remember just as vividly the first movie that scared the CRAP out of her. Because it certainly wasn't any of the other movies she's seen like Beowulf or any of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, or Harry Potter movies, or any of the Lord of the Rings trilogy - which, HELLO! Grendel? Captain Barbosa and his ghostly crew? Lord Voldemort? Smigel? Its scares meee's. - Damn you Tim Burton and your nightmares!

So Saturday night, naturally, I decided it would be alright if I took Boy-Child#1 along with me to see The Happening. Figuring if I was his age when I saw The Exorcist (EXORCIST!) then this? Not. Even. Close. Could I get "You couldn't have been more wrong" for $500, Alex? Sigh. Good grief. You all know that there's something wrong with me, right? Parenting: Trial and error. Lots of ERRORing going on HERE.

She's Posting Twice in One Day! Someone Stop Her!

Colleen of Wine Please presented me with the I Love You This Much award! Please go and check her out! She's funny as heck and lives in Virginia, which is where my brother lives, so that practically makes us sisters. Or state-inlaws. Or something. Whatever, she's a hoot! This award is timely too because there's some bad blog juju going around this weekend. If you're interested you can read about it here and also addressed here. That is all I'm going to allude to say about that because it makes me sad.


So, without further ado, I'm going to spread some much needed love to fellow Mommybloggers and/or Women Who Blog.

Holly at June Cleaver Nirvana because I'd really like to see this award in her fruit bowl.

Burgh Baby's Mom because I'm in love with her daughter, Alexis. And my daughter is in love with Alexis and would like to play with her if only she didn't live 2500 miles away. Makes for a difficult play date.

OHMommy over at Classy Chaos because, aside from the fact that I adore her and her blog, she was also the victim of some blog abuse this weekend. Go show her some love!

We should be fostering a community of INCLUSION and not exclusion. Grown ups shouldn't have a problem sharing the sandbox.

**updated to add the link to Classy Chaos because it's easier to visit that way**

We Pause for this Moment of Awwwww...

There is a six year and nine month age difference between Boy-Child#1 and Girl-Child. They rarely bicker. They will never attend the same school. They will never share the same friends [except all those crushes she will have on all the hot guys he'll bring home one day]. He is kind, patient, helpful, giving, protective, ...fill in positive attribute here... with his little sister. In return, she worships the ground he walks on. Not only does she think that he's the greatest thing that ever lived; she also thinks he's very comfortable. Big brothers make the best pillows.

Santa Barbara Revisited

"Boy-Child#2 didn't like the maraschino cherry from his drink AT ALL. Can you tell?" ~ Dorothy Z.

Not only am I snatching pics from my sister that she took of our trip to Santa Barbara, but I'm also stealing her quotes. I love this picture. Boy-Child#2 is a ham and is always mugging for the camera [I've seriously considered getting him into television and movies because he's a natural. He just doesn't take direction very well but maybe that's just from me]; but this photo catches him when no one is looking and the genuine expression on his face sent me straight to the floor laughing. It's like he just ate something that tasted like feet. Which, coincidentally, is the same face he made when he took his first bite of sushi.

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


Thank God it's Friday. And it is. I just checked. Monday I thought it was Tuesday. Tuesday I thought it was Wednesday, and Wednesday I thought it was...nope! Not Thursday. Friday. So basically, I'm just lost. Because it's summer vacation and with the kids home I honestly wasn't sure what day of the week it was. And the date? All I can say is you should be glad that I use my debit card for everything and you aren't stuck in line behind me while I'm trying to fill out a check.


Ann from Velvet Lava sent a lovely email seeking my opinion on matching undergarments.

************************

Hi Tootsie -

Hope all is wonderful and whoopie cushions in your neck of woods, darlin'! I so love visiting your blog every darn day - it brightens my morning. Well, not that it needs much more brightenin' - what with the scorching Phoenix sun over here. Anywho! I have a question for your advice column! Woot! Here ya go:

Okay Toots, I have a friend who insists that all women should wear matching bras and panties every stinkin' solitary day! Who the Farkle has time for that and am I the only one who doesn't DO this? Or is Miss Matchypants in need of medication here? A bitch slap? WHAT?

That is all!

Air kisses,
Ann

***********************

It may rock my readers to their very core to learn, especially after my admission of dashboard adornments and last weeks marital advice; that when it comes to my bras and panties I'm more fashion practical that I am concerned with weather or not they match. For instance, if I'm wearing a white skirt and a black top, I choose my undergarments accordingly (nude undies and a black bra). In my opinion, it is more important that your unmentionables are virtually undetectable to passerby than the aesthetic pleasantness of color and fabric coordination. ALL THAT BEING SAID - It's a personal choice. While I do have time to do all that matching [and I DO make time especially in those situations where I know they'll be seen and in a heap on the floor in about .08 seconds] this becomes a costly practice. And it's not like I walk around looking like a schlub underneath. I keep things cute. Never underestimate the power of Lacy Little Nothings. Wear those and I dare you to ask him the color of your eyes AND your bra. He'll be all, You HAVE eyes? And what's a B-R-A?

I also have a friend that not only adheres to the same belief as your own friend; on special occasions she insists that her mani-pedi also coordinate with her underthings. And I've yet to meet one single male who notices or cares if your nails match your g-string and lace demi-cups. Although, my wedding anniversary is coming up. Perhaps a scientific study is in order. With graphs and copious photo evidence.

I should also note that if it simply makes you feel good to know that you're rockin' the Casbah underneath that business suit, then by all means, rock on.

There's Some Clogging in There. Get the Drano

I think I might have writer's block. Well, maybe not. I'm writing so it can't be that. I have creative writing block. There's just really nothing going on. Which is making it hard to post something and it's screwing up the way things run around here... and as a tutorial: How I Run My Blog in 3 Easy Steps:

1. Write as few as 2 to as many as 3 or 4 posts in one day and publish as needed.
2. Posts are either about witty observations, narration of events, or informative -sometimes all three.
3. Live a more interesting life in order to fulfill numbers one and two.

Generally, I'm struck with an idea, or topic, if you will; and I mull that over a bit, chew on it...see if it has any legs. If I can construct a few sentences with just that one thing then I know I've got a publishable blog entry. If I can't do anything with it other, than for example: "I like Glad Force Flex trash bags but not the scented ones because who finds their trash masked in what smells like dryer sheets, appealing? That is all.", then I know that it's no good and more of a Twitterable entry than blog material. And when I've got a few written entries in my queue, it saves me from days like today. When I've got. nothing. I could list all of what I've accomplished this morning but then I would have to add this important bullet point: "Need to dig graves for all the readers who died from boredom after reading this list". Because reading: -Purchased 4 pound carton of strawberries from Smart & Final even though Tootsie is the only one in the house who even likes strawberries will she break out in hives from SO MANY strawberries? we'll have to wait and see- will kill you. Dead.

Enlightenment on a Spring!

For a change of pace, the kids, my sisters, and I hopped in the car yesterday morning and drove a little over an hour up the coast to Santa Barbara. Their beaches are less crowded, less polluted than the Los Angeles area coastline (albeit, not by much according to the 2006-07 California beach report), and the tourists speak with European accents -now that's just fancy. We encountered a pterodactyl pelican that was rather tame and looked at Girl-Child as if to say, "I'm capable of scooping you up into my distinctive pouch but your mother seems to be watching very closely".

We considered renting a double surrey (pictured above) until I started imagining cars crashing into us and our lifeless bodies strewn about while we made our way down Cabrillo Boulevard. I have a motto that I live by when on outings: Everyone returns home in one piece and alive, without the need for an iron lung, and with a face. Live it. It's a good one. Boy-Child#1 must have sensed my moment of sheer terror and chose a dashboard Jesus as his souvenir. I mean, can you think of anything that screams SANTA BARBARA more than that? Perhaps if plastic Jesus were firmly attached to a surf board.



So we headed to the sand and surf so that the kids could play in the waves, and some of us could work on our tans -and some of us ended up with unsightly sunburns because some of us didn't wear sunscreen or keep their cover ups on and hint: It wasn't the one who's concerned about wrinkles, skin cancer, and concealing stretch marks. And has this happened to you? You're just sitting there on the beach, minding your own business and your sister checks your phone for messages and says:

Sister: You have a text message from your hubby.
Me: What's he want?
Sister: "[The Boss] wants to know if you are you interested in a 3 month temp job here in customer service, 23ish"?
Me: 23ish, what? An hour?
Sister: I guess.
Me: Where? Which facility?
Sister: Doesn't say.
Me: Ugh. And commute?
Sister: I guess.
Me: What are the hours?
Sister: Doesn't say.
Me: (considering the fact that I'm sitting on a beach and not at a desk) No. Not really. Tell him I'll talk to him about it when he gets home. And tell him you guys want the job.
Sister: Totally! Wait, he sent another message.
Me: What's it say?
Sister: It's been filled.
Me: Sheesh! Whatever. [Note to self: FICKLE MUCH?!?]