OH BUT FIRST...
Is there anyone here with a potty-trained kid? Anyone?
Me! Me! Meeeeeee!
It's glorious. Or maybe it's just a novel new party trick right now, like my double-jointed ring fingers -- one of those things I think is glorious and awe-inspiring and everybody else just secretly looks away and hopes I'll stop talking about pee-pee in the potty already and OH MY GOD STOP BENDING YOUR FINGERS LIKE THAT.
Everything just sort of...clicked this weekend, at some point on Sunday. Tab A into Receptacle B = high-fructose corn-syrup bribery. Eureka!
And not a moment too soon, since on Saturday Noah kicked me in the chest and emitted this otherworldly howl of rage -- he sounded, incidentally, EXACTLY like those things from I Am Legend, which we watched on Friday night after arguing for a week about the premise. The DVD arrived in the mail on Monday and Jason claimed it was about aliens, while I said no, it was some Castaway-type meditation piece on survival and isolation and Jason continued to insist that no, it's aliens and shit gets blown up and I said fine, we'll watch it provided nothing bad happens to Will Smith's dog.
We were both way off and our super-low expectations were rewarded with getting the ever-loving shit scared out of ourselves, and I kept a throw pillow on top of my head for a good 20 minutes at one point, which is to say: two thumbs up! Except don't talk to me about the ending, because I have a very complicated alternate ending that so totally could have worked and made everything way happier, but Jason informs me that I am missing the POINT and the SYMBOLISM, but I really do have a pathological need for happy endings and this is why I am not ever invited to test screenings.
POST-SCREENING SURVEY, STEPHEN KING'S THE MIST
AMY: What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK! He could have rolled down the window and heard the cars! I could hear the cars! You don't just fucking shoot people before ROLLING DOWN THE WINDOW TO CHECK FOR CARS. Everybody knows this. Go back and reshoot the ending and have him roll down the window, Jesus Christ.
POST-SCREENING SURVEY, NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN
AMY: But...is the cat okay?
POST-SCREENING SURVEY, GONE WITH THE WIND
AMY: A great film, but probably would have been better if Rhett knocked on the door a minute later to come back to Scarlett after all, perhaps with Bonnie in his arms who was not actually dead but just lost in the mist all this time.
Anyway. Noah is no longer screaming like the viral undead from Mars. After a few bad hours during which I did waver and wonder if I should bust out the Huggies again after all, I did the smartest thing ever. I abandoned him to the care of our babysitter (who I believe Noah worships as a deity) for a few short hours. She informed him that yeah, dude, sorry, I'm also part of the Evil Toilet Agenda and expect you to use it. And that pretty much was the end of any form of resistance. We are fully potty-operational here, people, and also covered in bright-colored fingerprints from hard candy shells that fucking DO melt in your hands AND in your big-boy pants, not like I've figured out how that one happened yet.
SPEAKING OF JASON...
(Shut up, I mentioned him a couple tangents ago, I'm sure of it.)
We did Father's Day up RIGHT, y'all, what with the trip to Home Depot where Noah had a harrowing encounter with an automatic flush toilet (oh God, okay, I know, I'm dropping the topic now) and then to a petting zoo where I had a near heart attack because Noah got within six feet of a fucking GOOSE and then we took a tractor ride where fucking OSTRICHES came up to us and children were TOUCHING the ostriches and oh my God, we all could have had our eyeballs pecked out and I threw all the contents of our souvenir cup of grain pellets off the tractor in a desperate attempt to get the fucking ostriches AWAY and honestly I never knew that I had such a deep fear of ostriches. But I do. Huh.
And I was not alone in my fear, either, as another mother was equally as terrified by the giant pecking peck monsters who were trying to nose around in a little boy's Thomas the Tank Engine backpack while the guide explained that ostrich brains are actually smaller than their eyeballs and when our husbands had our toddlers off feeding the things or something (I couldn't look, I COULDN'T LOOK), she quietly whispered, "I'm gonna go eat an ostrich burger after this, motherfuckers."
I wish I'd gotten her email address. We had a lot in common, I think.
Post-Ostrich Encounter. Noah also just touched a filthy camel. Was promptly bathed in Purell minutes later by killjoy mother who was convinced every animal here was going to eat us.
Filthy I say! And what, you don't think those souvenir grain pellets don't taste just like human flesh? Because I totally heard this one kid say they tasted like chicken and YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS and also, ew, please don't let your kids eat souvenir grain pellets, people. I know those sort of things can happen really quickly when you aren't watching them but you know what else happens really quickly?
OSTRICH ATTACKS. THINK ABOUT IT.
Okay, so that's kind of pretty cute.
AHHHHHHHHHHH DEMONIC SHEEP CLIMBING OUT OF ITS PEN WITH ITS CLACKY CLOVEN FEET AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The kind of wildlife encounter I can get behind.
Happy Father's Day, Jase. Thank you for not letting that ostrich peck my baby to death. I'm sorry the words, "Stop that, Noah, you're scaring Mama" have to come out of your mouth as often as they do, but thank you for noticing.