GOWAY

I have the sniffles. And my ear hurts. And I think my leg is asleep. Or maybe it fell off. Too weak to check.

Where's MY comforting lap and Taggies blanket, dammit? Huh? Well? I am waiting.

I feel like Fridays have been getting a little cop-out-y lately, since it's where I pile up all the links to other things I've written this week but was too shy to tell you about in a timely-yet-contractually-obligated fashion, so let's just make a deal right now: The first person who complains gets sneezed on. 'Kay? Moving on.

1) Remember when I was pregnant and used to talk about puking all the time? Non-stop, constant, always with the day in and day out barf talk? Good times. You can totally go relieve those times at Bounce Back this week.

2) This week's Isn't That Special column is a story I was too embarrassed to tell you guys back when it happened, so you know it's extra cringe-inducing. Mmmm, the sweet taste of regret.

3) MamaPop got a facelift, dividing content into pop culture and gossip and community. We've brought on a veritable fleet of new writers (meet them here! follow, bookmark, stalk!) who will mostly be covering the badly-dressed/behaved celebrity beat but we didn't want all the good TV/movie/general-geekdom posts to lose any time on the main page. So Tracey entered some kind of underground coding bunker and VOILA, two weeks and three nervous breakdowns later we have a handy new landing page for people who fear change to complain about. (Though you can still view things old-style by topic here and here.)  

4) Jason had an after-work party thing at Dave & Buster's, and I had the stupid idea to take the boys over after Noah was done with school. I contracted at least five stains of the flu and won a GIANT yellow stuffed duckie from one of those claw machine games and NOBODY CARED. Or was suitably impressed. Noah said it scared him and Ezra hugged it for exactly 30 seconds before hurling it to the floor and stepping on its head. Stepped on! MY MAJOR AWARD! The brief outing ended as these sort of things always do: with Ezra puking up French fries all over himself and Jason. We came home and Ceiba decided that the giant yellow duckie makes a nice bed. I put it on the couch in front of the window so all the neighbors could see and be jealous, but I still haven't been invited to a single dinner party. Assholes.

5) I think I might have a fever!

The Great Defender

MEET MAIL SLOT.

 

IS EVIL.

IS MY NEMESIS. 

 

OMGOMGAAAAAHHHHRRRRFFFFFFFFFOMG

 

PERIMETER BREACH. PAPER FALLS FROM SKY. THE APOCKOLIPS IS NOW.

 

AM CLEARLY LAST LINE OF DEFENSE. 

 

I GOT YOU GLOSSY JUNK MAIL OF DOOM.

 

SECOND WAVE! HOLD THE LINE! 

 

MY GOD, IT'S A CATALOG! WILL KILL US ALL!  OH THE HUGE MANATEE! 

 

I EAT YOUR CREDIT CARD STATEMENT. I EAT IT UP.

Epilogue: She dragged a dental visit reminder postcard about two feet to the left before getting bored, then went upstairs and took a nap.

***
This post was sponsored by Milk-Bone and is my final contribution to the It's Good To Give Series. Thanks for the good times, Milk-Bone. And the memories. And the monies. Check out their Canine Assistants program on Facebook, which helps people with disabilities and get involved by sharing photos of your own dog on the Milk-Bone Flickr stream. 

 
 
 

Indoctrination

Allow me to present definitive proof that the public schools are turning the hearts and minds of our children against us.

EXHIBIT A, which came home in Noah's backpack late last week:

 

EXHIBIT B, which came home yesterday, thus cementing the fact that this is officially a pattern:

 

If, for some reason, you are not super-experienced when it comes to deciphering preschool crayon scribblings, I present an enhanced and annotated version:

WHAT ARE THEY TEACHING THIS CHILD AT THAT SCHOOL? I swear to God, if I find out that next week's field trip to the farm is actually a volcano discovery mission, I am homeschooling from now the fuck on. 

Funny how...

...all the big boy haircuts and independent streaks are no match against a little case of the sniffles.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

WELL?

DID WE GO THROUGH WITH IT? DID WE CUT HIS HAIR?

 

(Yeah. I sometimes like to pretend that my life haunts your dreams and consumes your every waking moment. Humor me.)

 

Anyway. Yes. It happened. We did. Uh-huh. It is. I know! 

 

(And I sometimes like to type as if you are a real person asking me real questions that require real answers. I do not believe I have an unhealthy relationship with the Internet at all, no.)

 

Ezra and his dapper haircut beg to disagree.

 

Here he is, no doubt Googling some relevant articles from more reputable websites. 

 

Here it is, Mom. According to WebMD, You have a number of serious problems. 

 

Yet I get the sense you are not taking your serious problems seriously.

 

I better show Dad. Or Twitter.

Trust me, I'm a professional. Just look at the hair. Also: the digger on my shirt has buttons for wheels. Now stop weeping over that creepy envelope of baby hair they gave you this weekend and fetch me some juice. 

The Time Has Come, The Walrus Said

 
There are official tentative plans to de-mullet the baby this weekend.

 

Although I should probably make some official tentative plans to stop calling him "the baby."

 

But just like how Jason and I both conveniently forgot to remind each other about last weekend's haircut plans, I won't follow through, so why bother?

 

I mentioned his vocabulary in this week's Cafemom column, and he's easily added at least three words since that last count. He also will respond to a request to "raise the roof" with putting his arms up and...well, raising the damn roof. He brushes his own teeth, cleans up his messes and pitches a holy fit if denied an opportunity to carry my keys around, and yes, I have a decoy set I try to offer -- one that DOESN'T flood the neighborhood with the constant beeps of remote locking/unlocking/panic-button -- and yes, he knows there's a difference and will have NONE OF THAT. 

 

His scars from the escalator accident are healing, albeit slowly. Any residual fears from the escalator accident healed much faster, because he remains as bold and brave and reckless as ever.  

 

His favorite thing to say is "OH WOW," which is pretty much how he describes anything he likes, which is pretty much everything in the world. We say it a lot too, about him. 

PS. Still. HAIRCUT. Hold me. They've been traumatic in the past, is all.

PPS. Yes, am working on the ProjRun finale recap for Mamapop. But I apparently wrote all my notes in some strange foreign language. Either that, or I wrote them at one in the morning after too much red wine. But let's go with the speaking-in-tongues theory. 
 

 
 
 
 
 

(Please Nobody Tell Her It's Technically a Cat Bed)

WELCOME TO MAH BOO DWAR, PEOPLES.

(YAWN.)

 

YOO KNOW, IS GETTING DIFFICULT TO KEEP YOU ENTERTAINED WITH PHOTOS OF ME ACKUALLY DOING THINGS. I DON'T DO MANY THINGS.

 

I MOSTLY DO LOTS OF THIS.

 

AND THIS. 

 

SOMETIMES THIS, IF UR NASTY.

 

I REGRET MY LIFE CHOICES.

 

OKAY IS IMPORTANT SEVENTH-NAP TIME NOW. GOING WAY. BYE. 

***

This post is sponsored by Milk-Bone as part of the "It's Good To Give" series. Check out their Canine Assistants program on Facebook, which helps people with disabilities and get involved by sharing photos of your own dog on the Milk-Bone Flickr stream. 

Star Wherefore Art Thou

DAMMIT, SELF.

There was this other story I meant to include in yesterday's entry, but I completely forgot about it until a comment by Julie triggered my memory. And then I went and told the story (kind of ) in the comments section, which was DUMB because it's a GREAT STORY and deserves BETTER, especially because it involves me GETTING HURT. 

So if you haven't read the comments section: Good. Don't. If you have read the comments section and already know about the story I'm going tell: *waves hand mysteriously*

(I just erased your memory using the Force. Did it work? I bet it totally worked.)

Last week Jason and I were outside on the back deck, dueling via the Lightsaber app on our phones. (BECAUSE OF COURSE WE WERE.) "Dueling" mostly entails waving your phone back and forth a lot and pretending to block your opponent's imaginary lightsaber blade. It's kind of like playing on the Wii, only with way less dignity.

Anyway, we were getting pretty into it (OF COURSE WE WERE) but were also sitting way too close to each other, so after a few minutes Jason swung his phone down wildly and *CRACKCRASH* whalloped the side of my hand, directly on my knuckle. This hurt like a fucking bitch, to put it nicely. The phone hit me so hard that it then flew out of Jason's grip and sailed a good three feet in the air before landing on the deck. 

Faced with a yowling injured wife and an airborne iPhone, Jason dove after his phone while I dug ice cubes out of my cocktail to hold on my throbbing hand. He picked it up and reported that "it was fine" and moreover, the stupid goddamn Lightsaber app had just declared him the winner of our duel.

"CURSES!" I shouted. "I shall go build myself a robot hand and come back to defeat you, asshole."

Anyway. That's also kind of why hard and unyeilding lightsaber toys are probably not a good choice for anyone in our family right now, myself included. Thank y'all for the many links to all the the soft stuffed/knitted versions available out there, which are absolutely delightful. (I'm especially partial to the catnip-filled felt version.)  Also thanks for the various ideas re: the Yellow Letters In Space request. I think Noah will be thrilled with any of those suggestions, considering this is what he came up with in the meantime: 

 

Three soundtrack CDs, lined up end to end, which he slowly pushes upward while humming the theme music. I honestly have no idea where he gets his weirdness from. Especially since his parents are the absolute epitome of perfectly normal, sane human beings. Other than our weekly imaginary lightsaber duels in the backyard, of course. 

(My bruise is almost gone, which means IS REMATCH TIMEZ NAO.)

 

Star Wheres

Despite Noah's initially-underwhelmed reaction to Star Wars, I must now report that we are in the grips of full-fledged mania over here. His obsession grew with a slow burn: When offered the choice between going to bed and staying up late to watch The Empire Strikes Back, he picked the obvious and obliged us with an occasional glance at the screen. But then he haggled with us repeatedly over the next few days for a similar Return of the Jedi deal. And it was at some point during this film that his inner geek was truly awakened, and we have been pretty much All Star Wars, All The Time ever since. 

I can't complain: I seem to distinctly remember talking about watching Star Wars with our unborn child no more than 10 minutes after peeing on the stick. It Is Kind Of My Thing, as long as we pretend that the three prequels didn't happen, because they make me unreasonably angry, as did the dumb "special edition" re-releases with extraneous CGI banthas and shit, I don't WANT extra CGI banthas, I want my childhood belief that three-inch models on string were totally giant ships in outer space and I want it on widescreen DVD without your stupid extra Jabba scene, LUCAS. 

Ahem. Point is, I'm a huge Star Wars nerd, although also a bit of purist. Noah has seen ONLY the three original theatrical versions. He is not aware of the Other Ones or the cartoons, although I could probably be talked into the 1978 Holiday Special, because HA HA HA HA HA OH MY GOD THAT SHIT IS AWESOME. 

(And yeah. We have a bootleg copy of it. Of course we do. I told you guys about this, right?)

I also can't complain because now everyday when I drop Noah off at his afternoon school, he and another little boy re-enact their favorite scenes: his classmate mimes Luke and his lightsaber; Noah pretends he's Darth Vader falling down the stairs at the end of Jedi. Then he does his best James Earl Jones impression* and says "Help me take this mask off" to his friend. The other boy obliges and Noah immediately jumps up and declares "I'm not a bad guy anymore! I'm a good guy! Yay!" 

Redemption! And. Scene.

*I am not making that up. My four-year-old has an honest-to-God James Fucking Earl Jones impression. I've been trying and trying to get it on video but every time I pick up the camera and start asking him about Star Wars, he immediately launches into his best Star Wars According to a 3 Year Old impression.**

**Which basically sounds like this: Welllll. Welllll. Okay. Mumble mumble something Shiny Guy mmmppffg mumble smmrgg unintelligible don't talk back to Darth Vader he'll getcha it's an exciting movie Mommy can I watch the little girl on your phone again? Huh? Please? 

I dug out our old CD box set (OF COURSE WE OWN THE BOX SET) and put the movie soundtracks on my iPod, and now he sings the music constantly. (The main theme song is red, for anyone following our adventures in synesthesia.) He's almost creepily tuned in to it -- a fairly generic track will play and he can pinpoint the exact moment that corresponds to everybody falling into the "trashy pool" or when Obi-Wan "missappears" after playing swords with Vader.

(He's watched each of the movies exactly twice. TWICE.) 

One thing he does have wrong -- kind of -- is the title. Since he has no idea what the word "war" means, he originally thought it was called "Star Worth." He's now semi-corrected himself and calls it Star Wheres. 

Jason spent several evenings online tracking down acceptable action figures for him. ("Acceptable" meaning anything "old-style" and manufactured before the Other Ones, which...damn, I didn't realize just how much collective anger and bitterness we harbor against those movies.) I felt kind of guilty when the $6.99 toys arrived from the various collectors, all mint in their original packaging and surrounded by 10 pounds of lovingly arranged packing peanuts, only to have Noah immediately rip them open in sticky-fingered glee and start re-enacting any scene that involved the character getting hurled from great heights and distances. R2D2's legs are already coming loose and C-3PO has some suspiciously small teeth marks on his leg, but after a decade and a half in their packaging, they are certainly not lacking in love. 

He asked for a lightsaber too, of course, and that we've been reluctant to get for him. Not just because we're liberal pussies who have problems with toy weapons (we totally are), but also because the whole preschooler-with-poor-impulse-control combined with the general eye-level whackability of Ezra's head seems like a bad idea. I also think he'd challenge the TV to a duel. But when I told him I wasn't sure about the lightsaber, he took it quite well and asked for the "Yellow Letters in Space" instead. When I told him I wasn't sure they sold the opening crawl as an action figure, he also took it quite well. 

"Santa will get me the Yellow Letters," he told me, quite confidently. 

 

Cheeseball but true: I kind of feel like we're all a bunch of kids again. Thanks, Star Wheres.
 

I Shall Rent It Out For Weddings & Make My Fortune

Old n' Busted: the Ball Popper.

New Hotness: THIS SHIT

 

Because let's face it: Kids like bubbles way more than you like sitting there blowing them. Over and over again until your hands are all soapy and your knuckles are scratched up from constantly trying to dig that little annoying wand out of the bottle after it slipped out of your fingers for the millionth time and every other attempt is a dud that produces no bubbles and ladies and gentlemen, THOSE DAYS ARE BEHIND YOU. THE FUTURE IS NOW AND IT INVOLVES BATTERY-POWERED BUBBLE MACHINES.

You may be tempted into thinking that a million bubbles is enough, and that a gazillion bubbles is just marketing overkill.

 

Don't be fooled. I counted. After a million bubbles we were only having about one-hojillionth of the fun we were having after a gazillion bubbles. That means you're technically getting about four squidillion times the fun for only about $4.99 more.

 

 

(This is Noah setting things up so the slide would be like a "car wash.")

(This is Ezra eying the thing warily while Noah busts some bubble kneecaps.)

 

(He calls them bubbas. It's awesome.)

Another plus: since bubble solution is mostly just soap, I think this (followed by a blast with the hose) counts as a bath.

 

(Teaching your son to care for your garden while wearing a shirt that says You Don't Win Friends With Salad: +5 irony.)

Hey, remember that time with the bubbles just now? That was great. Wasn't that great? You wanna go see if we can go scale the fence or something now?

Yes, clearly it's been one wild and crazy week around here, in between all the big educational decisions and playdates and turning our backyard into some kind of toddler Studio 54 because YOU KNOW I had Lady Gaga playing the whole time the bubble machine was on. YOU KNOW I DID. 

(I also wrote advice stuff, boob stuff, IEP meeting stuff and frivolous reality show stuff. I'm just ridiculously well-rounded.) 

(Oh, shit. I almost published and committed a felony. That link to the bubble machine is an Amazon Affiliate link. Wow. That was a close one. Living on the barest edge of the law, y'all.)