Your Comprehensive Guide To Mornings With A 3.5 Year Old

First, it's a good thing three-and-a-half-year-olds aren't that big, because you will probably need to physically pull him out of bed. He will look like an adorable, sleepy cherub, and may even fold himself up into a tiny ball on your lap while he fights the waking-up process. 

Take a minute to enjoy it, because it's all downhill from here.

Once the three-and-a-half-year-old is semi-halfway-awake, he will start whining about something: The fact that his Cheerios are not yet in his mouth, that he can't find the book he deliberately kicked under the bed last night, that you are SO GOING to bring him the wrong pair of underpants, HE JUST KNOWS IT ALREADY, etc.

Pro Tip: You will indeed bring him the wrong pair of underpants, this is true. You are a negligent monster and the absolute worst.  

Once you have peeled his pajamas off and poured him into his clothes like a blob of limp-yet-resistant pasta — and navigated the treacherous Sock Drawer Of I Don't Like Those Socks, I Want The Imaginary Red Socks That I Do Not Own — it's time to make the first transition of the morning into the bathroom for potty and teeth-brushing. This will go about as well as expected, i.e. migraine-inducing. 

"Uppy!" he will wail at the top of the stairs, with arms raised in your direction. What, you expected him to walk down the stairs by himself? Why, that barely puts anyone at risk of falling down the stairs and breaking a hip AT ALL! Why would we do that? 

Pro Tip: Some mornings he will happily walk down the stairs unassisted. This step will only be added if you already have something in your arms, like the baby or a laundry basket or a large assortment of books and toys that he absolutely refused to emerge from his room without.

And now, it's the Breakfast Gauntlet. He wants the dark blue bowl, not the green one. But only if there is a dark blue spoon. Otherwise, he'll take the orange. He does not want milk in his Cheerios. If there are pancakes, he'd like a waffle. If there are waffles, he'd like pancakes. If there are pancakes and waffles, he'll take a scrambled egg.

Why did you put the milk away? He wants milk in his Cheerios. He will pronounce it "Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerioooooooos," adding an infinite number of syllables.

Noah kicked him. Noah hurt him. Noah took his toy. Noah looked at his dark blue spoon. Etc.

He would like a banana-na. He would like to make a pretend phone call to Grandma and Grandpa on the banana-na. Then he will hang up the banana-na. On the floor. 

It's time to put shoes on. Yeah. Like that's happening.

It's time to go to the bus stop. Anyone who doesn't have his shoes on (ahem) right this second needs to stay in the house with Daddy and Baby Ike and finish his goddamn Cheeeeeeeeerioooooos. 

He will decide he desperately wants to go to the bus stop. He will attempt to convince you to take him to the bus stop by hurling his body on the floor and kicking in the vague direction of his shoes, which he is still not putting on. You will ignore him and walk out the door anyway, smiling cheerfully at your fellow bus-stoppers walking down the sidewalk who can totally hear your three-and-a-half-year-old screaming in righteous, pissed-off fury just inside your house.

Pro Tip: You are probably going to get reported to CPS someday, unless you bake a lot of cookies and give them tomatoes from your garden. Or both. Do both. 

When you return from the bus stop, he will be officially Over It, and pretty much anti-leaving-the-house-ever. His shoes will not be on and he will be happily mid-construction on a Lego creation that nooooooooooooo he can't leeeeeeave he never ever! He just NEVER. 

Pro Tip: He will never finish that sentence. "Always" and "never" are a three-and-a-half-year-old's favorite forms of hyperbole, and he sees no reason to supply a verb to his adverbs. You know what he's trying to say, and that it's you are a negligent monster, the absolute worst, and a big fat meanypants.

Because you are still bigger than him, you will get his shoes on, even if it involves shoving them on upside-down and at an angle while he hides under the dining room table. He will show his gratitude for your Tetris-like skills by shifting the focus of his rage to his coat, which he does not want to wear. 

You know what? Let him walk the 20 feet or whatever to the car without his damn coat. You've earned it. Treat yourself. 

He will of course be demanding his coat after 10 feet. He will also demand that you drive Daddy's car, because Daddy's car is currently considered "more fun" even though your car has a damn DVD player in it, not that you ever let him watch it. (See: monster, negligent; worst, the absolute.) You will pick him up and put him in your car, once again treating the neighborhood to the sounds of a child being literally skinned alive.

On the way to school, everything will change. He will be his usual, charming self. He will talk to you about trees and cars and ask complicated questions about the United States Postal Service. He will wave to his big brother's school and tell you that Noah is his best friend. And Daddy is his best friend. And you are his best friend. 

Once you arrive at school, you will be more than his best friend. You will be his Mommy, his love, his entire life, and leaving your cherished presence is pretty much the worst thing since not getting the dark blue spoon. Note that this is only because there is a full line of cars and witnesses at the curb-side drop-off this morning. His usual bounding enthusiastic skip-hop to the front door has been replaced with a second-act tantrum over wearing his coat, which he has pulled off and thrown on the sidewalk.

Pro Tip: Who cares! You're in a car! You're watching this scene in the rearview mirror! Just keep driving. He'll be fine once he gets inside. Or not! Either way, he's their problem now. Mwa ha ha ha ha oh my god.

(The three-and-a-half-year-old in his natural habitat, scoring free food from easily-charmed vendors at the farmers' market. DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE, YOU GUYS.)

Not-So-FAQs

Good Christ, this week. It is almost over. Good riddance, week! Thanks for bringing us the Craigslist ad about the beards and the unicorns and all, but other than that? Go away. Fuck you.

Since I spent the vast majority of my week either 1) cleaning puke off of various sufaces and a wide variety of fibers, OR 2) sitting at my desk staring at multiple laptops and like, flowcharting deliverable synergies and shit, I don't really have much to blog about.

NOT THAT I'M GOING TO LET THAT STOP ME, OR ANYTHING. OH HO HO HELL NO.

Instead, I'm going to mass-address some questions you guys have asked recently, either over email or in the comments, and I'm sorry for ignoring you in both of those places. I have an excuse, I swear. And it's that I'm a terrible person. 

QUESTION: Omg, did you see that video about the dad who recorded his son's special education teachers and discovered they were bullying him and saying awful things and...

ANSWER: No. I mean. Yes. I wrote about the video at Babble. It's complicated. On the one hand, RIGHTEOUS FURY. On the other, I need to not watch things that will make me cry for a million years. 

QUESTION: Omg, did getting your nose pierced hurt?

ANSWER: No. I mean. Yes. Getting a sharp metal object forced through your cartilage is not an entirely painless process. However, I found that getting my ears re-pierced a couple years ago hurt way worse. Two holes instead of one, and the healing process took a LOT longer. Probably because I kept whacking my ears with my hand whenever I flipped my hair (which I never realized I do a million times a day, apparently), or rolling over on them in my sleep. The nose piercing felt vaguely bruised for a couple days, but feels just fine now, honestly. 

And circling back to the actual piercing part? Let's just say that compared to getting a GIANT GODDAMNED NEEDLE JAMMED IN YOUR SPINE in preparation for childbirth, or trying to do things like STAND UP or GET OUT OF BED or BREATHE DEEPLY after the post-c-section Vicodin has worn off, getting your nose pierced is more like stubbing your toe, you big giant baby.

Although your one eye will water uncontrollably, depending on what side you pierce. That was weird.

QUESTION: Omg, what do the kids think of it? 

ANSWER: It took them several days to notice. I went with the tiniest possible stud available, and figured I could upgrade to something a bit flashier once it's healed and not such a dicey situation if the baby grabs it. (He has yet to grab it.)

Noah said, "Heeeeey. What's wrong with your nose?" I told him it was jewelry, and I think I was still pronouncing the L sound when his eyes rolled back into his head out of boredom because GAH JEWELRY I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR FEMALE NONSENSE, WOMAN, LEGOS LEGOS LEGOS. 

Ezra stared at it once and asked to touch it. I told him no, not yet. He also promptly went back to Not Giving A Shit. 

I'm gonna have to up my game in order to shock them, I guess. Tough crowd.

QUESTION: Sorry, but it looks like a zit.

ANSWER: LOL, I know. I'm not entirely sure what happened with that initial photo I posted — all the silver-y-ness of the stud got washed out, even though it looked fine before I uploaded it. It is a rounded bumpy sort of stud, which may not have been the best choice. Meh. I can change it in about a month, and would be super appreciative of any recommendations on places to buy non-shady nose jewelry that won't give me a flesh-eating disease, or something. 

(I'd usually go with Etsy but I'm super-mad at them right now, along with the rest of the planet. LAMESAUCE RESELLER BULLSHIT.)

QUESTION: But wait! Aren't you going to have to take it out, now that you're working for The Man?

Nope. Sorry if I confused anyone — I was aiming for vague and stumbled straight into cryptic — but I am still working from home. I'm just working a lot MORE from home, doing non-mommyblogging worky things. Another 20 hours a week, actually. Which, combined with everything else I do, basically means I'm working full time. But from home. And probably not forever. It's a consulting contract, so nothing permanent. I'm helping a company launch a corporate blog and related social media strategies and best practices and documentation for the process and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. It's only exciting if you are me. Luckily, that's exactly who I am! So I'm loving it. 

I will be leaving my little hobbit hole and taking my first steps into a corporate office environment next week, however, just to meet some people in person. Just me, my nose ring, and my fuzzy interpretation of what "business casual" means these days. I will be leaving my propensities to embarrass myself and walk into walls at home. I hope.

Oh, whatever. You know that'll never happen. I'll probably lose a shoe heel in the parking lot or accidentally lock myself in a bathroom stall. Or both! And I'll remember why I stopped going out in public on a regular basis in the first place. 

Another Day, Another Onslaught

At the risk of further cementing my place as your One-Stop Blog For Stories About Barfing*, I have little else to share today other than: Yes. Another stomach bug has been making the rounds among our little germbuckets.

Last night it hit Baby Ike around 1 am, announcing itself with a TREMENDOUS splashy yawwwwwwp right as I walked into his room and felt something wet hit me in the knees and slide slowwwwwwly down to my feet. 

The morning after, annotated version:

His crib was an unspeakable cage of horrors, as evidenced by the skinned musical seahorse — there's no hope in getting Ike to sleep without the thing, so I yanked the cover off and let him cuddle up with the battery pack.

After much scrubbing and laundry and two or three dunks in the bathtub, I eventually resigned myself to a night sleeping upright in the rocking chair, with my torso covered in old beach towels and my arms draped with prefold diapers, while poor sweet Baby Ike fitfully slept on my chest and whimpered because Mom, That Really Sucked And I Did Not Like It, Let's Not Do That Again.

He's absolutely fine now, by the way. 

And also, of course:

(Not Pictured: My tired-ass self, lying on the floor in an exhausted heap.)

*On the other hand, maybe I should just own it at this point and SEO the shit out of these posts for stuff like puke, barf, vomitorium, when do the real grown-ups arrive and we're gonna need moar paper towels ew ew ew.

Dear LEGO

My child would like a word with you:

Now, you'll be getting that letter personally in a few days, but I figured a heads' up might be helpful to let you know 1) that it was not sent by a serial killer and 2) what on God's green 16 x 32 baseplate it actually says.

DEAR LEGO

PLES MAKE

PITHOR. AND DLIVR

it For ME. THANC

You.

NOAH!

Yes. So. You heard the boy. Get on that. His allowance is waiting. I think he can currently offer you three dollars for your trouble.

I think I've mentioned that Noah's current all-consuming singular obsession du jour is Ninjago. Which, for the unitiated, is a line of Lego toys and a cartoon featuring...well,Lego toys. It's a carefully market-researched and deliberate mash-up of EVERY SINGLE THING little boys have been known to love over the past three decades.

It's a Beyblade-Magic-the-Gathering-Samurai-Ninja-Star-Wars-Indiana-Jones-Meets-The-Voldemort-Mummy-Chosen-One Mystical Magical Land Powered By Martial Arts And Also Jetpacks. And since the entire universe exists for the express purpose of selling toys, it is completely unencumbered by things like logic, setting or making much sense at all. 

The ninjas live on a vaguely Asian-esque flying Viking ship (suggested retail price: $79.99). While the show appears to be set in fuedal Japan, everybody flies around in Storm Fighters (retail price: $24.99) and Rattlecopters ($29.99) and the red ninja drives a motorcycle ($14.99). (I'm sorry: BLADECYCLE.)The bad guys are skeletons and snake armies and there's an Evil Dad who will one day face his Chosen One Son. Oh, and the white ninja is actually a robot. (Spoiler alert! Sorry!) (White ninja minifigure suggested retail price is $9.99, but GOOD FREAKING LUCK YOU GUYS.)

Does it sound stupid? Because it's kind of stupid. 

So of course my children LOVE it. LOOOOOOOVE it. 

They're clearly not the only ones — the Ninjago shelves are seriously empty at every store, the popular sets are sold out online or have the prices jacked up to nearly double what they should be — and yes, they are anxiously awaiting the next wave of Ninjago sets, due out this summer. Hence Noah's idea to write Lego a letter and put in his formal request that Lego create a Pythor minifigure and deliver it to our house.

Ezra drew a picture of his request. It's either some kind of ground assault vehicle or the Great Devourer from the cartoon's season finale. Or possibly a fried egg on toast.

I have no fucking idea who Pythor is. I don't understand any of this. It all makes me painfully aware that I am a girl. A girl who gave birth to boys. 

I promised we'd mail their letters today. I found the stamps and an address on Lego's website. I know it's ridiculous and stupid and pointless, but they don't. Not yet.

And I don't want them to figure that out for a very, very long time.  

And I'm Declaring Tomorrow Hawaiian Shirt Day, FYI

Confession: For a week now, I've been living a double life.

I'M HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH A WINDOWS MACHINE.

No, not really.

I'm actually having an affair with a CORPORATE CONSULTING GIG.

Or...working on one. Is that what you call it? Werrrr...king? I don't know. I'm rusty. But I sense I should probably drop the affair talk and sex metaphors. And put on some pants. Before I accidentally broadcast something unsavory over that laptop's webcam and VPN. And it's entirely possible that I will do just that because I have absolutely NO IDEA HOW ANYTHING WORKS ON IT. Microsoft has up and changed everything since I last used Windows and it's making me feel quite old and feebleminded. I spent 10 minutes on Friday trying to find the Reply button in Outlook. And then another 15 minutes trying to bookmark a website in Internet Explorer.

(Good thing I'm billing by the hour! HEY-YOOOO!)

(Dear Employer: That was a joke. Please don't fire me.)

Jason (after watching me type a web address in the search bar and a search term in the address bar for the 14th time in a row): Why don't you just install Chrome or FIrefox?

Amy: But I signed something saying I wouldn't download any software!

Jason: Amy, you're allowed to download a browser. 

Amy: But the Imaginary Authority Figures!

(Strange laptops are full of them, you know.)

Jason: The WHAT?

(I still haven't downloaded a browser. That thing I signed was TWO PAGES LONG, you guys. I'm also not allowed use company email to forward chain messages. And I had only six more people to send that poem to before I got a WalMart gift card, alas.)

The job has absolutely nothing to do with Amalah, the blog or the blog personality. I'm doing bloggy-type social-media consulting stuff about blogs and the Twitters and the Socialinterest FaceTubes Plus and whatnot, LIKE ALWAYS, but in a nice non-mommyblogging Times I Got Drunk And Fell Down capacity. You'd probably find the details to be terribly, dreadfully dull.

Which is precisely why I find it so exciting. It's a perfect blend of What I Used To Do and What I Do Now, and every day I feel far corners of my brain -- the dusty business-y recesses -- snapping back to attention, even after a few years of neglect. I'm filling up page after page of legal pads with ideas and lists and tasks and brainstorms. I scribble stuff down on Post-Its on my nightstand and I bought a goddamn dry erase board at Target yesterday. 

Jason: You know Windows has some great programs that'll let you just type all that stuff out and keep it organized and...

Amy: DON'T CRITICIZE MY OLD-SCHOOL PROCESS, YOU. IT'S STILL 2005 WHERE MY BRAIN LIVES, OKAY?

I'm terribly, almost uncomfortably busy. And I'm genuinely enjoying it, even the parts that involve talking to people on the phone. (SO MUCH PHONE, YOU GUYS.) I'm getting better at that, it turns out. Next up I hope to stop hitting the "home" key when I'm aiming for "backspace," like WHAT THE HELL, HOME KEY. YOU SERVE A VERY LIMITED, QUESTIONABLE PURPOSE. 

(And yes, I am completely aware of the hilarious irony that I got my nose pierced in a defiant blaze of work-from-home glory, only to suddenly land a corporate job with The Man a week later. My brilliant timing, let me show you it.)

Anyway, I've got to get back to my strategery and planning to plan and man, these TPS reports ain't gonna TPS themselves, if you know what I mean. Plus I need to hang around the water cooler kitchen sink while talking to myself about Game of Thrones and wondering who keeps pouring herself the last cup of coffee without brewing another pot. God, this place, sometimes.

No Party, All Bullsh*t

Weeks like this should be illegal. It's been the kind of week where everything has been a kind of low-grade terrible. Just enough to annoy the shit out of you, but not dramatically terrible enough to give you interesting stories for your blog. 

But it's Friday! So...whatever. Here, I Wrote You Some Stuffs, Deal With It.

1) MOLARS ARE BULLSHIT

Ike is cutting molars right now. Three of them, so far. His gums are a horrible blackish-purple color and he's cranky and congested and his sleep schedule is all kinds of jacked up. I am tired. I am running low on both Tylenol and wine.

You know molars are a one-year thing, right? Most kids get them sometime around their first birthday? Usually on whatever day you've planned their birthday party? 

You know Ike is 10 MONTHS OLD, right? Why you gotta be in such a rush, son? 

Because freezer-burned yogurt melts are bullshit, Mother, and I would like to get going on some filet mignon instead. 

2) PETS ARE BULLSHIT

Max the Cat has been feeling a bit poorly as well, on and off. Trips to the vet confirm that there's nothing particularly wrong with him, other than being...well, old. (He'll be 14 this year.) And while I do not really AT ALL, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT, want to linger on thoughts about Elderly Max Possibly Not Living Forever And Ever Shut Up It Happens Amen, I have to admit it's been less than awesome dealing with a cat who is routinely barfing all over the place and taking shits in our bed for no apparent reason. Except that he's old! Either put him in some Kitty Depends or change the sheets while focusing on how nice it feels to still have him curl up and keep your feet extra warm at night.

Speaking of old, any longtime readers remember Max's beloved stuffed Puppy?

If so, brace yourselves. 

UNDEAD PUPPY WANTZ BRAAAAAAINNNNNZZZZ

Puppy is actually older than Max, so I guess we should be similarly amazed and grateful that he is still here with us and bringing joy to our cat and ignore all the times I've walked into the bathroom in the middle of the night to pee only to be confronted with HOLY SHIT WHAT IS THAT DEAD THING GAAAAHHHH instead. 

3) HOMEOWNERSHIP IS BULLSHIT

Our to-do list around our house is pretty long, at this point. Long and expensive. Full of stuff we want to do but just can't (or won't) sack up and spend the money on. I'd (still) like to redo the kitchen. I'd like to replace some furniture. I'd like to upgrade some fixtures and appliances and paint a bunch of rooms. I'd like to hire abchao to come order me to throw everything out and make the whole house look nothing like it actually does, which is awful. 

Instead, the only things that ever get done are the things that reach Emergency Trailer Park Status. Like, we need to replace the TV cabinet in the living room because one of the doors BROKE IN HALF and now Baby Ike has unfettered access to the Xbox and a stack of loose DVDs that I keep saying "NO BABY IKE" about and then re-stacking them back in the exact same place because I am too lazy to find another place to put them. 

I've wanted to buy new blinds for the boys' room for ages now, but am only going to finally do it because they did this to the current set:

I am really regretting letting them take that Reverse Basketweaving 101 class at the Y, you guys.

And then there's the stuff that just randomly, unexpectedly goes to all hell and costs hundreds of dollars to fix. This week our utility sink clogged up, and since our washing machine drains into it, we couldn't do laundry until we got it fixed.

(I should also mention that the sink clogged up in the middle of a load of cloth diapers, so we spent several days with a sink half full of the dankest, grossest, foulest water you have ever seen or smelled, especially since one of Ike's teething symptoms always seems to manifest IN HIS PANTS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING, AND IF YOU DON'T I ADVISE YOU TO JUST NOD SO I DON'T FEEL COMPELLED TO GO INTO GREATER DETAIL.)

(The clog was run-of-the-mill lint and hair-based, in the end, for the record. I was so terrified that the plumber would come out and be all, "POOP! THERE'S POOP IN YOUR PIPES! YOUR ENTIRE HOUSE NEEDS A COMPLETE PIPENDECTOMY BECAUSE OF POOP, YOU DISGUSTING, MISGUIDED HIPPIE.")

However! As we are capable adults with excellent coping skills, Jason and I naturally attempted to unclog the sink ourselves before calling the plumber. Which is how we ended up breaking part of the sink drain in the process and had to spend three hundred and forty damn dollars on a new utility sink, which is probably pretty high in the Top Ten List Of The Most Unexciting Home Upgrades Ever. 

Anyway, since it would probably be super weird for me to take dinner party guests on a basement tour just to show off our sexy new utility sink (WITH COPPER PIPE EXTENSIONS, HOLLA), I'm posting a photo of it on my blog. Which is only slightly weird. 

When we decide to sell this place I am including this photo as a selling point, for sure. 

Mr. Big Stuff

After Noah learned to ride his bike sans training wheels, and after the trip to the toy store and the coveted Ninjago Lego Set Of Six Hundred Eighty Four Infernal Fucking Pieces Are You Kidding Me was procured and assembled, Noah calmly asked us to put his training wheels back on.

Uh. Well, see, the point was...

"I'M NEVER RIDING MY BIKE AGAIN," he shrieked, before I even finished the sentence. He may have stomped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door, but I can't specifically recall if that was over the training wheel thing or any of the MILLIONS of hideous injustices his six-year-old self is forced to endure on a daily basis, including but not limited to:

1) not being allowed to watch TV

2) being told he really shouldn't wear that sweater, it's 80 degrees outside

3) YOU HAVE TO EAT ACTUAL FOOD SOMETIMES

4) AND GO TO BED

5) being told to bend over all the way to the ground to pick up the thing that he just dropped, I mean, MY GOD, he's tall for his age. It's like, three whole feet away, down there. YOU DO IT, MOM.

He stuck to his stubborn little guns for a couple days before we could lure him back outside for more bike-riding practice. It went well, but I think he protested for longer than he actually spent on the bike. He didn't fall, he got better at getting going by himself and staying in a straight line. 

He still couldn't wait to get back inside. Sweet, sweet inside! With Legos and soft places to sit! Heaven on Earth for the Inside Kid.

So I don't know what came over him yesterday, just like I never, ever know what triggers a change in Noah, in his brain or just in his heart. Because if I could figure it out I would bottle that shit up in a spray bottle and keep it in my purse. Maybe sell it on infomercials. It's Noah's Amazing Rigidity Anti-Starch! Penetrates the Toughest Quirks! Long-Lasting Flexibility In Every Spritz!

All I know is that he got on his bike and rode back and forth, up and down our sidewalk. Up the hill, down the -- HOLY SHIT THAT'S FAST -- hill. I sat on the yard with the baby and cringed through my cheerleading, because HOLY SHIT THAT'S FAST. 

***

I don't know how to parent Noah, sometimes. Blah blah advocate cheerleading decision-making research good mother all that blah. Yes. In a big-picture, theoretical sort of way, I know how one should parent a child like Noah. I think we're getting the big-picture stuff right. I think we're doing a good job. I hope. Mostly. 70/30. I'd take that.

No, I struggle more with the little details. The day-to-day life with a kid who turns on a dime minute-by-minute. Who is hyper and quirky and boisterous and stubborn and sweet and infuriating. Who tests and challenges and misbehaves and pushes, like any kid, but also like one who is perpetually turned up to 11.

I yell and scold too much, I'm afraid. I push back against behaviors I should lean gently into. I lose my temper, or at least let my annoyance get the better of me and show through. It drips into my voice and body language. I get irritated over things he cannot help, and get angry over the things he can, and some days I can't tell the difference. "DSTSS," Jason and I have taken to hissing at each other, when we see the other making too big of a deal out of something, of being too hard on him, or just fighting a losing battle of wills.

DSTSS. Don't sweat the small stuff. It's the small stuff I suck at, though.

***

Anyway.

Noah rode his bike again, some more, better. He went down the hill super-fast and scared the living daylights out of his overly-nervous, fellow-Inside-Kid mother.

And after each run, he'd stop, and let out a whooping cheer for himself at the top of his lungs.

"I AM SO SUPER AWESOME!" 

Fun With Hand-Me-Downs

Ezra at 10 months, waiting for pizza:

Ike at 10 months, waiting for pizza:

In summary, GOD, do we ever go out for pizza a whole lot, but at least we figured out that if we eat dinner at like, 4 pm in an empty restaurant, we can avoid lifetime bans because of ALL THAT SCREAMING. 

 

Firemen! Kittens! Tequila! Oh My!

Hey! So anybody remember that little trip I took up to New York City, the one I wasn't allowed to tell you anything about at the time? And a few of you kept occasionally asking me just what in sam hill that was all about and I ignored you until y'all just gave up and stopped asking, because I WILL BREAK YOUR SPIRIT AND YOUR ATTENTION SPAN? 

Anybody? No? Excellent! Perfect time to bring it back up, then. 

So after all the secrecy and embargos and hush-hushness about it, I am thrilled to report that I have been cast as Marilyn Monroe in a new Broadway musicaHA HA JUST KIDDING. No, actually I went up to watch a commercial being filmed.

A tequila commercial.

Now, yes. Tequila and I have had a rocky relationship. We broke up in college and I've occasionally tried to make it work, we've been on but mostly off, because I KNOW tequila can be kind of a jerk but...he's so pretty! And tasty! And he goes so well with tacos! 

And so I allowed myself to be once again be seduced by the handsome rogue of tequila and convinced to run off and spend the day with him in New York. Not drinking, or anything, just...you know. To hang out. Talk about our feelings. Just be. Shhh. It's okay now.

(Tequila: The Ikea of the booze world. If that ingenious TV/media storage cabinet fails to solve all your problems, try a margarita instead.)

I woke up at the buttcrack of dawn to head to the train station, and kicked things off Classic Amalah Style by sending my phone FLYING out my car door in a freak charging cable accident. It hit the pavement and the screen shattered.

Awesome.

The good news is that the cracks gave any self-portrait photos I took a lovely, angelic sort of glow:

Never underestimate how flattering a giant patch of upper-arm-and-chin-diffusing light can be, ladies. 

Catherine (aka Her Bad Mother) was also invited to come watch the commercial, which was for Sauza Tequila. They were not aware of our History Together, aka That Time We Did An Interpretative Dance Routine During Total Eclipse Of The Heart karaoke And Very Nearly Killed Each Other. I mean, not that it mattered. I love her like a sister. I'm over it. 

(AND YET I AM JUST SAYING.)

Anyway! I'd never been to a real live set before. I must say I don't necessary recommend it to anyone who -- like me -- lives in constant fear of being scolded or shushed by Imaginary Authority Figures. Because YOU WILL BE SHUSHED. You will not be able to whisper quietly enough. You will become more aware of the sound of your shoes than you ever were before. The words "ROLL SOUND" will forever shut your ass up faster than...I don't know. FAST.

You will also learn (the hard way) that food stylists are not bartenders. None of this is for you. Woez.

You will be offered about a bajillion different kinds of tea, however.

I debated over trying a cup of the Sugar Controller Blood Cleansing Tea, but thought maybe that sounded a little too loud.

Not that the lack of actual alcohol consumption saved me from nearly killing myself on Various Wires Of Trippy Doom approximately FOUR MILLION HOJILLION TIMES.

This is Catherine, posing in front of the door she accidentally slammed (WHILE SOUND WAS ROLLING) and it literally sounded like the fists of God punching a tower of tequila bottles filled with pennies.

Not pictured: Me hyperventilating on the stairs nearby, half out of asshole laughter and half out of OMG THEY ARE GOING TO FIRE THE MOMMYBLOGGERS.

I totally got to play on the fire engine, by the way. My kids would have been so jealous if they had any idea and/or interest in what Mommy does with her life.

I also totally got to meet this guy, the Sauza Fireman Guy. He reminded me vaguely of Alcide from True Blood -- and I spent much of the day pointing out the resemblence to various people, none of which had ever seen a single episode of True Blood and instead just stared at me, blinking, while I decided that maybe they'd know what I was talking about if I repeated "ALCIDE FROM TRUE BLOOD" in a louder voice but SHHHHHHH WE'RE ROLLING SHUT UP, GOD. 

Not pictured: The photos I took posing with him. Turns out me standing next to very very ridiculously good-looking (and funny, nice, expert drink-mixing) guys who vaguely remind me of Alcide from True Blood is not exactly my best angle. My chins multiply when I'm nervous. DEL-ETE.

Luckily, there was really good butter and cheese and stuff on the craft services table to comfort-eat in the wake of ego-bruising photos. Stupid cameras making it look like I need to lose 15 pounds for no stinking good reason oh wait. 

Also:

A kitten in a beret, people. A kitten in a goddamned beret. Easily the best part of the whole day. But more on him later.

Here's the finished commercial. I hope that I have added value to the viewing experience by helping you picture the exciting behind-the-scenes goings-on of me and Catherine 1) falling down, and 2) bumping into things. You guys, I WAS RIGHT THERE!

AND I ATE ALL THE BAGUETTES. 

Thanks to Sauza for sponsoring this post (and my trip to New York City), and for not firing me and Catherine over the door-slamming thing. It was an accident! As was the smaller, secondary slam that happened when I made her recreate the incident for the camera. I SWEAR.

Baby Ike Walking, A Play In Four Acts

Hey! So what's it really like having three boy children in your house, all the time, all on top of each other's business, and yours? 

What's it like trying to celebrate each individual child's accomplishments while simultaneously warding off jealousy, rivalry, fighting and GUYS PLEASE STOP THAT BEFORE SOMEONE STEPS ON THE BABY?

This. This is what it's like.*

Baby Ike Walking, A Play In Four Acts from amalah on Vimeo.

 

*Which is to say: poorly lit, with inferior cinematography, and a soundtrack that could effectively double as birth control.**

**Also, awesome. Though it helps to always have everybody in their pajamas so you can randomly decide to send them to bed at any given moment. I DON'T CARE THAT THE SUN IS STILL OUT, YOU'RE BEING TOO SCREAM-Y AND I'M TIRED.