My Monkey. Let Me Show You It.

I know. I KNOW I already posted photos of Noah in his monkey costume, but that was a moment of shiny-new costume weakness. A moment I knew I would regret come Halloween. Don't post the monkey costume photos, self, I said to...uh...myself. Because then you will actually have to come up with things to say on Halloween, and dude, you know how you hate coming up with things to say.

Fine. So I have one thing to say: This morning was our first occupational therapy session, and oh, gee! You know what is fun? Listening to your child scream while a stranger attempts to massage his face with a yellow duckie washcloth. And then being asked if your child has any negative connotations with the yellow duckie washcloth.

You mean something like, oh, this very moment right now?

We shall now and forevermore refer to the yellow duck washcloth as the yellow goose washcloth, because, well. Fuck the fucking geese. Seriously. I hate them.

That is a banana in his pocket, but he is not happy to see you or your NUK brush.

And...that's really all I've got.

How about some bemittened sign language?

ABALL!

ASTAR!

ACAR! (Oh fine, acock. abig acock.)

Aannnnd...AMONKEY. We are going to clean UP tonight, I can feel it.

Conversations With Members of Our Homeowner's Association Who Keep Ringing the Doorbell During Naptime

No, I will not be attending the annual meeting. We're going to New York for a few days and...

Yes, I already filled out our proxy.

Yes, I gave it to that guy who rang our doorbell on Tuesday.

No, I don't remember his name.

No, I don't believe he was an impostor. He had a clipboard.

Yes, I already voted for board members.

No, I did not vote for you; I do not even know who the fuck you are.

No, my dog will not shut up; she doesn't know who the fuck you are either.

Yes, that is the sound of my two-year-old who should be napping right now, thank you.

Yes, this is kind of a bad time.

No, I have not showered yet.

No, I am not wearing a bra.

Yes, that is a bag of poopy diapers right there; somebody stole our garbage can.

No, it doesn't sound like my two-year-old is going to go back to sleep, thank you.

Yes, in fact, if one of you people DO ring my doorbell one more time about this again, I will COVER our yard with plastic flamingos and extra dishwashers and plastic dumptrucks on cinderblocks and I will regularly threaten the neighborhood children with a rake, so help me God.

Minutiae

Shortly after I posted yesterday, Noah and I took a quick jaunt to the pediatrician to confirm what I already knew (double ear infection! yum!), and then headed over to Target to fill the second prescription for him in the span of two days.

(On Sunday Jason went and got him some Baby Zyrtec. Did you know they make Baby Zyrtec? It smells like bubblegum, tastes like asswater and comes swaddled in your choice of a precious little pink or blue hankie.)

(Okay, I am just plain making shit up for no good reason now.)

I figured I'd drop the prescription off, wait a few minutes for it -- perhaps browse the nearby aisles to see if there have been any exciting breakthroughs in my OTC pain-relief options -- and then we'd be back home in no time.

Of course, I arrived right as the pharmacy was closing for lunch, which meant I had at least an hour and a half to kill.

Free time. To kill. In Target. That's like the most expensive prescription co-pay EVER.

TOTALLY REASONABLE THINGS I BOUGHT:

1) Underwear, because honestly. The tags on the ones I currently wear say "The Gap" but I don't think The Gap ever sold split-crotch panties.
2) Cropped lounging-type pants, for I am a fully-certified Professional Lounger.
3) Socks for to be wearing to the Gymboree, because otherwise I'd have to wear the Community Socks.
4) Some shorts for Noah.

AND THAT'S WHERE THINGS WENT TERRIBLY OFF THE RAILS:

5) New changing pad covers! Because I deserve them!
6) Plastic Dora the Explorer placemats! Because...uhh...
7) More sippy cups! Take & Toss bowls! Look how pretty and colorful!
8) A Raffi CD! What! The fuck!
9) A spare copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear because ours always feels sticky.
10) A sundress for me, because if there's anything I love more than wearing a fabulous outfit, it's wearing a fabulous outfit that I got for $17.99 from Target. Except perhaps wearing it to Target. Oh yeah. That's good stuff.
11) Other miscellaneous stuff that I could not ever live without, except that now I don't remember what any of it was, but the next thing I knew Noah's prescription had been ready for over an hour and I was out more than $200.

Oh, and also a SpongeBob Squarepants ball, because if there is one thing Noah needs, it's another goddamn ball. I can count six...no, seven balls scattered around the living room right now. They're his favorite toy and also his new favorite word. "A BALL!" he says delightedly, even if he's holding two or three.

I realized, though, as we wandered through the toy aisles at Target, that he's actually just calling anything that looks like a toy "a ball."

"A BALL!" (Points at a puzzle.)

"A BALL!" (Points at a stuffed bear.)

"A BALL!" (Points at a plastic lawn chair.)

So I handed him the SpongeBob ball in an effort to TEACH HIM, to make Target shopping EDUCATIONAL, to reinforce what, in fact, A DAMN BALL is.

And of course, he promptly licked it. Naturally.

So while he may not know specifically what A BALL is, he's definitely on to me and my "you lick/gum/chew/smear snot on it, you buy it" rule. I am absolutely unable to put something that Noah has put in his mouth back on the shelf. Especially now, with a double ear infection and five hundred kinds of nastiness leaking out of his head holes.

The thing is, I know that other parents are probably completely okay with putting gummed goods back -- perhaps even this particular SpongeBob ball had been similarly French-kissed by some other toddler -- but...well. We WERE there to get Noah some antibiotics, so I figure it will all balance itself out in the end.

When Jason came home last night I was on the couch, wearing my new sundress with the tags hanging off, surrounded by otherwise unpacked Target bags, eating Ben & Jerry's from the carton. I had the decency to be embarrassed.

"How much did you spend there?" he asked grimly.

I told him, eyes on the floor. Oh my god, I have a problem. I am one of those people.

"Huh. That's exactly what I spent there yesterday." he replied. (THINGS HE BOUGHT: pajamas for Noah, t-shirts for him, photo frames, impulse-buy DVDs, citronella candles, realistic-looking fake flowers for the bathrooms that I accidentally watered already.)

(Oh, and A BALL. Help us.)

Dear God, am I still talking? Jesus. Lemme just post a picture and put us all out of our misery.

Noah: A BALL!

Jason: Crayons!

Amy: Crowns!

Noah & Jason: Ew. Really?

(Supercute shirt by Ellie's Party, btw.)

Letters to Grocery Stores are a Sign That Perhaps a Small Part of Your Soul Has Died

Dear Trader Joe's:

FINE.

You have won both the battle AND the war.

I cannot deal with your wafer-thin shopping bags with the handles attached by Post-It glue. I cannot deal with begging you to double-bag my groceries, with watching the face of the perky cashier (who was just raving about your delicious store-brand pear sauce!) go dark and angry when I out myself as an  earth-raping double-bagger (who does not DESERVE your delicious store-brand pear sauce!), when all I want in the world is to get my groceries to the car before the handles break off and the bottom gives and the pear sauce goes splat.

I cannot quit you, Trader Joe's, and I think you know that. You know I am a hopeless yippie (huppie?) who cannot bear the thought of my child consuming partially hydrogenated oils or high-fructose corn syrup or non-organic milk. You also know that I cannot live in a house that does not contain at least one full bag of potato chips. You know I cannot live without your pizza bagels and you know my child would have a wicked case of scurvy by now if it were not for your gross-looking (yet delicious-tasting!) green plant juice. You know how I tremble in fear that you will discontinue that juice and panic every time you move it to a lower shelf or stock slightly less of it, causing me to buy three or four bottles just in case it's gone next week.

I know that you move that juice every week just to fuck with me. 

Anyway. I give up. I now own your stupid 99-cent reusable grocery bags that I will carry with me to Gymboree, because THAT'S not weird at all, except on the weeks when I will forget them at home. 

I'm glad we had this talk, Trader Joe's. See u next Wednesday squee!

Love,
Amy

PS PLEASE DO NOT DISCONTINUE THE GREEN PLANT JUICE EVER OH MY GOD.

PPS ALSO PLEASE DO NOT OFFER MY CHILD STICKERS. HE STILL HAS NOT POOPED OUT THE ONES YOU GAVE HIM LAST WEEK.

(To say that my life has been slightly boring -- so boring that reusable grocery bags are seriously the only topic I could come up with; so boring that you need to pronounce it borrrrRINNNNG like a shrill old-timey telephone -- would be quite an understatement. I went to Gymboree and two different grocery stores, I picked up the drycleaning, I used a coupon for paper towels and I gained 5 pounds. That is it. That is all my news.)

(Oh, and I lost my engagement ring AND wedding ring, and then while I was looking for them I found Jason's wedding ring. The one we thought was gone forever and I already replaced for Valentine's Day. Gargh. And also: I am so fucking dead if I don't find my rings, because guess who was supposed to add them to our insurance policy? A TOTAL FREAKING IDIOT, THAT'S WHO.)   

(There are some totally pointless photos of my kid after the jump, for those of you who have not lost interest now that he's all big and boy now. He still melts my heart, is all.)

Parenthood = Redefining Hell on a Daily Basis

Today we went to the MVA to register our cars and (finally) get our new driver's licenses. We took Noah with us.

***

Dear Nice Lady Who Let Noah Play With Your Shiny Nice Pen,

I love you. May that simple act of kindness be rewarded with decades of flawless skin and a good seven or eight hot young cabana boys.

Love,
Amy

PS Although perhaps you only needed to say the thing about Noah not looking a thing like Jason one time, and maybe not so loud.

***

Dear Mystery Person Who Spilled Froot Loops All Over the Floor In the Waiting Area,

I hate you. I know I should probably have empathy for what was most likely a desperate situation, but that's just bad parenting karma there, man. May the next dozen public restroom floors you encounter be littered with crushed-up Oreos.

Hate!
Amy

***

Dear Lady In That Line Over There,

You are in the wrong line. You want that line, over there. No, the line past that one. Yes. But only if you have the right form filled out. Oh no, that is the wrong form. Take a number from that window; they will give you the right form. THEN you get in that line over there. Yeah. But get out of the line you're in know. I'm pretty sure that's where you register as a sex offender.

Love,
Trust Me, I've Been Here All Day

***
Dear Jason,

That is so great that you found a wireless Internet signal to use! That is fantastic! I'm so happy for you and your little laptop and oh my god if you do not step away from your email and help me corral our child I will run you over with our newly tagged and titled car in the parking lot and that cop over there would LET ME because I think the sound of Noah's screaming is causing feedback on his walkie-talkie.

Love,
Death Is Not An Option and Neither Are Floor Froot Loops

***
Dear Tropicana 5% Fruit Juice Beverage-Like Product From the Vending Machine,

When will my son's eyeballs go back to normal?

Just Wondering,
A Concerned Parent

***

Dear State That I Now Live In,

I am not a terrorist, despite looking like one on my license photo. I was just kind of...wound a little tight by the time it was my turn.

Love,
Now Serving Number 321

PS The GIANT CRAB floating next to my head isn't helping things either, you know. Why not just Photoshop a checkered bib and a shaker of Old Bay onto everybody's photo while you're at it?

PPS Dude. Crabs are delicious. I would like to go eat some right now.

Back from the Brink

Bleh.

So while no members of my family showed up at my house to kill me after that last post, my preshus son certainly gave it a sporting effort. I once again fell victim to that parenting phenomenon where your kid gets a single solitary ooky diaper and then BLAMMO, you are beyond violently ill for the next 24 hours, crouched on the bathroom floor and praying for the sweet release of death, or at least begging your stomach to GIVE IT UP ALREADY, YOU ARE COMPLETELY EMPTY YET CONTINUE TO PUNISH ME, WHY, WHYYYYY?

Ahem. What? Enough with the vomit talk? Okay!

(Shall I shake you down for some more money instead? We're at $5,430 [dudes! awesome!] -- 78% of our goal. I have a wine-and-cheese cocktail party this weekend with our community council and neighbors and really don't want to go with pink hair. Especially since I think they may already not like us because ours is the only recycling container with so many glass bottles instead of plastic, not that I would ever check and maybe dump a couple wine bottles into someone else's recycling container and then deliberately put our empty milk cartons on top or anything. No. I would never do that. Anyway, Stacy and Heather still need your donations. Thanks!)

Anyway, thanks for bearing with me as I attempt to claw my way back to health and sanity. I was going to reward your patience with a hilarious video of Noah throwing a terrifically pointless and snot-nosed little temper tantrum -- the kind of video that would generate a lot of tsk-tsks from people because HOW DARE I MOCK MY CHILD'S PAIN FOR SHINY INTERNET NICKELS -- but there's something wrong with the file and I can't get it to upload correctly.  Damn it.

So here, you get this instead.