My daughter has crabs and I gave them to her.

What happens when you take your daughter to the beach last November and then again in June?  She becomes obsessed with crabs, that's what.  Lizzy's been begging me since last year to buy some crabs.  Last year, people, last year.

I may have stretched the truth an told her they were not the kind of animals that can be bought at the store.  I may, or may not, have further stretched the truth and stated, "They are sea creatures and we just can't get them here in Kansas."

So when we were talking about crabs again at lunch I had my old lines ready to go and was all set for the assault.  I was all ready with the standard, "You know baby, we'll see them the next time we go to Sanibel.  Crabs just don't do well here in the Midwest."  Or in my kitchen.   Eww Gawd, please not in the kitchen.  

This time however my mom was at the table.

But before I could get any of that out my mom answers Lizzy, "Oh, you're interested in Hermit Crabs?  Do you want to go and see some?  I didn't know that!  We can run down to PetSmart real quick.  Wanna come with Grandma?"

This is the time where we take a magical little interlude because all the neurons in my brain simultaneously stopped firing.  Call it shock, numb silence, whatever you will.  I stood there slack jaw just watching life move on around me.  And now we're back.....

Acckkk!  Wait.  Stop.  Shut up.

SHUT UP.  SHUT UP,  NOWWW.

I almost dive-bombed my mom from across the kitchen.

I had visions of tackling her football style.  Knocking her down and pounding her head into the ceramic floor for good measure.  Watching the fork pop out of her hand from the impact and making a perfect arc as it went sailing and then bouncing across the floor.  Anything just to get her to shut up about Hermit Crabs.

But it was too late.  

The damage was done.

I looked over at Lizzie.  I have never seen a smile so big.

"Hermit Crabs???  We can get some Hermit Crabs???"  Her smile lit up my night for three whole days.

The crabitat.  

So that is why I am now the proud owner of three Hermit Crabs.  One of which I know is going to die in the next forty-eight to seventy two hours and has a shell like a cow's head.  I know.  A cow head.  First off, how on earth am I going to replace that?!?  And second, who does that to a shell?  Turns it into a cow's head.  I feel sorry for the crab having to schlep that thing around.

I'm gonna bite ya.

And I'll let you in on a little secret about me.  Crabs scare me.  They freak me out.  Give me the hee-bee-jee-bies, the willies, whatever you call them.  They're like hard shelled spiders.  Tarantulas with shells.  Look at that thing up there.  It has claws, long spider-like legs and little beady eyes.  They scratch the sides of the aquarium going, "I'm a gonna get outta here and when I do I'm gonna bite ya.  Your food sucks and I'm gonna pinch you for it.  And tell that baby to quit banging on our house."

The first two nights we had these things I didn't sleep.  I'm still having a hard time sleeping.

Lizbeth, you're mine.

Someone please tell me how to kill these things and make it look like an accident.  I don't care if it's humane or not.  I love my daughter but these things are seriously crimping my style.

They have to go.



Update: So we've had these things for six days now and its official.  They're staying.  None have died (dam-it) and she's named all three of them.  


Oh yeah, and they're in the kitchen, in the dining area.  

The truth fairy

I am going to go down in the Annals of the Worst Mom's Ever.  I know this fact and yet I can bet you a million dollars I'll still act all surprised when they call my name to accept the award.  And I WILL accept that award.  I've earned it.

I had to do something I've never done before.  Leave my daughter with our swim instructor for the last few minutes of her lesson so I could take Alex to an appointment.

My mom had Gracie at home who was down for a nap so all that needed to be done was for Lizzy to wrap up swimming and come back home with her instructor.  Which wasn't really hard since our instructor has known the kids for years and had her car parked in our front drive.  They literally had to walk 500 feet from the pool to our back yard.

So she was with people I trust.  What could possibly go wrong?

Turns out a lot.

Apparently Lizzy's seen one too many of Alex's meltdowns and decided that as soon as I left the pool deck she was going to try one on for size.  She decided she was going to boycott the last of the lesson and splash her instructor a few times for good measure.  The splashes were not the "we're having girl fun splish-splashing" but rather the "fuck this, I'm done with swimming and I hate you kind of splash."

My mom tells me this as I come home with Alex, right as I hit the door, before I can even get the keys in the dish.

This is the second thing this week Lizzy's decided to up and boycott so clearly she thinks this method is working for her.

So when I see Lizzy eating a snack and ask how her lesson went I was shocked as hell to hear her say, "It was OK.  Can I have more juice?"

"Sure, you can have more juice.  The lesson was just OK?"

"Yeah, my legs were a little tired but it was OK."  She's acting like there was nothing wrong.  At all.  Had my mom not accosted me at the back door I would have been none the wiser.  But she did.  And I knew Lizzy was BS-ing me.  Big time.

"Oh, that's good to hear it went well.  I'm sure when the Truth Fairy swings by tonight she'll skip right by us because, you know, when you tell the truth she just keeps on going."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see her flinch.  Just a little bit but it was there.

Here's the part where I'll fill you in on the Truth Fairy:  One time I caught Lizzy in a boldface lie.  So as not to be outdone by my five year old, I made up a lie of my own.  One that was bigger and better.  Meet the Truth Fairy.  She comes round during the night and for little boys and girls who are not truthful.  As she waves her magic wand those little miscreants who were not truthful reap the demise of her magic wand and their noses grow and grow and grow.  So in our house, if you don't tell the truth and fall asleep, you wind up with a nose like Pinocchio.

Hey, I never said I was proud of this moment.  Nor do I remember taking a test prior to becoming a parent.  Trust me, if I did there would be a world with three less children in it.  It would fall under the category of Parent Fail.

Anyway, she has the stones to look me square in the face and say, "Nope, the lesson was fine."  And continues on like life's great.  Not a care in the world.

I let it rest.  Truth be told, I was a little miffed she had the stones to call my bluff and raise me another lie.  No need to question DNA here folks.

She spent the rest of the day having fun.

Fast forward to later in the evening when my sister asks, "Hey Lizzy, how'd your swim lesson go?"

I hear this squeamish, "OK..... Mom??  Mom, I splashed my instructor."

"Oh you did?  That sounds like fun!  I bet you and Tracy were having a blast, just the two of you.  It's always nice to have some private time."

"No, mom.  No.  I was mad and splashed her."  Her bottom lip started to quiver.  She was clearly worried.

It was getting awfully close to bed time.

"Ohhh, you splashed her?  And you were angry?  That's not good.  What do you think you should do?"

"Say I'm sorry.  Mom, is the Truth Fairy going to make my nose longer?"

"No honey, let's go home and get the phone and call Tracy."

And that's what we did.


I have no idea how long the Truth Fairy is going to be swinging by our house but you can bet my lilly white ass I'm going to be taking it as far as I can get it.




Note:  I was not able to post on Monday.  There are two things that I have agreed with my husband that I won't write about publicly: our marriage and his family.  Turns out both downright sucked this weekend and needed my attention.  Thanks for the understanding.

My son wants to make his Aunts Sim's get all sexy. Yeah, you heard me correctly.

I'm not sure how many of you know, this but my sister lives right down the street from me.  Well, not literally right down the street, but if you cut through my back yard and cross the street you get to her street and then she's four houses down on the right.  I know this because every time I slip into casual conversation that my sister lives "right down the street."  I am assaulted with, "No, no no!  That's not right.  Aunt Nichole does not live right down the street.  She lives behind us, though the back yard, across the street, and four doors down on the right.  That's not right down the street, mom.  Duh." 

I stand corrected. 

Crap I forgot what I was going to post about. 

This is where I get up and wonder around the house a bit.  Kick around a bunch of toys and see that the kids have not killed themselves, each other or are thinking of planting the baby in the empty planter on the back porch.  True story.  And as I look over and see the kids on their I-touches I remember it.    

So after Alex bugged me so much to go to his Aunt's house last night that we showed up on her doorstep unannounced and uninvited I was a little more than pissed when he started with all of this garbage in under five minutes of hitting the door:

"UGGGHHH. I'm bored." 

"There's nothing to do here." 

"How long do we have to watch those guys on bikes?"

"There's nothing to do."

"UGGGGGHHH.  I want to go home."

"How long do we have to be here?  Can I watch TV?"

"UGGGGHHH.  How long do we have to stay here???"

Yup, after begging like a misbehaved dog for forty minutes straight, he wanted to go home.  He wanted to bail on the same place he begged to go to in the first place.  Anyone see the irony here?  Not to be out done by my spawn I started up with:



"No, we are not leaving." 


"You can find something to do."


"Go find your Uncle."


"Bug him."  


 I said, "Go Find Your Uncle."


"No we are not changing the channel.  Your Aunt and I are watching the Tour."


I said, "We Are Watching The Tour."

I don't know if you know this either but I'm a road biker so watching the Tour de France is akin to a pedophile asking a kid if they like candy.  And I love candy.  Right now the Tour is my candy.  So, NO, that TV channel was not being flipped.  Period.  

Once a year in July we have a new house rule: Do Not Mess With the Tour.  Oh yeah, screw you Contador.  And buff men on bikes?  In spandex??  In the hot, hot, hot, summer???  Bliss.  Its not like the pool ladies in Spanx, or that crappy chocolate.  The Tour is more like soft porn.  Go watch and you'll see.  It's easy on the eyes.  See?  See why we watch???

Anyway, while we were getting all glossy-eyed watching beautiful men on bikes my sister may have mentioned something to Alex, something along the lines of, "Hey, do you want to play my Sim's?  You can make Aunt Nichole and Uncle Rob do things like go swimming or sleep."  


I don't know.  Remember?  I was watching hot, sweaty men in tights. 

Alex didn't stop complaining till he heard four magic words: "It's on the computer."  At the time it struck me as odd, something akin to saying in that sickly sweet voice, "Does the dogie want a treat?"  And you can actually see the dog stop in mid-motion and go, " Err?  Treat??  Did someone say treat???  I wanna treat.  Where's the treat?"  

Alex was like that dog.  He cocked his head off to the side and said, "Computer?  Aunt Nichole, did you say computer??"

Fast forward to today where I've been harassed since about half past the ass crack of dawn about the Sim's.  Now he has to have a game.  Not only a game, but the game he was playing last night.  And that is just not possible.  We simply cannot take the game off her computer and plop it onto ours. 

Add to it, my sister's game is part of the Sim's Ambitions.  That means he can make his Sim's Aunt and Uncle get all romantic with each other and have babies.  My seven year old is NOT MAKING SIM'S BABIES.  

The Sim's can swim naked it the pool, get in fights, flirt and kill each other.  Not necessarily in that order.  They can rob the neighbor and eat their dog for dinner and call it chicken.  He can make them take a cab to diner and get all sexy in the bathroom.  Add to it, the Sim's do things they want to as well. 

So no, he's not getting my sister's Sim's game.

Nor is he getting a Sim's game of his own.  I'm not caving and just giving him a $39.99 game right now since that's his new thing.  And I'm not spending $6.99 as an App for the I-pad either.  It's not about the money here.  He's going to have to work with me on this one and:

1. Leave me alone for a little bit about it.
2. Show me he can not talk about it for a period of time.
3. Show me he can earn it.  
4. Respect my decision.
5. And this is a big one here: try to work with me and think of other things and other ways to get unstuck. 

And that is why I now I have a seven year old who is wondering around the house trying to convince me that he'll die without the Sim's.  Why I've been harassed since 6:00 AM about the Sim's.  Why I've been assaulted with all the reasons why the Sim's are great.  Why they're worth having.  Why he's dying a slow, painful death without them. 

And I get it.  Really, I do.  For him the pain is very real.  He has to have it.  He's stuck on it.  Fixated.  He can't get it out of his head and can find no alternate solutions even when they are presented.  They can not work in his mind.  He's been in meltdown mode and will continue to be all day and well into the night. 

This is truly an issue for us.  Something he needs help understanding and processing.  I have to be able to help him get it, to understand, to become more flexible in his thinking.  Try to help him work through this and gain an understanding of just why we can't always get what we want, when we want it, regardless of the situation. 

Which is precisely why I'm holding firm and making him wait for the Sim's.  Heck, he may not even get it. 

I do him no favors by giving him everything he wants.  When he wants it.  Just because he wants it. 

Trust me.  It's killing me as well. 

And guess what?  After a day of making our lives miserable, he woke up this morning and has not mentioned a peep about the Sim's.  Not a word.  He may have moved onto something new.  I don't know, he may just be plotting his next move.  

I don't know.  I may never know.  

But I do know this: even though yesterday was a living hell, I'm glad I held out for today.

It's so hot I think I'm dying and all I can think about is eating chicken...

Wait, what's that smell?  It smells like chicken.  Gawd I'm hungry....I wonder if my husband brought home some chicken for dinner.  I could go for some Kentucky Fried Chicken. Extra Crispy.  Coleslaw.  Mashed potatoes and gravy.  

Wait.  Wait. Wait.

I think it's me.  That smell is me.  Oh Dear Lord.  It's me.  I stink.  

Its so damn hot, I'm cooking externally and I smell like fried chicken.  All that sunscreen and lunch meat Gracie smeared all over me earlier in the day combined with the heat has turned my natural smell of water blossoms and rose petals into some rank form of funk fried chicken.  

So I've brought the kids inside for a bit and we ate some of these.  God love the American Dream and Dunkin' Donuts.  

Then we went to the pool where Gracie tried to bust out, or at minimum, she tried to look cute and innocent so someone else could take her home and get her out of the heat because I was still cooking.  

And then we stayed at the pool a little longer so I could cook my chicken butt a nice golden brown and crispy.

Hope you all aren't dying out there.  And if you are, for God's sake, get yourself some chicken.

Pentomino hell

Anybody know what a Pentomino is?  Yeah, me either.  Click here if you want some information on them so you have some idea what I'm talking about.  I have no choice.  I'm learning about them though.  My son's been harping about getting some for the past several days and if I could pull one out of my ass I would.  He's been driving me that insane about it.  Every waking moment he's been inserting his love of Pentomino's into any and every conversation.

He is actually going up to people and talking to them about Pentomino's.  On the one hand I'm all like, "Yay, spontaneous conversation, social skills at work."  And on the other hand I'm all like, "Ok, that's enough now, they don't want to know that much, you're freaking the neighbor out now."

This talking about Pentomino's roughly translates to following me around the house, talking at me for the last several days non-stop where ever and when ever he can.

While I'm on the toilet:  
"Mom, can we get some Pentomino's?  You can do them while you poo, you know."

"Why no, Alex I didn't know that.  While you're in here, can you be a good boy and hand mommy a new roll of toilet paper?"

Must remember to lock the door next time...I may or may not have been pooing.  

While on the computer:
"Hey mom, did you know I can do Pentomino's while you work?  I can you know."

"No, I didn't know that.  That would be great."

"Well if you want, I can open up a new window and look at some for you.  I think I can get you to Amazon..."

Must continue to reinforce that "work" consists of hiding out in the office...

While making dinner:
"Mom, are you thinking about those Pentomino's?  Because you're awfully quiet.  That usually means you're up to something.  Are you up to buying Pentomino's yet?  Because I can go to the office and get you to Amazon...."

Gawd, do we have a shrimp fork in the kitchen?  I think I could ram that in my ears...no, we don't have a shrimp fork.  That's still OK.  I think I can find some wooden skewers in here somewhere.  How long is this going to keep this up?  He's got more tenacity than a salmon swimming upstream and well, I don't.  

While in the car:
"Hey moooom, do you know Lizzy and I can do Pentomino's in the car?  We could if we had some you know.  The kind at school come in a plastic bin that can fit right back here in between our two car seats," he says as he motions to the space filled with all sorts of other crap that's migrated its way to the back.  "Do you think we can drive past school so you can see what they look like?"

While gripping the steering wheel I manage to eek out, "Don't we have those little diamond thingies you guys had in the car?  We had some and you guys just dumped them out all over the floor back there.  No, I'm not getting those in the car.  Not again."

"No, No, NO!!  Those are NOT Pentomino's.  Those are Tangoes.  And they're way too easy.  I can't have those!  And they're triangles not diamonds, mom. "  His voice is strained.  I look up in the rear-view and see he's starting to flap around back there.  Uh oh.

This could get really ugly, really fast.

He's clearly upset with my misunderstanding the facts.  "Pentomino's are way harder, mom!"  Arms waving, amping up.

I had a brief glimpse of a major meltdown in the car.

Not good.

I tried a diversionary tacit, "Hey guys, how big is Aunt Fanny's butt?  Do you think it's as big as an airplane?"

It worked...Oh thank the Lord.  Must remember to negotiate something with God for this small favor....

While on the toilet again, this time door locked, Alex sitting outside:
"Hey mom, did you know the door is locked?  How can I tell you about Pentomino's with the door locked?!?  Wait, wait, I know....I'll just talk louder at the door so you can hear!  Wow!!  That's good thinking on my part!  HEY MOM, DID YOU KNOW YOU CAN DO PENTOMINO'S WHILE YOU'RE GOING POO?  NO??  WELL YOU CAN, YOU KNOW!!"

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, grant me the wisdom to get through this day and buy some mother fucking Pentomino's before I kill my child and bury him in the back yard.  


And that is how my son ran as fast as I've ever seen him in his entire life when I told him to go get my wallet and bring it to the office.   He pulled out the credit card in under 0.0011th of a second and we had an order placed in about two minutes flat.

My silence lasted about one whole minute.

One beautiful, blissful minute.

Long enough for his neurons to process and start up with, "Do you know the tracking number?  Because if we had the UPS tracking number we could find out when the Pentomino's will get here.  Do you know when the Pentomino's will get here, mom?"