Pirate

One evening we decided that as good parents, we really should clean the tub that the kids bathe in. It’s a jetted tub, totally unnecessary and yet totally in need of a cleaning. We filled it up with bleach water, turned on the jets and walked away. After a bit, we drained the thing, refilled it, turned on the jets and walked away. At some point in the cleaning process a jet decided it had had enough and exploded sending water under the tub, through the ceiling below (which coincidently is the Master bedroom ceiling), onto the carpet below and seeped into the crawl space. We were totally unaware and would have remained so for many days (we are sleeping in the guest bedroom upstairs until we get bedroom furniture) except that my husband needed a ‘fancy’ shirt for work and headed to the master closet. I didn’t know when we bought our dream house that it was a fixer-upper.

For the last three days I have been waiting impatiently for different experts to come and give an estimate or assess damages or fix what turns out to be an unfixable bathtub. They all promise an arrival between the hours of crack of dawn and naptime but manage to come by dinner which is great except that I have two very stir crazy in need of stimulation at all times children who at this point want to get out of the house. We have all had enough. I show my frustration by drinking more coca cola classic. Rosie cuddles (stranger danger in full effect). The Kraken takes a slightly different approach.

The Kraken to the Insurance Agent assessing what his company will and will not pay for: Avast you Scurvy Dog!

Insurance Agent: Are you a pirate?

The Kraken: Arrrrrg. You will walk the plank, matey!

Insurance Agent to me: That’s a spirited boy you have.

You think?

Sass

There is a bit of Diva in my little girl (that much we knew). There is also a heap load of sass. Where she gets either is beyond me. I am the most even tempered, respectful, kind and helpful person on the planet. (This is going to be my husband’s favorite blog.)

Rosie likes to build towers and then climb them. The last couple months a good “no, Rosie” would suffice to stop the danger and have her climb down and move onto the next activity. Yesterday however she built a tower with a drum and a small cooler, climbed on top and barely flinched when I said, “no, no Rosie.” She turned her little face to me, smiled her devilish grin and began to dance, Rockette style, on top of her tippy creation. Sass.

Today Rosie decided to scale the outside of the staircase complete with a turn. Where was mommy? The Kraken was with his Yaya and I naively thought I could sit for three seconds on the couch while The Siren had free rein of the living room. After a short silence that could only mean danger was brewing, I got off the sofa to find Rosie clinging to the banister two steps above my head. She turned to look me straight in the eye and gave me the raspberries. Sass.

Daddy was out at some swanky restaurant for a business dinner so I passive aggressively took the kids to their favorite pizza joint to score some cool mommy points. Naturally we ran out of pizza, (I prefer to call us good eaters and not pigs). Both children noticed this fact, but it was The Siren who took her half eaten slice, offered it to The Kraken with an adorable ‘here go’ and then pulled it back to her mouth once he started to reach for the piece. Then she looked to the sky a cackled a crazy laugh. Sass.

The Kraken learned paybacks are hell. I learned the teen years are going to be hell. But hey, we already knew that didn’t we?

Bang Up Car

My husband likes cars. That may be the biggest understatement of the year. Usually when the passenger of my car gasps, I assume I am about to be struck by an oncoming vehicle or I’m about to strike a pedestrian or Jesus has returned and can be seen coming on the clouds. When my husband gasps however, it’s because some fantastically overpriced magic on wheels has caught his eye. Some wonderful piece of mechanical engineering lives a few houses down from us, and he shrieks with glee every time he sees it, every time. Miss Practicality, otherwise known as this beloved author, doesn’t get it. That may be the second biggest understatement of the year. I need something safe, large enough to carry groceries and a stroller and get me reliably from point A to point B. That’s it. The end.

My son, mini-man, is following in his father’s footsteps in this area. He can point out a ‘racecar’ at 20 paces, oohs and ahs at fast cars and has already selected his future car of choice. “When I get big big big I will buy an orange Mustang no have top on it.” And yes, he knows exactly what he is saying. This has been the car of choice for many months, even though, I admit, I have been throwing other choices out there when opportunity arises, just to test his resolve. “NO, momma. Orange Mustang no have top on it.” At least he isn’t pining for a Lamborghini, which coincidently was my dear husband’s dream car when he was three.

So imagine my surprise when on the way to church he announces he is going to buy a ‘bang up’ car. Naturally my first question was if this was to replace the Mustang. To which he replied, “Of course not momma. That’s a silly question. Still have my Mustang.” Oh, right. Sorry. So what exactly is a ‘bang up’ car you wonder, “A bang up car is a really really old car I can smash with a hammer.” We never really got to the bottom of why exactly he needed both a flashy racecar and literally an old beater because a red Porsche decided to cruise by, which did not go unnoticed by The Kraken. There’s no talking to them in the car trance state, and so I drove on.

Color Induced Sleep

In case this is your first foray into the world of The Kraken, or you live under a rock, my son is a bit, uh, high energy. My world revolves around the daily pursuit of exhausting activities. Like all good mothers, I occasionally throw the ABCs into the mix or have him count to 180 during his 3 minute timeout, (The Kraken shall be educated), but in general I am always on the lookout for feats of physical daring. Typically, I succeed only in tiring out my already exhausted self.

And then suddenly out of nowhere my fantastical brain decided to kick in and make a suggestion. Hooray! Let’s use the power of color to soothe and calm the beast. And so I embarked on a quest to find the most calming color palette for a three year old boy’s room. Something so peaceful he would have no choice but to slip into a state of quiet for at least 10 hours.

I packed up the family and drove to the paint store with every intention of buying sleepy green or daydream blue or puffy cloud white but instead bought something much different. You see, I made the classic blunder. I asked my son what he thought his room should look like. He flashed a crooked little smile, tipped his head, accentuated that one dimple and told me.

And I caved.

The Kraken’s room is now orange. Bright orange. Okay so not really. Only two walls are orange. I’m not that stupid. The other two walls have two large racing stripes with either a green or orange stripe running through the center. And while it is possible this room is bright enough to keep the entire neighborhood awake, when he saw the finished product I got a, “Oh. My. Gosh. Thanks Mommy. This so awesome.” And that is totally worth it.

Who needs sleep anyway?

Nature or Nurture

I’m not much of a girl really. I own two purses, neither of which I ever carry. If I have to wear shoes, they are $2 flip flops. The fanciest pair of shoes I own were donated to me from a much more stylish sister that I have. I only wear makeup to my husband’s work functions and seldom pluck my eyebrows unless a sister gets married. My cell phone has been nonfunctional for 4 days now and frankly I could care less. I like sports and danger and outdoor activities and, alright I admit, the occasional sparkly thing. But overall, I am missing most of the girly genes.

That brings up this little thing I created, Rosie B. I’m pretty certain she is mine. I was there that morning when she made her appearance, albeit fashionably late. This little princess is a girly girl. Each morning while I am making breakfast, she picks out which shoes she will wear, most often her yellow jelly shoes, and locates her bucket which serves as a purse. Once slung over her shoulder, she is ready to venture into the world. Oh, wait, her hair needs a bit of a combing and a hair bow. Ready. It’s all pretty cute really, even if she didn’t get any of that from watching me.

I feel I should also admit there is a smidge of drama in Rosie’s life. Okay, perhaps more than a smidge. She has the ability to melt at the touch of a button, or the stealing of a toy, or the too slowly prepared lunch, or the end of playtime, or the slightest eastwardly breeze, or the sticking to her butt of a diaper. Who knows? Drama. Drama. Drama.

I do sometimes wish I could deal with my problems the same way my beautiful daughter deals with hers. When the grocery store is out of milk for instance, I wish it would be perfectly acceptable for me to throw myself to my knees and cry out for mercy. And if Krispy Kreme sells the last sprinkled doughnut to the lady in front of me, and I feel it necessary to flail like a fish face down on the ground, I should be entitled to that. No stares from the other patrons please. Because you know if your favorite glazed treat was unattainable, you would flop from your face to your back and keep thrashing just for good measure too.

Hmmm. Perhaps I passed a bit more girly genetic material on to Miss Priss than I first anticipated . . .

'A' for Effort

Every mother at some point wishes she had the ability to hover daintily over a public toilet, quickly finish her business, and gracefully rezip her mom jeans all without peeing on herself or the beautiful infant/toddler she is holding. If this activity necessitated a bit less acrobatic skill, life would be a bit more carefree.

I admit I never really gave much thought about a father’s feelings on the matter. Point and shoot, how hard can that be? When traveling as a family, my husband is usually in charge of taking The Kraken to the potty. Recently, on a very long car ride, my son announced that he had to go poopy really badly. “Emergency Stop!” he wailed. I pulled off the highway at a fast food joint; my husband whisked my son out of his car seat and ran him inside. He didn’t feel there was time to put his shoes on.

While The Kraken did the deed, my husband’s coffee suddenly kicked in. And now he was faced with a dilemma . . . hold his son, hold his bowel movement or set my boy down on the ground barefoot. If I’m honest, I would bet most men would set their kid on the ground and quickly hose his feet down in the sink on the way out the door. Am I right? What my man decided to do, possibly knowing the magnitude of the freak-out coming his way if he chose a previously mentioned method, was to delicately balance my son on his shoulders while he popped a squat. I give an ‘A’ for effort and cleanliness. Way to go honey.

He said The Kraken only very nearly fell off and into the toilet once. Perhaps a statistic I could have lived without.