M.A.W.B. Squad

Fartopia

I never had a brother to prepare me for having a husband. As they say, misery loves farting company:

My husband, at the mature age of 43, still thinks farting is the funniest thing in the universe. After he lets one out, he can't help but grin gleefully at himself and the foul odor his body has produced. It is like a sense of pride. "*I* made the cat's fur blow off with my fart," that grin seems to say. "*I* destroyed all the oxygen in the room with my ass alone."

(Via 2Blowhards)

Nice to know my husband is not a disgusting aberration (pick one).

REGURGITATION

Who am I to buck a blogmeme?

The eight year old has thrown up four times so far this morning. Unlike St. Kate's household, we don't have canine help with the clean up work, but the eight year old is extremely adept at throwing up in the designated Throw Up Bowl (except that we weren't able to get it fast enough when the first bout hit). She is so professional about it that she can throw up neatly into the bowl while keeping her eyes on her favorite cartoons at the same time.

I'm so proud of her. But I wish, for her sake and ours, that the opportunity to demonstrate her vomiting prowess ends soon.

I'm guessing anyone who has read this far agrees. And hopes there will not be a recurrence,

Speaking the Truth

I've never seen a smiling face that was not beautiful. - Author Unknown

Yes. I'm Losing It. Why Do You Ask?

"Time to get up for school!", I yelled up the stairs.

There was no reply.  Unusual for the Boy.  He's got "up bright and shiny in the morning" genes from the PiC's side of the family, (in contrast to my "good for nothing before noon" variety.)  So, in another minute or two, I tried again.

An answer came down the stairs out of the darkness.  "Mom, it's 3:45 AM."

Oh my. 

It was a struggle, but I refocused my eyes on the living room clock.  Sure enough.  It said 3:45 AM.  "Sorry, hon'.  Go back to sleep."

In some half awake twilight, I was convinced it was 6:30.

Yeah, I've been burning the candle at both ends.  Projects and paperwork are piling up.  I guess my body became accustomed to a couple hours of sleep a night this week.  So, it was easy to confuse getting up to go to the bathroom with getting up because the alarm went off.

At least he'll have entertaining stories to tell his friends.  Whispered confidentially, "You know, my Mom is a psycho."  Fodder to share with a future therapist.

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Cheery, eh?  We need to figure out today how big a check we have to write to appease the Tax Demons.  (As long as you send them beaucoop cash, they really don't care if you don't turn in your forms until next fall.)  So, don't be expecting much of me, OK?    I'm tapped out.  I've got nothing for you.  Just thought you should know.

Be happy I didn't show up at your house at 3:45 AM and try to roust you out of bed for the day.

IN THE SPRING A YOUNG CHILD'S FANCY LIGHTLY TURNS TO THOUGHTS OF BATHING SUITS

Minnesota is blessed with many clothes-showdown days: cold, snowy or rainy bleak weather days that make the youngun's spontaneously crave the bare-skin feeling of hot weather clothing while their parents are still reaching for the mittens. Yesterday was one (today is too), but M.A.W.B.er St. Kate wisely backed down and let her son wear shorts.

In the sleep-deprived days after my youngest was born, I was not so wise. One morning I had a knock-down drag-out screaming and crying fight with the seven year old who insisted on wearing a dress to day care despite the sub-zero temperatures of January in Minnesota. A Minnesota day care which, in the interests of raising hardy children (and keeping its staff sane), sends the children outside to play twice a day no matter what the weather (I think they might make an exception for lightning storms). I  demanded she wear the pants/turtleneck and sweater combo I had picked out. Not only appropriate to the weather, but tasteful to boot. As the volume increased, she grudgingly consented to wear pants underneath her dress, but that was her final offer.

My only excuse is that I only had two or maybe three awake and functioning synapses that morning.  I kept clinging dully to some stupid child care principal I had read in some inane magazine about how to raise kids. Must. Be. Consistent. It took at least twenty minutes for the thought that this was a dumb fight to penetrate my fog and another ten to figure out a face-saving way to back down.

I promised myself that day never to fight about clothing again. (Ed. Hah! Just wait until she's a teenager ...) And I've kept my promise. My favorite outfit so far is the one she donned for a family expedition to shop for a couch: Raggedy pink tutu worn over a jumper (sewn by my grandmother who couldn't see very well so the seams were all akilter), rubber duck boots and an Easter rabbit ears headband.

Now that's fashionable.

Feathered Friend

This Great Grey Owl has been hunting off our fenceposts for at least the last week, with the Boy and my camera in hot pursuit.  After many tries, he got a decent shot of him. (Click for larger image.)

Apparently we're at the southern edge of his usual habitat.  I've no doubt he's well fed off the local rodent population, and I heartily wish him Bon Appetit!

Someone Has to Be the Mom

Conversation on the phone this morning with the Girl's best friend, we'll call her Ray, whom I love as if she were my own, regarding her brother's wedding today.

Ray:  I'm not going.
Me:  No.  You are going.
Ray:  I don't want to see him make a mistake.
Me:  He drove three states away to pick you up.
Ray:  I know.
Me:  He loves you and would do anything for you.
Ray:  I know.
Me:  You're acting like a baby.  I want you to act like a young adult.
Ray:  I know.
Me:  No more "baby-itis".  You're going to act like a young adult and go to his wedding if I have to come over there and drag you with me.
Ray:  O.K.
Me:  You know I'll do it.
Ray:  I know you will.  I guess I'm going.

Sometimes being "The Mom" has nothing to do with who you gave birth to.  Love you Ray!

Blueberry Cream Cheese Stuffed Baked French Toast?

The Boy's youth group brings egg dishes for Easter breakfast, then uses any donations for their activities.  One problem.  The Girl doesn't eat eggs.  I'm sure she's not the only kid that doesn't.  This is our first year to bring food, so I'm thinking Blueberry Cream Cheese Stuffed Baked French Toast.  We had it at a bed and breakfast once, and it was good.  Has anyone else ever made it?  Have a favorite recipe?  I'm thinking this one because there's no maple syrup in it, no sauce to make, and it sounds like it makes a bunch.  But I'm thinking there could be more cream cheese.  More cream cheese is always good as a rule, don't you think?

I can't wait for the battle to make the Boy help me make it.  It's not my youth group, after all.

Another Happy Occasion

Yesterday was her birthday, and today she announces her engagement.  If she posts tomorrow that she got a big job promotion, I'm going to start to be suspicious that it's a nefarious plot to generate hits for the Power Liberal.

All kidding aside, sincere best wishes to Rew and Smartie!

Host a Blogger for Easter Dinner?

Becket, a 19 year old male, blogger at Peace In Our Time, who is studying at the U of M with a major in history is hoping for a homemade Easter dinner, since his family is far, far away.  Can we find a cities blogger who has an extra chair at the table for him?