Speaking of cake

Had some birthday cake today.  It was good.  I like cake.

It reminded me about how I didn't understand that saying "You can't have your cake and eat it, too" for the LONGEST time.

It made no sense to me.

Isn't it, in fact, totally necessary to have your cake before you eat it?  Is it not a requirement to HAVE some cake before you put it in your mouth?  It's ridiculous! How can you eat cake you don't have?

I did eventually figure it out, and by figure it out, I mean I asked my mom. But she explained it and now we are all on the same page.

But, seriously, wouldn't it have made a lot more sense to just say, "You can't save your cake and eat it too!"

You will like this post or else.

Had a conversation this weekend about the time I told Chris that if he didn't want to get married he had to move out of my house and whether that was an "Ultimatum."

I don't like the term,or at least as it is applied to women who have the audacity to think they have a say in their future rather than just waiting around until the man they love either proposes or they die.

We were in the country with no smart phones working so we were left searching our own brains for a definition, which we though was something like, "you have to do this or else."

But isn't that just, like, life?  Isn't that just every choice you make?

You will buy this cake OR YOU WILL HAVE NO CAKE.

You will do some work OR YOU WILL HAVE NO JOB.

You will do some laundry OR YOU WILL HAVE NO PANTS.

Life is just full of choices, but nobody gets all mad when women make choices.  I think men just get mad when they have to do shit, like put on pants and buy cake.

Also, I looked the the definition of ultimatum - turns out it is more of a "final choice, bad consequences, negotiations hence-forth over" kind of thing.  So I guess I kind of did give him an ultimatum.  But I think I used a kind voice and gentle words.

Take home lesson?  Never have a discussion without a smart phone around.  
 

Frontal lobes are important

You know what separates humans from apes?  Adults from children?  People who have damage to their frontal lobes from people who do not have damage to their frontal lobes?

That's right, frontal lobes.

Which is instrumental in predicting and anticipating the consequences of our actions.

And you know, I'm am human, and I am an adult, and, to my knowledge, my frontal lobe is largely intact.

But I still get sooo surprised when things don't turn out the way I expected.

I just dust-busted a bunch a flies.

I KNOW, great idea, right?

But now I'm horrified that there are all these flies crawling around the clear dust-reservoir of the dust-buster.

Did I think the wind tunnel was going to kill them?  

Whatever.  It's going to be like my own little Hunger Games for flies in there.  With a couple of ants thrown in for variety.  Also hopefully without the part where they revolt and reclaim their culture.

Snakes on the ground

I had to staff an event for work last weekend at the Indians baseball game.  Because it was going to be a long event, Chris agreed to bring the boys and hang out at the game while I worked.

Driving there, he spotted (and snagged), "Like, the fourth best possible parking spot."

This should not imply to anyone that the spot was actually convenient to our destination.

So set out on our journey with heavy boxes and trailing children and it's very hot and super crowded and we've been walking forever.  Chris is in a ZONE.  A leading-the-way, I-WILL-find-you, ZONE.

We get off the elevator that means we are almost there, but it is still crowded and the boxes are still heavy and the children are still trailing.  And in the lobby right in front of the door, I see that someone has left two GIANT stuffed snakes.

Except, no, not stuffed.  Moving.  Real, live, moving, capable-of-eating-a-toddler sized snakes.  Giant Pythons (actual name) from the zoo.

And you know, I wasn't scared of them.  I wasn't scared for my kids.  My first, instant, flash-of-insight thought, was:

"STOP CHRIS FAST NOW OR HE WILL SQUISH THE SNAKES."

Because we all know that Chris would never notice something as inconsequential as two Giant Pythons (one's an albino!) on the ground, right?

Shut Up.

Sam's teacher asked to "talk" to me "for a few minutes" when I was picking the boys up today.

I don't know for sure what my face looked like, but I hope it didn't reflect my strong urge to punch her in the face and run away before she could say some BULLSHIT about MY WONDERFUL SON.

I didn't even know which kid she was talking about yet.  And it was hard for me to start formulating my argument about how WRONG she was since I didn't know what the problem was yet.

So apparently Sam is struggling to handle his frustration in a productive manner at school.

I know!  That's some kind of WRONG BULLCRAP, am I right?  No?  I'm not right?  She's right?  Well.  Whatever.

I still don't want to see her stupid not-knowing-my-kid face talking about my kid like she KNOWS him.

It is almost physically painful to listen to someone who doesn't love your child talk about said child's faults.  Especially without bopping them in the face.

Full disclosure though, Sam can be really irritating.

Electronics and boys and the next 20 years of my life

Ever since he was little and would throw a fit when he had to stop coloring, I've known that Sam sometimes struggles with transitions.

Now take the word "struggles" and multiply it by a million and you have a glimmer of understanding that you can't multiple words, people.

These days, our biggest problem is peeling him forcibly off of the computer.  I always said I wouldn't let the kids have a video game system in the house, and I've held firm on that despite whining.

From Chris.

But then Chris just went and showed the kids they could play games on the computer!  Which it turns out is actually awesome when you want them to be quiet for a while.

But every once in a while I look up from laundry or dishes or reading a magazine on the couch and I realize I should probably, you know, parent for a minute.  So I force Sam and Owen to stop playing This Very Instant even when Owen tells me they have to "compwete dis wevel."

Dude.  If you can't even SAY, "complete this level," you probably shouldn't be completing that level.

When I planned parenthood I believed strongly that I would be a master of providing warnings because I HATED drive-by parenting.

But guys, US Weekly doesn't read itself.


So there is an epic battle with a lot of repeated "I don't WANT to get off the computer!"s and scowl-y eyes and whatnot, and then, five minutes later, he's just noodling around the backyard.  


And I want to yell, "SEE.  I TOLD YOU SO."


But since playing nicely, unlike playing on the computer, is an easily disturbed activity, I leave it alone.        

I'm a runner

So I've been running a bit in the past few months.

Well, technically it might be a heavy shamble, but the point is I put on my running pants and get all sweaty and red in the face. And while it may not be elegant, I'm sure not meandering.

I do walk in the beginning, and then again at the end to "cool down" (because I got tired), but the rest of it is definitely me heaving my body up the street in a bouncy way.

I deliberately choose to go running back in neighborhoods, on paths that avoid any major streets, because I don't want people judging me.

"I think that lady might have a heart attack if she doesn't stop soon."

"Why would somebody that big go jogging? Just eat another snack and get a scooter and call it done."

"Call 911! Somebody must be chasing that fat girl!"

Anyhow, because odds are that if you go outside people will see you, I've run into more than a few of my neighbors.

Some encounters have gone well, like when our rich neighbors were walking and saw me right at the beginning of my run so I probably didn't look like I was going to die.

A few neighbors have seen me head out, starting with my warm-up walk. They all say something about me going "out on a walk." I think it's weird that people would think I would put on running shoes, work out pants and an iPod just to go on a little walk all by myself. But whatever, because at least I still look reasonable (if a little fanatical about my walkies).

But last night, it happened. I ran into an acquaintance while I was on my cool down walk. This is bad because A) I look a sunburned tomato, and B) now that I'm walking the whole encounter is going to take longer.

And don't you know, this chick actually thought I'd just been out for a walk.

Dude, how far did she think I walked? I was impressively red and sweaty.  Like, "do you need CPR?" kind of red and sweaty.

I'm not sure whether I'm more worried that she can't tell the difference between my normal me and my red-sweaty-me, or that she thinks I got my ass kicked that bad by a neighborhood stroll.

Maybe I'm not lazy. Maybe the kids just aren't funny anymore.

Update: Even a year later, the kids are still crazy.  No need to change the name of this blog.  Unless you want to get technical and point out that they aren't babies anymore.  Which, come on.  Nobody likes a nit-picker.  (By the way, have you ever thought about that term at all?  Nit-picking?  OF COURSE nobody would like a nit-picker.  Gross!)  And I'm going to just say that they were crazy when they were babies and call it good.

Anyhow.

We moved Lilly to a toddler bed about a month ago.  And then to a toddler bed mattress on the floor because we decided to class up the joint.  Or else we did it because she is Ridiculous with a capital R.  Seriously, whatever she's been going through for the past few months (we're hoping it is called "Being Two" and not "Becoming Lilly") is no fun at all.

Night time is a nightmare.  She gets all hysterical about being left alone, the door being closed, the light being off, and all kinds of other stuff.  Recently, when she was trying to convince me not to leave, she looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said she was scared.

"Scared of what, Lilly?"

"I scared of the OWL."

"Lilly, owls are nothing to be scared of.  They can't hurt you.  Unless you are a field mouse, in which case watch the heck out." (I didn't actually say that last part.  I've learned though experience that kids don't find me funny.)

"Oh."  She paused.  "I scared of a MONSTER!"

"There's no such thing as monsters, babe.  Don't worry about them.  I've checked your whole room and no monsters."

She got all shifty-eyed, thinking of her next move, and then she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer and said, with a tremor in her voice:

"There is a BAT in my room."

"OH MY GOD Seriously?!  You have bats in your room?!  When?!  That's TERRIFYING, man."