You should probably feel bad

I don't know if this is true for everyone, but to me, being told not to feel bad is almost always my first cue that I should probably be feeling badly.

The haircutting lady told me,"Now don't even feel bad about your hairline. Nobody has a perfect hairline!" It actually had not previously occurred to me to feel bad about my hairline. But now I feel bad about my hairline. I still don't even know what's wrong with it.   

I took Sam to the doctor for his unending runny nose and she told me, "Don't feel bad for not bringing him in sooner! Some parents are just a lot more laize-faire!" Well, I didn't feel bad about not bringing him in sooner, because it's a RUNNY NOSE and who brings a kid to the doctor for a runny nose unless it is the unending runny nose that my kids get and then after 4 months of a runny nose I bring them in and now that you mention it, actually, you're right. I'm a really bad parent.

See?  When someone says, "don't feel bad," it automatically means they were sitting there thinking, "Wow, if she's any kind of normal person, she being eaten up with guilt and embarrassment. I'm going to try to calm her down."

Why you asking all dem questions?

Today's title.  It's a thing.  A YouTube thing.  It's a song.  Has nothing to do with children.

Except that it is the soundtrack to my LIFE.

It used to be Sam.  He'd be all, "Why do octopuses have 8 arms?"  "Why do we have to have policemen?"  "What makes a vegetable healthy?"

And these questions?  Drove me crazy.  What do I look like?  An encyclopedia   Is my last name Britannica?  How about "Because.  And Because.  Also Because."  I don't have time to write a dissertation, man, so how about you just go watch some TV?

But Owen has his own special spin.  Things like, "Why are horses purple?"

"What?  They aren't.  I can't tell you why because they aren't."

"You don't know?"

"No, I do know know."

"So why?"

"No, there is no why.  I can't tell you why because your initial statement was untrue.  I can't explain something that isn't actually part of reality."

"It's because it makes them faster, right, mom?"

"No.  Because that doesn't even make any sense.  Even if they were purple, which they aren't, it wouldn't make them any faster."

"Purple horses aren't faster?"

"No.  I mean, again, horses aren't purple, but even if they were, being purple, in and of itself, wouldn't make them any faster."

"Faster than what?"

"What?  I don't know.  You said that.  You brought up faster."

"So they are slower?"

"No.  I mean, not unless you're assuming that because they are purple, these horses are some special type of horse that moves at a different speed, either faster or slower.  Which I don't, because horses aren't purple.  That I know of.  Although probably, someone, somewhere, has dyed a horse purple.  So there has probably, in the history of the world, been a purple horse that was neither faster nor slower than any other horse, at least not in relation to being dyed purple, it would have been that speed beforehand as well."

"All the purple horses died?"

I understand nothing about children.

Owen put his boots on today.  However, unlike the last one hundred and one-eighty-one times, he did not put them on the wrong feet.

"Wook mom!  I put my boots on the right feet!"

"Wow!  You sure did!  Great job Owen!  I'm so proud of you!"  And I'm thinking to myself, "Well that's great.  I was kind of wondering if his brain was backwards there.  But now he knows how to put his boots on!"

Except.

Wait.

"Owen, how do you know that your boots are on the right feet?"

"Because dey are."

"Well, yes.  They are, but how do you know?  Did someone teach you?"

"No.  I just know da rwight foot."

"But . . . if you knew the right foot . . . why were you putting them on the wrong feet all this time?"

"I don't know.  Like a joke, maybe?"

And every time since that morning, he has put his boots on the right feet.  Unlike before, when he was putting his boots on the wrong feet Every.  Blessed.  Time.

So I don't understand what happened there.

Oh my gosh.

I don't think I've been this mad at a kid in YEARS.

At least WEEKS.

I'd had forgotten how hard two-year-olds can be.

Thinking they know some shit.  Thinking that they run this joint or something.

YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, LILLY.  I will tell YOU when it is bedtime.  I will NOT tell you another story because I've told you one hundred and one eighty one ALREADY (still Owen's favorite number) and I've already used up all my imagination.

She started school this week.  She's not being a trooper.  She's upset and hysterical and clingy and aggressive every minute she's not behaving like an angel at school.

It's so hard being two.

Smart phones make stupid people

Smart phones are great, and awesome, and let me be on Facebook all the time, even though I only really have 6 Facebook friends, and one of them is George Takei.

But I drove the whole first day to Florida.  The Whole. First. Day.  That's 12 hours of driving.  I'm not sure that's even been attempted in human history, let alone achieved.  I think they had a parade for me somewhere outside of Charlotte - nothing big, just a marching band and some confetti - but Chris wouldn't know that because he was on his iPhone for the last 4 hours of the day.

Sure, he was ostensibly "finding the hotel" and "checking traffic" and "figuring out dinner," but in the old days (2011), we just kind of figured it out and chatted. Or bickered.  Whatever.  This year, I had to imagine all the snarky things I WASN'T going to say to Chris about being on his smart phone.  I think one may have burst out anyway.  I can't remember.

And plus, I couldn't check Facebook for HOURS.

Hurricane Sandy Devastation

Hurricane Sandy caused a fair amount of damage at our house, but the thing that pisses me off the most, bar none, is that it knocked the lid off the sandbox and now the sand that we worked REALLY EFFING HARD to keep clean and dry is water-logged.

You may have lost your house and car, but MY SANDBOX.

The sand is ruined, and I don't know what to do about a stupid moldy heavy-ass lump of sand.  As evidenced by the previous watery, moldy, sandbox that is still sitting RIGHT NEXT to the new sandbox.  Soon we're just going to have a line of toxic sandboxes across the backyard.

There is no sandbox insurance.

Angry Moms

So I'm being vegan right now, which basically means that I alternate between feeling super hip and like I want to kill you and make you into a hamburger and eat you.  With bacon.

That said, I may be been the teensiest bit grumpy while picking this kids up this evening.  I got Owen first, and on his own, he's pretty chill.  I mean, sometimes he'll get me with his, "Today is the first day of yesterday when it rains, right?  Right, mom?  And it's going to be Christmas next year because of my birthday and you said Lilly was a toddler now, right?  Right, mom?

I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION.  But, yes, right, just shut up or ask logical questions.

And then I picked up Sam and he introduces a level of hysteria that seems unnecessary in a sedan.

But you don't have a complete trifecta until you've added Lilly and her ear-splitting shrieks.

Sam and Owen are SO EXCITED.  I don't know about what.

"Guys?  Can you please stop shouting?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

(That's them, having devolved into purposeless screaming)

"GUYS!  Quiet down!  You're making me a little crazy!"

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH  SHE'S CRAZY!"

"SERIOUSLY STOP SCREAMING SO LOUD!"  Even while I'm doing it, the irony of screaming at people to stop screaming is not lost on me.

And then they LAUGH at me.

As much as I WANT to punch them, I can't while I'm driving.

"Guys, do NOT laugh at me when I am being serious.  It makes me furious."

"It makes you serious?" Owen asks.

"No, she said 'furious,' Sam leans over and whispers, "It's the last level of anger."