Monday, January 28, 2013

Balls

Wow. Ok. So Landon, our two year old, is completely insane.
 
Not, like, all day, or anything, but when he is tired watch out.
 
No seriously, WATCH OUT, because he is chucking whatever is within reach at your head. iPhone, coffee mug, tv remote, noodles, whatever. Or he will punch you in the mouth. Or kick you in the leg. He has these uncontrollable outbursts. It's bizarre. It's not malicious or anything, either. He commits an unspeakable act of physical assault and then sooooo sweetly smiles until his cheeks get really squishy and I want to kiss them so hard that his head falls off. It really screws with my emotions and I don't have the energy for any more confusion in my life. 
 
I just don't know. Maybe it's because he doesn't talk so much and he's trying to alert the world of his sleepiness in those moments? I mean, sure, he has had a handful of frustrating tantrums like any other toddler, and for those, I can find solice and advice in the countless number of books and forums and blogs on the topic. Unfortunately I have yet to find a book titled,
 
"The Terrible Twos-
How To Deal With a Toddler Who Throws Shit When He's Tired"
 
by Dr. Haha Goodluckwiththat
 
We went to dinner a couple nights ago with my in-laws. Our dining experience ended up lasting much longer than I had anticipated, so, naturally, the kids were starting to unravel. Landon is tired, and this is of course, when the butter knives and pieces of ice and crayons begin to fly.  I frantically clear everything in his surrounding area, and because I am sitting next to him, I am wolfing down my salad so the waiter could clear my plate before Landon could attempt to reinact a Greek wedding. I quickly pounded my beer too because, well, because I really wanted to, and children stress me out. So, there he is, sitting at the head of the table, nothing left to destroy, kinda looking around scanning the area for his next attack, and it's at that moment, when Avery and her grandma return from the little toy vending machine which is placed by the restuarant's bathrooms. And because she's sweet and adorable and trying to destroy me, Avery hands Landon his newest weapon- a green rubber bouncy ball.
 
I know it's over. This is the point of the evening where I was aware that my only option was to remove the child from the public place because he was absolutely intent on hurling that ball no matter what. I mean, what better to fling than a ball! I snapped him out of his high chair in an attempt to flee the scene before that rubber bomb left his fingertips, but he lauched that little green missile across the sea of innocent diners anyway. I scrambled to find it, retreived it from under someone else's table, offered about a hundred 'I'm soooo sorry's to patrons and waitresses alike, then because of the magnitude and volume of Landon's opposition to me keeping the ball in my possession, I give it back to him, praying I could sprint to the car fast enough to keep it contained. I've got Landon on my hip and I'm running to the exit. He throws the emerald grenade again. I'm sprinting now, through the parking lot, dodging traffic, chasing the stuuuuupid ball which Landon has made clear he cannot live without, and everytime it hits the pavement to bounce, it changes direction, making my task that much more difficult. I track the thing down which has thankfully been haulted by a car's tire, angrily shove my son in his car seat, fucking gladly strap him down, and wait for the other half of my family to join me so we can go home and I can put this nutcase to bed.

We get home, and I immediately begin to run a bath for the kids. Landon is throwing the ball at everything. At the walls, at the floor, at his sister. I grab him, slide open the tub's glass door and dump him in the bathtub, desperately trying to get him to a place where he is clean enough to put to bed, all while he is still clutching the plaything that is ruining my life at the moment. He can tell I am irritated, and in his progressed state of sleepiness, he is irritated that I'm irritated too. He scowls, gives me an 'I'm comin' for ya' look, and begins to pull his throwing arm back to build up speed for the green rubber torpedo he's about to shoot at my face. At that moment, I promptly slide the tub's glass door shut to protect myself. And in the most amazing turn of events ever, my son thrusts the ball, the goddamn thing hits the glass, bounces, then whacks little Lan right between the eyes. It was, sad to say, unbelievably gratifying. Is that bad?

Then TONIGHT! Troy was rolling around on our bedroom floor with the kids, throwing them in the air, balancing them on one hand, and the like. He refers to it as Cirque Du Troy-leil because he's so freaking weird, and while he was lying on his back, bench pressing my daughter, our ready-for-bed son socked my unexpecting husband dead in the balls. And it knocked him OUT. I took a picture because he laid like this for ten minutes and mumbled, into the carpet, the most hysterical slew of immense pain-induced verbage of all time.

"It's like he snapped it with a ruler."
"Oh god, I can feel it in my butthole."
"That was like fully... full on... [unintelligible]"
"I don't even know if they're still attached."
And my favorite,
"I'm halfway between throwing up and diarrhea."

Huh. What is with me finding such unmatched joy in the physical pain of my loved ones lately? Kinda concerning. Must need a vacation... oh wait! FOUR DAYS!


BYEBYE



 
 
 
 

Friday, January 25, 2013

Marriage is like a banana

I've been thinking about marriage lately.

 Troy and I are a few weeks shy of our five year anniversary, so, because I have no life, today I've been trying to come up with a marriage-y quote to take with me as the years pass. And maybe to have just in case I ever go into the bumper sticker business. Anywho, what I've come up with may have something to do with my refusal to partake in any carb-related activities with our impending Mexico vacay, and it defintiely has everything to do with what happened this morning, but, nevertheless, I've decided on the following:
 
 "Marriage is like a banana. The longer it ripens, the sweeter it gets. Then it gets really dark and disgusting and it's gross."

If I had had a naughty dream about a celebrity when Troy and I had been dating, say, I probably wouldn't have even revealed my nighttime tryst for fear of offending my troyfriend at the time. I would have locked it in a vault, and reprimanded myself for such an inappropriate subconscious romp. I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by admitting that I so flippantly and promisuously thought of another man. It just wouldn't be nice.

Then you get married.
The idea of offending your significant other in seemingly small ways gets a little sillier as each day passes. The banana starts to get a little softer. (Stop it. This analogy is working in all sorts of directions now... I like it...) "Til death do you part," right? No one is going anywhere (fingers crossed)- what's an uncontrollable dream here and there, ya know? So, if presented with a similar x-rated dream situation, after the first year of marriage, maybe I'd feel comfortable enough to reveal the taboo dream to my husband. And he would respond with something like, "...Aw babe. Don't have dreams about other men. It makes me sad. You still love me, don't you?" Sad. Poor Troy...But, in reality, that's a good reaction! That means that there's a little healthy fear that exists that maybe someone might swoop up on his valuable spouse. It keeps you on your toes, one might say. It's the "sweet" part of the banana analogy.

But then even more time passes. Things happen. Maybe your husband watched you get so immensely swollen with child that the inner thigh section of your leggings actually began to disintegrate from such intense, high-heat rubbing. Maybe he watched you birth a living eight pound hair-covered thing out of your crotch - twice. Or perhaps he witnessed you half naked, post-baby fat rolls cascading down your front, as your gigantic baby-induced African tribal nipples are sucked and pulled and squeezed in and out of a milk-pumping machine. He may have even seen you black out and eat fourteen pounds of raw cookie dough after three months of hardcore dieting.... Or drink way too much and/or seen you scream so psychotically at his children that one of your eyes twitched and the other eye bulged out of your head simultaneously. This is clearly symbolic of the darkened banana. So dark. Scary, really.
 
Needless to say, marriage continues, years fly, that banana continues to ripen, and the thought of one's betrothed wife taking on a celebrity dream lover isn't so threatening anymore, let alone realistic. Because, let's face it, where at one point I may have been a glowing, mysterious, Greek goddess to Troy, I am now that one mom who is, like, always hanging around, and has been wearing the same work-out clothes for 36 hours. The self-consciousness and jealousies that may have made themselves known earlier in the relationship are much more scarce. And that's why this morning, while lying in bed, I call out to my husband who is in the bathroom getting ready for work, and the following progresses:  

 "Oh my god. I totally had a dream about Gavin DeGraw."

Then I started to dig. I wanted to get a response... make sure that  that "healthy fear" was still alive and well in my husband, I wanted get a read on the state of our banana, if you will,

 "...AND he totally wanted me, and if it wasn't for Landon waking me up 379 times we were totally going to get it on. Like... HARD."

Troy  pauses. I think, "Shit. Here we go. I went too far..." I feel bad. I wait a couple more seconds. Is he crying?! Why isn't he answering me. Now I feel really REALLY bad. Should I say something? I should say something. I'll tell him I was just kidding. Yeah, that's what I'll do. I take a breath to speak, open my mouth, then from around the bathroom's wall I hear, "Hey babe...? Come here and get this pimple on my butt, will ya?"

Wait.
What?

In his defense, he was very appreciative of my help ("...thanks so much, now I'll be able to sit down today...") and he DID make a comment that Gavin DeGraw surely has pimples on his ass too. I don't know how he knows that, but he seemed pretty confident about it. Point is, we haven't even reached the five year mark yet. What's next?  After ten years of marriage, I press him with a, "TROY! Zac Efron just dream-railed the shit out of me!," and he responds with what...? What could possibly be worse than the butt thing? The banana is so gross already, ya know?

I'm freaked out. It's just... I don't know... there's just SO much marriage left.

And it's bananas.
 
Marriage is bananas.

That's actually a way better bumper sticker, I'm going to have to remember that.



The moral of the story is don't tell your husbands your raunchy dreams anddddd ONE WEEK TIL MEXICO BETCHESSSS! 

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Target.

 
I feel like this mysterious emporium deserves it's very own post.

I am perplexed by Target. Something is just not right about that place. If I were to make a guess, I'd say that there is an evil mastermind in every store, hidden and sitting behind a massive control board.  And I'd be willing to bet that that control board has the ability to completely overcome anyone who walks through those ominous front sliding doors. Like, some sort of beam scans your brain upon entry and, in response, the Target patron is no longer in control of his/her own thinking or decisions.

  The more I think about it, the more this makes sense. I mean, truly, as soon as we walk in, I am certain some sort of mischievous wizard behind a closed curtain lets out an awful, mean, sadistic laugh and flips on some sort of switch which immediately tricks my kids into thinking that their cute little bodies are covered in fire-breathing vampire spider-ants and they are left no option but to frantically run through the aisles. Then he flips yet another switch and my helpless children, at that moment, wholeheartedly believe that if they do not have each and every toy, crayon, and fruit snack on each and every shelf they will die a slow painful death. So there they are, my seemingly bewitched and hypnotized kids, ferociously grabbing at every shiny package while sprinting and screaming and twitching and ripping off their skin as their hair turns into snakes and they shoot lasers out of their eyes. Or something.

That said, I am actually not allowed to shop there. Because, in all reality, what really REALLY happens is, at some point, between the front door and the checkout line, lies an invisible black hole/vortex where the prices of items, once combined at the magical register, somehow equal 700% of their ticketed price. Or like, I black out and buy things that, not only, do I not need, but I don't even remember purchasing. I go in for band-aids and toilet paper, let's say. In a foggy mysterious haze, after I fill my cart with what I thought I needed, I  then walk up to the register, blankly hand over my American Express to the warlock-cashier and she informs me that my total is $180. I spend the entire drive home horrified and confused, my inner monologue going something like, "but $5 plus $18 equals $23! I just... I don't...???," then I get home to unveil a new bathing suit, cat food, and thirty-seven dish towels. I don't even have a cat! It's a dangerous place. Stay away. I'm serious!

Anyway, back to the kids. Yesterday I went to the store that shall remain unnamed. I had run out of paper towels and Lysol due to the plague that had dismembered my family this whole week, and I didn't have the strength for Costco (which is a store capable of a whole different, and even more dangerous level of brainwashing trickery). Avery wanted a toy, but I refused to get her one because she was being an asshole. What? She was! She did the whole "you're a bad mommy!!!!!!" thing to me again after I wouldn't vouch for the princess bubble bath that makes her break out in hives. She was vehemently refusing to walk, and at one point scurried off, then pretended that I left her in the cleaning supplies aisle, dramatically wailing, "My mommy left meeee!!!" It was mean.
 
So. Yeah, no toy. And thanks to a combination of a miserably ill four year old and the brain control wizardry overtaking my daughter at the moment, she would not budge on this damn toy. She couldn't just let it go. She didn't even know what kind of toy she so desperately wanted! And she whined. The whole time. She wanted the toy while we were in the pet aisle. She wanted the toy as we passed the greeting cards and the make-up and the tampons. She wanted a toy especially bad in the checkout aisle, because the certainty of my anti-toy stance was becoming evermore apparent at that point. People stared and rolled their eyes as my daughter chanted, "I want a toy! I want a toy! I want a toy!," over and over and over while I ignored and ignored and ignored.  And after I emptied my checking account on godknowswhat, she needed to pee, still shout-whining her toy-obsessed mantra from the toilet stall. This is the moment where I decided I'd reach for my iPhone and start video taping her lunacy because I needed something to show CPS when they asked me why I "did it".

So I have it all recorded. Like I'm going to ever be at a place in my life where I sigh, kick my feet up, and say to myself, "Hey. It's been a while since I've seen a tantrum. Let me pull up that old Target meltdown thing again. That's tantrum gold, right there."

In her defense, as I mentioned, she had the flu. She complained of a stomach ache all day, and since I wasn't feeling too hot myself, I suggested we go out for dinner. At the restaurant, waiting for our table, Avery became very still, and said very calmly, "Oh my gosh! I'm starting to throw up!," At that, I took her by the hand, and led her to the bathroom where she very cleanly puked in the toilet. Her aim was perfect, and I held her hair back like we were just a couple girlfriends getting wasted at a frat party. Only difference was she had the flu.

 I still got wasted though. It's been quite the week.
 
 
 

Friday, January 18, 2013

Just the mountains and me.

Avery. My sweet, caring, expressive, giving, brilliant, sensitive, hilarious and stunningly beautiful daughter. She is heart of my soul and my love for her is unfathomable.

Landon. The cutest, smiliest, handsomest, silliest, most adorable little boy who ever lived. He has given me more joy in his two short years than in all the previous twenty-five combined. I can't take my eyes off of him. He is absolutely darling and my love for him overflows.

Yet, sometimes I find myself gazing out of our windows, picturing myself sprinting up the sweeping desert mountains behind my home, by myself, never to be heard from or seen ever again. In my mind, I'm running and running and running and just keep going as far as my body will take me. It's just so quiet. No more questions or requests. No more demands or complaints. No more noise. Just the mountains and me.

Last night was top five hardest ever. Maybe top three. Actually, yesterday all together was a tough one. Usually the first day of my period is, but on this particular day, my unpredictable emotions keep me weeping and wailing. And with my frustration at an absolute peak, my brain threw a Why-Me themed raging pity party all day long.

So, I'm an internal mess. And quite frankly, a mess in the literal sense as well. I am notorious for ocean-sized periods. Red Sea maybe? Too far? Regardless, it's insane. I actually opened my bathroom cabinet yesterday to find that one of my tampons was missing, and in its place was it's empty wrapper instead. One might speculate that my two-year-old may have been fiddling around with what he thought were funny little plastic sticks and misplaced the thing, but I'd be willing to bet that that lil tampon knew what he was in for and was like, "I'm gettin da fuq outta here!" Then jumped out the window, little string flapping in the wind, while he ran straight for the very hills that have caught my eye so many times.

Anyway, I took Avery to a miserable dance class yesterday. Let's just say I may or may not have sobbed the entire way home, completely blanketed by embarrassment and frustration. We'll just say that may or may not have happened.
 
Eventually, we made it home and I made a delicious dinner through misty, blinking eyes. And as with all my most delicious meals, no one ate one bite of it. With that, I cleaned the kitchen, did some laundry, gave the kids a bath, then complied with Avery's request to turn on a movie before bed. The Grinch. Humph. What's his problem, right? I give the kids their respective drinks at that point. Avery, chocolate milk, and Landon, strawberry milk.

"The quiet before the storm," as they say.
 
Within ten minutes of the movie, Landon unexpectedly vomits every ounce what seemed like 135 gallons of strawberry milk onto everything. Everywhere. It's on the carpet and in the crevices of our coffee table. It's filled the pilot's seat of Landon's little toy plane like a tiny soup bowl filled with pink, chunky bile. It's slimy and sour. The smell is unbearable. I sopped and wiped and disinfected and vacuumed until my back ached and I felt satisfied. I convinced myself and my husband "it is NOT the stomach flu"... maybe he choked on his finger or drank the milk too fast? He was fine a minute ago! Plus, if there was a god, after today's weight, he wouldn't do that to me. I'm a good person.

Eventually, I get the kids to bed. It's over. It's a god damn miracle!! It's over! Sound the alarm! No, don't actually, thanks.

So, I finish yesterday's blog and get to bed at about eleven.

At one in the morning it starts. 
Avery starts screaming. She's losing her shit because her bear fell off the bed. I march in, snap on her light, ready to scold her for her blinding insensitivity and, instead, find my hysterical daughter covered in blood. It's in her hair, smeared across her face and arms and on her fingertips. Her sheets and pillow case are covered. And in my shocked half-asleep haze I try to remember if I had accidentally switched out her teddy bear for razor blades or butcher knives and then concluded that it was a bloody nose. A bad one. It was a blood bath. I tiredly cleaned up her face and limbs and swapped out her covers.
 
Back to bed.
 
About fifteen minutes pass when I hear a gurgling, choking cry emerge from Landon's room. Upon my entry to his room, Landon's head then began to spin completely around while he simultaneously vomitted into every corner of his bedroom. At least that's how I remember it. He was like a water sprinkler and fire hydrant puking hybrid or something. I rushed to assist him, accidently stepping in the ungodly goo, feeling it squish inbetween my toes. Troy appeared (...about fucking time), scooped up little Lanman, then changed him into a fresh pair of pjs, where he then brought him into bed with us, laying him upon a couple towels. And because apparently sleep is for suckers, I take to stripping his bed and crib sheets and bumpers, scooping off the layers of vomit into the toilet, then adding to the mountain of sheets that needed to be set on fire and destroyed in the morning.
 
I toss and turn in my bed, completely grossed out by all the grossness. I feel like I'm the one covered in blood and vomit. Like, my skin is all slippery and goopy or something. And when I actually really awake, I realize that I AM in fact covered in blood. At a glance, it appears as though I have just given birth to fourteen pound triplets and then was immediately shot in the vagina with a rifle and where I then bled out. Needless to say, I am quickly up and scrubbing and blotting and cleaning and changing. In my overtired state, I know I am doing a substandard job, but I will take a shower in a minute, AND I NEED SOME EFFING COFFEE. Like, now. Seriously. I'll choke whoever gets in my way.
 
I eventually venture downstairs, and in the light of the day, I can now see the disgusting mess that is my family. First, I glance at my naseuated husband who looks like he has been held captive and tortured by a gang of bleeding and puking pirates, and then I scan over to the horror film that is my children. Avery's hair is blood-soaked and tangled, her eyes are wired, and she has dried blood smeared across her cheek. And Landon, who's pajamas were NOT changed, contrary to popular belief, is wearing a vomit-stained top, and thanks to what is absolutely without-a-doubt the stomach flu, also looks pale and ill.They are sitting on the couch, blankly watching tv, and I swear to god they could have passed for legitimate zombies at that point. Like, rotting and decaying limbs and all.
 
At this point, I am now exceedingly aware of my need for the longest, hottest, most disinfectionary shower of all time. Then I remember the puke that I stepped in, and can't recall if I actually cleaned in between my toes last night. I looked past my supernaturally listless and revolting children and above and through the window behind them... at the mountains... so.. far... awayyyyy...........
 
Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee End.
 
 
 



Thursday, January 10, 2013

When life gives you lemons...

Literally just needed three lemons.

That's all.

It's about 5:15pm, driving home with my two kids strapped in their respective carseats, at the daily time where exhaustion and hunger between my kids is at it's absolute peak. While I drive, I can feel the tense irritability leave its containment within my kids' little emotionally volatile bodies and begin to wrap its grasp around my throat and swirl around my head. I know I've got myself a couple of ticking time bombs, and still I am contemplating a run to the store.

I'm making Troy and myself each a small piece of salmon and wilted spinach for dinner. Mexico is three weeks away and Troy and I want to look as much like hot, carefree, twenty-seven-year-olds as humanly possible despite the exhaustion-induced black circles under our eyes, Troy's cute new lil beer (Beer?) belly, and my I-might-as-well-get-it-tattooed-across-my-mom-forehead stretch marks. We're proud to be parents and all, but if all goes according to plan, people will be shocked when we inform them of our young children because we look rested and vibrant and our bodies are tight and glistening in the sun. That's the goal.

Maybe a week ago, I would have known I needed the lemons but not risked the imminent dramatic explosion. I would have driven straight home and thrown an apologetic, "Gee, Troy. This dish would have really shined with a touch of lemon juice, but, you know, whatever", if it had not been for a conversation between my dad and husband the Saturday prior that went like this:

My Dad: "... and isn't Sofia a great cook?!"

Troy: "hm." (::Crickets::)

So, off to the store we went.

I prep Avery while parked in the parking lot. While she polishes off my water bottle from the gym earlier that day, I explain that I need one thing only. I ask, beg, and plead for her help. I promise all sorts of rewards and gifts and later bedtimes if she just help me get to the lemons, to the register, and back to the car without a hitch. In response I get absolutely no recognition of what I just proposed, but an, "I WANT MORE WATER!!!" instead. I calmly smile, grit my teeth, and inform her that we are out of water at the moment, but she can have all the water she wants when we return home. At that, she reaches down, scowl-faced, picks up a second empty bottle, and threateningly clutches the two empty water bottles so tightly that they crinkle and pop under the pressure. I imagine if those plastic containers could talk they'd say something like, "Shit bitch! What we do?!" And I don't know why my water bottles are so hostile and inappropriate but, you know, they are.

Anyway, I carry a shoeless two-year-old on my hip and stupidly pass up the shopping carts which would otherwise constrain Landon. I think our venture will be so short, it would be a waste of time. Avery stomps closely behind still clutching those two gangster-ass water bottles, desperately searching for water as if we are in the fucking Sahara desert and she's actually dying of thirst.

Walking into the store, I can see the lemons. At that moment, she spots the germ-infested water fountain which is in the opposite direction. Time stops. We each furrow our brows and shoot a don't-you-dare glare at one another, then the kid darts off. I don't even kinda chase her. Instead, I decide I can get to the lemons and back before she even notices I'm gone. And as always, this plan backfires ,and she instead decides to go for the Oscar with the leading role in the dramatic film, "My Mommy Left Me and Someone Call CPS Now."

Regardless, I'm still going for the lemons. I can see her behind me starting to turn green and about to Hulk smash, but fuck it, I've already made it so far. At this point I'm literally raising a pointed index finger to my head, gesturing a gun, repeatedly fake shooting myself in the head and muttering a colorful array of curse words under my breath. (Best supporting actress nod, anyone?)

I reach the lemons, while furiously swinging my two-year-old back and forth in an attempt to get there as fast as possible. This is the point where Avery starts WAILINGGGGG, " YOU'RE A BAD MOMMY!!! YOU'RE THE WORST MOMMY!!!!!!! IIIIIII DDDOOONNNTTT LLIIIKKKEEE YYOOOUUUU!!!!" across the vast grocery store, filled with what appears to be all the best behaved children and mothers who ever lived on the planet earth.
 
I snatch the lemons, snap around, potentially whip lashing my floppy son, and seeing red, march over to Avery and grab her little bratty arm and drag her towards toward the self-checkout line, all the while enduring threats such as, "I'm going to Brooklyn's house and I'm not going to let you pick me up ever," and the like.

The lemons cost $two-something. I begin to insert my three, dollar bills into the cash collecting machine, and it absolutely will not accept my perfectly flat dollars. I'll gently push the dollar into the slot and it will take it, then spit it out, then flip me off, then sleep with my husband, then ruin my life every time. Avery is still flinging all sorts of insults at me and Landon is losing his mind reaching for the bouncy ball vending machines which some mom-hating asshole put at the far end of the  self checkout line.

Anyway. I finally collected my two sour kids and my three sour lemons and eventually made it home after threatening Avery's life if she ever speak like that to me in public ever again. And as abusive boyfriends always do, she apologized and told me she'd never do it again and told me she loved me and I was her boo for always, or something.

Dinner was delish, and Troy honored my commitment to keeping him healthy by devouring the lemon-soaked (I was getting the most out of those suckers...) meal and plopping himself on the couch where he polished off an entire bag of sour Skittles and drank a lot of beer.

I ate my dinner and used the remaining couple squeezes of lemon in my vodka-soda. 


Monday, January 7, 2013

Weekend Getawayfromme

Spent this past weekend in San Diego.
 
A weekend getaway, you say?
Not with a 4 and 2 year old. A weekend getmehome maybe, or a weekend getmeouttahere, more like.
 
 I mean, sure, I love spending time with my dad, my supercool sister, and especially my darling little 4 foot tall Yiayia, but, there is no such thing as relaxation when a 3-day span includes two 5 1/2 hour drives in which a helpless and undeserving mother and father are imprisoned amongst totally pissed off and uncomfortable insane little people. The rest I can deal with... Truly. The skipped naps, the fighting, the constant neediness of "necessary" things that are unavailable on vacation...  like chocolate milk, or my four-year-old's white and purple-covered bed. I can even handle the four year old that absolutely refuses to take a picture with ANYONE on my father's 60th birthday...


No. It's the drive.
 
It's the volume of the screaming voices of which would be appropriate if maybe I was standing on one mountain top, and my son was standing on a completely different mountain top, signaling me of an impending avalanche . It's the level of urgency in those shrieking voices that may indicate that possibly an asteroid is headed straight for my face and if not for the ambulance-siren-like wailing of those voices, poor mommy would be blown to smithereens. In reality, what warrants these outbursts, is maybe one of them can't get his/her sock off or one of them has dropped a toy into a crevice that is humanly impossible to ever retrieve.  But, yeah, it's that panic that makes me nuts. I can't deal with it. It's why, when we arrived to my dad's, I started groaning the word "ALCOHOLLLL" before I even fully swung my legs out of the contained dramatic whirlwind that was our vehicle and onto the pavement in my dad's garage.

Other than that! It was fun. The kids were actually relatively easy.. I did have a favorite part, however.
 
 My favorite part of our weekend getmesomevodkanow was when, after a mind-blowing breakfast at this Hawaiian gift of a restaurant of which convinced me that God is Hawaiian and he works the Sunday morning shift, we met up with my twin sister on a beautiful San Diego pier. She had to previously stay back and take a conference call because she has a real job and couldn't join us at our euphoric breakfast experience. I guess, keep in mind, before I go any further, that my sister is from LA and is super LA-ish. She's, like, way too cool for you, and you, and you, and DEFINITELY you. For example, she tells my son in the midst of a tantrum to just, "be cool, Landon. Just BE COOL." He just turned two. He literally grunts in response.  Nothing really rocks her from this constant level of collectedness. (Except for if you wake her up, then she is straight. up. satan) Anyway, we're walking on the pier, and she's just kinda really non-chalantly nibbling on this bagel sandwich that my dad ordered and brought along for her and these freaking seagulls started to swarm and conspire around her head while she obliviously strolled along the pier, continuing to standoffishly nosh and act like she was too cool for all bagels. Meanwhile, I swear I could hear the fuckers chanting "Mine! Mine! Mine!", and as they got closer and closer I eventually yelled for fear of her life..., "BECKY!!! The seagulls!!! WATCH OUT!" And as she looked up and observed the gulls within inches of her hair, the look of horror and disgust and fear and, most of all, uncoolness in her face at that moment will likely satisfy me the rest if my life. Her look said, "Fuck cool... H.E.L.P. M.E.", and then one of the dirty ocean birds swooped down and took off with the rest of my sister's uncool breakfast and she just stood there and screamed, "BUT I'M HUNGRYY!!!!!!!!!!"
It was awesome.
 
What's even awesomer is Troy then picking up a scrap of her bagel remains and holding it up for the rest of seagulls as they swarmed around him as if to emulate some sort of bird summoning wizard.
 
Ha.
Oh btw, hiiiiiiiiiiii! I wrote a blog!