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naptimethoughts

~ livin' the dream.

naptimethoughts

Category Archives: parenting

I Magically Poop Charms

29 Monday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in doll that poops charms, family, funnys, humor, humour, kids tv, life, naptimethoughts, parenting, potty humor

≈ 52 Comments

Tags

shit charm on my childs arm, shit-charm doll, what are we teaching here?

It shits charms into its' diaper for your kid to wear. On her arm.

It shits charms into its’ diaper for your kid to wear. On her arm.

It’s called “Diaper Surprise”, because surprise!! It shits charms for your child to WEAR on her ARM.
There’s a commercial for it.
What are we teaching here? Where is the line between acceptable jewelry and doll shit on my childs’ arm?
I’m finished here. There’s nothing else to say.

This child is wearing a shit-charm bracelet. This is not okay.

This child is wearing a shit-charm bracelet. This is not okay.

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Today in Naptimethoughts

24 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, family, friends, funnys, humor, humour, life, naptimethoughts, parenting, random, Uncategorized

≈ 83 Comments

Tags

Awful parenting moments, That is something I can never unsee., worst things a kid can say to his mother

It’s 6:30 am. I have just woken my son for school. J runs out of his room and says excitedly:

J: “Hey Mom, look at my penis. It’s sticking out like a pencil.”

Ah Jesus. I can’t think of any conversation I’d less like to have at 6:30 in the morning, or ever, for that matter. I turn my head… Nooooo…. And there it is. His little pajama pants are all tented out like a horrible… pencil. He’s right. Ah, Jesus.

Me:  “Okay, J. Ummm, it’s okay, this is normal, don’t worry, it’s okay, (did I already say that?) this happens to all boys. See… while you were asleep last night, all your blood”

J interrupts:

J: “I know all that already Mom, Daddy told me. I just wanted to show it to you. See? It’s cool. It’s like a sword.”

He makes a sound like a light saber and runs back into his room to get dressed.

Me: (I say nothing, because at this point all MY blood has drained from my brain, and I have passed out on my kitchen floor.)

I don’t know how you all live with those things.

 

 

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The Tube

20 Saturday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in beach, family, friends, funnys, humor, humour, life, musings, naptimethoughts, parenting, Uncategorized

≈ 41 Comments

Tags

river tubing, the castaways of the minnow, tubing with kids, when tubing goes all wrong

My apologies for the length of this post. Long day, long post.

Tubing down the Delaware River is a long standing tradition on my side of the family. Laziness is wrought down through the centuries by blood.
It is my specialty.

This year we decided that the kids were finally big enough to learn the subtle and lackadaisical arts of tubing. It was with joy in my heart that I pushed off for Walmart to buy their first tubes for our very special day.

I walked down the river tube aisle, and my eyes were opened to a brave new world of comfort tubing. These new tubes have mesh supports on the bottom (to gently cradle my ass), a back support, AND CUPHOLDERS, because while practicing the fine art of the tube, your laziness quotient skyrockets when you no longer have to hold your own beer. There is simply no comparison to the sad, sack of shit, donuts of yesteryear.

I think I had that one.

I think I had that one.

Of course, I had to own one.

Like mine, but mine has CUPHOLDERS.

My new tube. It has CUPHOLDERS.

I also bought one in camo for the husband (color choices were limited), some little boats for the kids and a new party barge

Party Barge: The boat to which all other tubes tie. It carries the giant cooler where beer, juice boxes, samiches (you don’t eat sandwiches on the river, ye landlubbers, you eat samiches), and snacks reside. Most importantly it carries the keys to the finish car. It’s always a good idea to have transport back to your start point when drunk tired  from a long, hard day of doing absolutely nothing paddling down the river.

We packed everything we’d need for the day, including my prescription hat.
When I was sick last year if you remember that nightmare,  the weird and horrible disease doctor prescribed a sombrero to protect my soft and supple skin. It was immediately dubbed the “prescription hat”.

Sort of like this. Think bigger.

Sort of like this, but it had a wider brim. Think “comedically large pinata”.

So maybe it’s not trendy. Maybe it’s three foot circumference is bothersome and sometimes dangerous… But I took the pom-poms off, and I don’t have a waxed mustache or poncho (anymore), so I wear my prescription hat. I ignore the smarmy comments made by my company, and I keep my soft and supple skin soft and supple. Or pallid and translucent, whatever. I brought it with me.

Since we’re planning to tube down a new part of the river (for everyone), we stopped at the river’s park ranger station (and gift shop) for a river map and some advice. The ranger there was old enough to have been present when the glacier melted, and the river was born, so I figured he might know a good spot to start our three-hour tour.
He said he did and handed me a slip of paper. According to his directions, start was 30 miles away.
Hmmmm…
Since the river is running at approximately .04 mph, that would make our trip…

Fucking long.

I should have known better. This guy was so old he could have been appointed by Teddy Roosevelt himself. His walker was whittled from trees that have since gone extinct, and I’m pretty sure I saw him in the portrait of “Washington Crossing the Delaware” that hung by the register. It’s possible that he used to be a knowledgable ranger (and gift shop attendant). Maybe I should have bought a stuffed beaver or made a donation or something. Maybe you have to grease a few wrinkly cracked palms to get the good directions.

14.99 for correct advice and directions. It's a good deal.

14.99 for correct directions.

After much driving and discussion we stopped, about a third of the way up our thirty mile trek, at a tiny beach that had somehow accommodated five thousand church members and their lunches (which I presumed to be fishes and loaves of bread) on a canoeing trip.

It was a million degrees outside and a trillion percent humidity. Since there were five thousand people on the tiny beach, we had to get ready on the steaming, crackling, asphalt. Halfway through blowing up our tubes, my flip flops melted into the parking lot.
We moved to the grass.
I opened up the kids’ new boats and noticed something strange…

This is not okay.

This is not okay.

Holes. Leg holes. Boats aren’t supposed to have holes; this is widely known. The kids were stoked. Me, not so much. I could only see a screaming child, a missing big toe, blood spurting out the foot like a fountain and a happy snapping turtle. Plus, since there would be blood in the water, and sometimes bull sharks come up freshwater rivers, we would all be eaten and no one would ever know where to find our bodies because I just bought all new tubes. It was motioned and seconded that I lay off the National Geographic Channel for a while.

We made for the river bank, by then I was so sweaty that I had begun my own saltwater inlet. It’s quite possible that our part of the Delaware is now brackish. (Bull sharks like brackish water. Just saying.)
Everyone was concerned about getting past the five thousand Christians to the water with all our gear.
Everyone but me.

Get out of my damneth way, sayeth the tuber.

We all gathered at the river, and then quite unceremoniously, I plowed through that mass of Christian fellowship like a sweaty knife through righteous butter and got us into the water. They parted for me like the Red Sea. I was so ready to cool off in my brandy new palatial yellow tube- with cup holders.
Suck it, canoeing Christians.

John Coleman, is it straight to Hell for me? Or do I get to chill in purgatory for a while.
Just wondering.

The family followed in my wake, and the Church group crashed back together behind us (drowning the Egyptians, of course.).
It’s hot. We pass around the gigantic tube of sunblock and enjoy the river. My niece decides to forgo the sunblock and fry herself to a nice boiled lobster red; on one side.
Amazeballs.
J and K were having a FANTASTIC time. J wanted a little more freedom to paddle around, so I untied him from my tube, intending to tie him to the party barge solo. Unfortunately, his tube came loose from the barge and me entirely.

It all happened in slow motion- I watched helplessly as his rope pulled off the barge. J realized that he was floating away from us into the wide river all on his own, and his little eyes turned to saucers. His mouth agape, his face lost all color— he was petrified. A petrified little face that grew smaller and smaller as the current slowly took him away.

My maternal instincts kicked in.

How I see me.

Me, on my way to rescue my son. Okay, it’s not me, but the sentiment is there.

I was Pamela Anderson on Baywatch. I slid elegantly from my tube into the deep water to rescue him. I began a graceful freestyle swim to retrieve my child while passing tubers quietly took pictures of my prodigious bosom and chilly chesticles. I had not forgotten to shave my armpits. I easily took control of J’s boat and brought it back to the group, where I re-tied him. Then, at my whistle, seabirds gathered underneath my outstretched arms and lifted me gracefully back into my tube, where I enjoyed the rest of my fruity rum concoction while everyone congratulated me on a flawless rescue.

Ahhh… If that were what had really happened.
In all actuality, I was the fat lady who plopped into the river and frantically doggy paddled towards the child with a giant sombrero on her head. I tired quickly from lack of exercise and sheer wet girth, and then took a break before returning to the group with my son and his sad, holey, boat.
I was unaware that my niece had her phone out and had been recording the entire rescue.

Slightly closer to reality.

Slightly closer to reality.

It gets worse.

Once J was securely fastened to the barge, it was time for me to get back in my tube. Since the new tubes I bought for us have a mesh butt and back support, there is no hole. There was no flipping the tube over and coming up through the middle.  I might not have fit through the center of a tube anyhow.
I went to my tube and hopped up onto the mesh middle, my ass hanging over the edge like somebody put the oreos on the bottom shelf. I suddenly found myself underneath a giant yellow umbrella.
This is bad.

Getting back in a tube from deep water isn’t ever easy, but it had been a while and about 100 pounds since I did it last, so it was going to take me a second try. No big whoop. I turned my tube over, mourned the lost contents of my cup holders, and came up out of the water like shamu, this time throwing a leg over to boost my fat ass into my palatial tube, but wondering slightly too late how exactly I would regain my seat; ass side down. I over balanced my weight and I was in the river once again, in my yellow submarine. I heard muffled laughter coming from the other side. I turned my tube over to find everyone laughing.
Was there help from my most dear? My family? Those who are supposed to love me the most?
No.
My husband, my sister, my niece, and my two children, one of whom I had just saved from oblivion were all sitting in their tubes, snacks in hand, making jokes and laughing at my sad ass. Literally.
At this point I noticed that my niece had her phone out and was recording, for all posterity and future family functions, my great efforts to return my ass to it’s throne.
I took a slower approach. I clawed the upper half of my body up onto the tube. My ass told the story in flabby muscles as I tried to turn over. It was not to be.
The people who are supposed to be my support system began shouting useless help from their own tubes.

“Try not to fall in!”
“You weigh more than the tube!”
“Try to pull yourself back up onto the tube!”
“No, you have to turn over to get your butt in the seat.”

Eventually I made it back onto the tube, at which point I was immediately reminded that my lovely niece held several titles from her junior high and high school swimming days, and could have easily have gone after J, saving me much work and embarrassment.

I had forgotten that while in the throes of my Pamela Anderson moment.

Now, here is the point of contention: When I got back from the abyss, to tie J up to the barge and get back in my tube, I stuck my prescription hat on the party barge so I could see better. By the time I got back into my tube… A procedure which I am told may have taken slightly longer than I remember, my prescription hat was lost to the river… Forever.
I am aware that no one liked my prescription hat. It’s ugly, and people are always dodging it’s wide brim, which I’m told I used like a weapon, but I would never have thought any of my companions capable of haticide. To this day there has been no confession, no closure, and no healing. Sigh.

You'll notice the lack of pictures here. They have been confiscated and no one will ever see them. Ever.

You’ll notice the lack of pictures here. They have been confiscated and no one will ever see them. Ever.

The hours had begun to pass. At lunchtime, I explained to my husband that it’s traditional to eat like otters while tubing. Put your samich on your belly and eat “entube”.
Real tubers don’t pull off the river just for lunch. Pshaw.
It was hot. The afternoon sun was bearing down on us. We, the whitest people, from the whitest family, with genes from the whitest country on Earth.
I, perhaps, the whitest of all.

I’m so white, that when I go outside in shorts, it’s recommended that everyone who looks my way use a pinhole projector. Otherwise the glare from my skin could blind them.

I do not tan. I turn lobster red, and then albino white again.
At this point I had slathered myself so totally with sunblock that anyone who touched me would have a half-inch of sun block on their finger for their trouble.
We started to look for our exit.

It had been 3 hours.
Around four hours we began to comment about how slow the river was running.
At five hours we decided to call our little troupe “The Minnow”.
Still nothing to indicate a bridge.

There were another group of tubers on the river with us, we’d seen them multiple times. They were well stocked. Their party barges- they had two- had huge coolers, and plastic bags of varying sizes. They had beers in hand constantly.

When next we passed them I asked where they were headed.
“Dunno,” random tuber said, “when we get tired, we’re going to stop and camp for the night.”
Hmmm… I ask a little more directly.
“Do you know how far it is to the ranger station?”
(Imagine a surprised and awed tone)
“Wow! You’re going all the way down there? You guys are troopers.” I heard a low whistle.
There is silence amongst the Minnow’s crew. We consult the map.
“Where did we start?”
“Where are we now?”
“Jesus the river is slow today”
“How long till we get there?”
“I dunno”
“Me neither.”

At six hours The Crew of the Minnow began to doubt the existence of “The Bridge”
At seven hours, I saw mutiny in their eyes.

We ran out of everything. The children’s teeth were chattering and their little lips were blue because they refused to take their legs out of those stupid leg holes in their boats. My niece had not used a drop of sunblock. She looked like she spent the day in a microwave.

We were approaching 8 hours when a group of sprightly people who had not spent the entire day on the river passed us.

Shiny, happy people laughing– Fuck ’em.

I yelled over to those happy and hydrated people:
“Do you have any idea where we are on the river?”
Lovely woman,  all fresh and cool, (bitch) paddling down the river said:
“Yeah, turtle beach is coming up on the left but if you want to get off there, you’ll have to hurry to get over in time.”
I asked: “How far is the ranger station?”

Another 3 hours.
This is karma, I know it. I’m being repaid for my treatment of God’s children back up at the start.
We all decided very quickly (and unanimously) to get off at turtle beach. Once it was decided, turtle beach came into view. We paddled. We paddled and paddled. We paddled till our arms fell off, and then we used our own detached arms to paddle some more.

Do you know what happens to your equilibrium after 8 hours on the river? The water turns to land, and the land to water. None of us could stand, plus the shore bottom was all muddy and slippery.
We were a red, wrinkled disaster, dehydrated and malnourished, tripping over ourselves in the shallows, over and over, faceplanting like we were all playing dizzy bat, or spin relay, until finally flopping our chapped, disheveled, muddy and broken bodies onto the shore like whales, beaching ourselves to die. People shielded their children’s eyes from the sight of us as we clawed up the sand.

When we finally adjusted to our surroundings we were staring up at the look-out stand of a Young Hot Lifeguard. This was a serious upswing in our current mise en scene.
I took my young and pretty niece with me (granted, right then she was looking kind of like a Life Savers Duo, half Jesus-Someone-please-call-an-ambulance-red and half dead fish white) to beg them to help us get back to the rangers station (and gift shop).

You should have seen it the NEXT day.

You should have seen it the NEXT day.

She smiled real purty like, and they put in a call to the ranger station (and gift shop) regarding a pick up for 4 sad sacks and two children (I think I heard something really quiet about child services). Anyway, they agreed to come.

They didn’t come.

It was agreed that they must have spoken to our old ranger friend from the morning, because it’s entirely possible that he never leaves the gift shop, and instead has simply grown into the ranger station, like that guy in Davy Jones Locker from Pirates of the Caribbean.

The husband called the rangers station (and gift shop) and gave them a talking to, such as he was able, in his zombified state.
It turned out that we should never have put our trust in a hot 16 year old lifeguard who was getting off work in 10 minutes to get the job done.

Finally our rescue came, strangely, in the form of our childhood pastors’ doppelgänger. Coincidence? Hmmmm…

Perhaps I should have confessed my sins.

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Naptimethoughts goes to Back to School Night

19 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, family, life, musings, naptimethoughts, parenting, random, Uncategorized

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

bad grammar, bad schools, bad spelling, bad teachers

This post is not funny. It’s not even remotely funny, so if you’re in the mood for a laugh, I suggest checking out some of my other posts.

I went to my sons’ Back to School Night last night. We couldn’t go last year due to a freak storm, so this was our first, and when we arrived, we were ushered into the Gymnasium with all the other parents. This poster was on the wall:

My back. What, didn't you ask me to tell you?

“My back.” What, gym teacher? You asked me to tell you. I’m just following directions.

It was written by the gym teacher. I tried to give it a pass because it was written by the gym teacher. Oh, how I tried… However, this little nagging voice kept creeping up on me saying:
How long has that been up, Naptimethoughts? How many other staff members have walked by this and looked? Why has it not been corrected? Especially before tonight, when eight bajillion parents, most with college degrees in their pockets (of some variety) would gather in the gymnasium (and sit in highly uncomfortable metal chairs that would force their heads to look directly at that heinous sign) why, oh why, was it not corrected? Why did no one take it down before this evening?

Me. We were sitting in the front row, so you know, I wasn't noticeable or anything while I was fending off that infernal poster.

Me. We were sitting in the front row, so you know, I wasn’t noticeable or anything.

All of those questions were nagging at me while I watched the new principal walk the same little circle, wearing a hole in the shiny, squeaky, gym floor, over and over… It was like a super-extra-giant-box step that may or may not have been in time with his droning– I couldn’t hear. I was busy fending off attacks from that horrible sign. I thought I heard something about the middle school. Why would I care about the middle school? We’re at an elementary school, which lead me back to the sign; these people are teaching my child grammar. Then the PTA started talking. That wouldn’t help me, I never listen to them. It’s all blah, blah, blah, baked goods. Blah, blah, blah, class mom. It’s just blather and hair compared to the very lifelike production of “The Telltale Heart” that The Sign and I played out inside my head.

There are only two conclusions one could draw from this poster:
1. The entire staff gives absolutely no shits, NO SHITS AT ALL, about how they appear to the parents of the children they *profess* to educate.
2. None of them understand the language.

Either of these conclusions provides a highly crappy educational setting for my son.

I tried to curb Mama Bear and bring rational Naptimethoughts back to the table.
We were released to our childrens’ classrooms. Ahhh.. Sweet relief. You shall not pass, grammatically incorrect Gym Rules sign. Surely a first-grade teacher would relieve my angst.

It's a power point. She must have proofread it. I think I'm going to throw up.

It’s a power point. She must have proofread it. I think I’m going to throw up.

Let’s play a game. Let’s play who can find all the errors just on this PAGE. I felt kind of weird taking pictures of her power point while I was sitting in J’s tiny little seat, (my sons’ ass is surprisingly small) at his tiny little desk (which I was cleaning, because my child is a walking disaster area) so I only took the one, but you get the point. Oh, the dangling participles. The sentences ending SQUARELY with prepositions (I don’t think that was this page, but take my word for IT.)
Every week he is tested on a list of spelling words, and if “lose” is ever on the list, I’m going to “loose” it.

This teacher is the woman who, besides myself, will be the most influential adult in my childs’ life this year, and she can’t spell “lose”.
I don’t think I’m asking for all that much. I come from a family of educators. I have a husband who was a teacher for many years, a mother who taught second grade, and a father who was the Dean of a college. I get it. I especially get how ridiculously difficult things are for teachers right now- they are unfairly targeted for pay cuts. Paperwork is dumped upon them until anyone would reach their breaking point. They’re called babysitters — or worse, and they accept it. They work like slaves for their meager pay and quietly go on with their lives with dignity.
Mostly.

This is unacceptable. How about we check out our teachers basic skill set before we move on with piling all that paperwork? How about we make sure a teacher is competent to teach spelling and grammar before we allow him or her unfettered access to my child? Here’s an easy question to start us off:
Are you going to teach my son simple contractions and their usage?
Yes?
Do you understand simple contractions and their usage?

I’m disgusted.

 

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Today in Naptimethoughts

16 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, funnys, humor, humour, kids tv, musings, naptimethoughts, parenting, random, TV reviews, Uncategorized

≈ 46 Comments

Tags

Dora the Explorer, Interesting ways to kill Dora the Explorer, Thoughts on how Dora the Explorer should kick the bucket

If Dora the Explorer were a real person and I saw her on the side of the road bleeding I would step over her body and walk away.

You got nothin' in that backpack that will help you now.

You got nothin’ in that backpack that will help you now.

That is all.

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Today in Haiku

08 Monday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, family, funnys, humor, humour, life, parenting, poetry, potty humor, potty training, Uncategorized

≈ 33 Comments

Tags

poop, poop on the bathroom floor, potty training

Good morning Monday!
K shat on the bathroom floor.
She was so, so close.

She came to me and says "There's poop in the bathroom. On the floor." She neither confirms nor denies that the origin of the poop was her butt.

She came to me and said “There’s poop in the bathroom. On the floor.” She neither confirms nor denies that the origin of the poop was her butt.

She pull down her pants?
Did she shake it out the legs?
K isn’t telling.

I can think of way more than 15.

I can think of way more than 15.

Two small perfect turds,
Monday morning mystery.
Her pants are still clean.

Everything in it's natural order.

Everything in it’s natural order.

 

 

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August Should Be Illegal

04 Thursday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in family, funnys, humor, humour, life, musings, parenting, random, Uncategorized

≈ 44 Comments

Tags

Back to school, bra shopping, bras, Obnoxious children, pinched nerves, summer is too long, weird bathing techniques

We took the little cherubs to see Grandma and Grandpa Naptimethoughts a few weeks ago. Really, it was more of a cry for help because by mid-August all our lives were hanging in the late-summer balance of too much togetherness.
They have a jacuzzi tub, and J and K like to have their baths in it.

Oh, come on. It's a double boiler, it's not that hot. Yet.

Oh, come on. It’s a double boiler; it’s not even that hot. Yet.

It’s kind of a weird obsession of theirs.

My dirty, bath phobic children — the children for whom I bait animal traps with cookies in order to catch for bath time at home  — the same children that bite at my hands like flea ridden opossum when caught and dumped in the water, suddenly become sweet, lavender-and-rose-scented, Jesus-I-thought-that-was-a-tan, hygienic, small people.
Grandma runs a bubble bath, and immediately (and amazingly) the two of them hop in. J lays on his back like a smug little otter, and K sits primly upon the bath seat.
First order of business, the obligatory bubble beard.

Even I have to admit, that's darn impressive.

Even I have to admit, that’s darn impressive.

Ah, isn’t that funny. As classic as the man who walked into a bar. (Sigh.)
Next is the fart. J offers a fart of such resonance that it could be its own percussive instrument.
He does this. Every. Time. Don’t ask me how he manages, for I do not know, however, the bubble(s) it delivers seems to be the real prize. A low, sustained vibration and then a singular bubble, as large as possible, is the most desirable fart sequence. The children laugh. My mother tut-tut’s affectionately. Then we get down to brass tacks, the throwing of bubbles and the drowning of the rubber duckie. At some point, they are washed. I’m not really sure when.
So, after dinner on our first night in the happenin’ town of Williamsburg Virginia, The kids hopped in the tub with Grandma at the helm. I was sitting on the couch in the living room listening to the kids have tub fun and taking a well-deserved break.
Then I heard K say:

“I grab your penis.”

There is a moment of amused silence among my compatriots in the living room. I hear my mother vaguely in the background, and then the dulcet tones of my sons’ ass. Everything must be back to normal.
The husband and I had resumed our conversation with my father when we hear J say:

“Oooooooh yeah, my buttcrack.”

Another moment of silence.

“Yeah, get it in my buttcrack, K”

My curiosity is piqued. I walk into the bathroom, and all three of them turned to look at me like the cat caught with her paw in the aquarium. K had stopped, mid-flow, pouring hot bath water and bubbles onto J’s butt from her bath toys (read: plastic Cool Whip containers from the kitchen). My mother shrugs her shoulders.

Sort of like this.

Sort of like this.

I left. For good measure, I closed the door behind me.

So that’s how she gets them in the tub.

The next day, Mother Naptimethoughts and I had planned to go shopping. Specifically, we had planned to go bra shopping, as my bras had been breaking and wearing. Besides one ill-fitting purple monstrosity and an old nursing bra, (which was, in fact, preferable to the purple monstrosity) I had run out of garments with which to buttress my boobage.
I hate bra shopping.
This time though, this time, I swore to myself that I would have a good attitude while shopping for bras, and try to make the whole experience easier for myself and my poor mother.  She needed bras too, and I can (maybe) be a little bit (a mite if you will) bitchy horrible testy during this particular breastivity.

I will have a good attitude while shopping for bras.

We went to a bra outlet. It appeared to house every bra in the southern United States.
I had a good attitude.
I picked out seventy thousand bras, in six thousand different sizes and colors so that I could compare each bras’ disappointments individually and in contrast to the disappointments of its’ competition. I had a good attitude.
Mom chose four bras, in one size. I think I had a better attitude than she did.
We’re not particularly modest people, so we shared a dressing room. On with the bras.
I had a GOOD ATTITUDE.
Some of them poked, some were too big, some too small, some too pinchy, some did nothing at all, one after another, each sucked more than the last. The bras were piling up in the tiny fitting room. If we didn’t find a winner soon, we would suffocate in the uncomfortable pinch of discarded cup sizes, but I HAD A GOOD ATTITUDE.

Now that's the way to go. If we were stinking filthy rich, I'd pay someone to be my boob holder upper. Their only job would be to hold up my boobs, so I don't have to wear a bra. There would be nothing sexual about it, just a person to walk around with me and hold 'em up. Qualifications: strong arm muscles and an itch free nose.

Now that’s the way to go. If we were stinking filthy rich, I’d pay someone to be my personal boob holder upper. Their only job would be to hold up my boobs, so I don’t have to wear a bra. There would be nothing sexual about it, just a person to walk around with me and hold ’em up. Qualifications: strong arm muscles and an itch-free nose.

Mom kept going out and coming back in with other bras. Every time she opened the door, I was invariably braless, and there was someone out there to stare at my naked boobs.
What can you do? I smiled and said hello. Hell, the lady staring is sporting a pair just like mine, and I had what I could still manage of my good attitude. After a while, no one could see me for the pile of discarded bras, anyhow. I suggested that Mom might’ve taken one or two more bras into the fitting room initially, relieving her of the need to leave the room (and put me on much more intimate terms with the “Fitting Team”) quite so often. Just a suggestion, though. I had a moderately good attitude.
Finally we both settled on two and had to choose. I decided to put both on one more time and make the final decision. Just as I was hooking the last bra, a pain shot up the back of my neck and across my left shoulder. It seriously put a crimp in what was left of my good attitude, but I thought I’d just pulled a muscle. Putting on seventy thousand bras in a row will do that to you.
Mom and I ended up choosing the same bra.

I hate them now, turns out they were pinchy on the DL, but that’s another story.

By the time we got back to my parents’ house the pain in my neck was growing intolerable, and there it stayed. I had pinched a nerve there, and the remedy is… Nothing.
Dr. says: “sit on your ass and take one pill to make you sleepy, another pill to make you loopy, and wait. That’ll be seventy thousand dollars, please”. Coincidence? I think not.

My advice? Take the blue pill.

I spent the rest of our time there on my back staring at various ceilings in the house.

photo 1 (2)

My view, as it was.

The husband drove me home in a drug induced haze while I stared at the roof of my car.

 I have a moon roof. Ha. Moon roof. Take me to the moon, roof!

I have a moon roof. Ha. Moon roof. Take me to the moon, roof!

By the time I was able to get up and say hello to the world, this was the world I found. The apocalypse must have come to visit while I was all fucked up on percocet.

Where'd that bottle go?

Where’d that bottle go?

But hey, opiates may have just saved our entire family from the horrors of late August. They started school today. Both of them, and my neck feels all better.

Happy September everyone, and remember only this:
However much you love your children, they still suck in August.

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No Pants

02 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in family, funnys, humor, humour, parenting, potty humor, potty training, Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

heels and vaginas don't match, My baby wants to be a hooker, where are your pants?

This morning:

K: I wake up! I did poopie in my diaper.
Me: (exasperated) we do poopie on the potty, K. We only use diapers for nappy. Can you do poopie on the potty please?
K: No.
me: Please?
K: Never. (laughs a surprisingly maniacal laugh for a three-year-old)

We go to the changing table, I clean her up.

me: where are your pants?
K: NO PANTS. NO PANTS (she wiggles like a fish out of water) NO PANTS NO PANTS
me: Well, we’re not putting a diaper on. You’re a big girl, you go on the potty.
K: NO PANTS NO PANTS NO PANTS
me: okay. No pants. (pick your battles, right?)

It seems we’ll be wearing a shirt this evening.
I let her off the table. She goes immediately to her dress up box, and soon she is dolled up in pink fairy wings, plastic necklaces, plastic bracelets, sunglasses, heels and a giant pink feathered hat, bare-ass naked from the waist down.

No pants.

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Brandee in Haiku

30 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, funnys, humor, parenting, poetry, potty humor, puppies, sarcasm, Uncategorized

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

Dog shit, dogs who roll in dog shit and the people who love them, gigantic puppies, the back of a crate is the WORST POSSIBLE place to take a dump

Some weeks ago, we took the children to visit their Grandparents in Virginia.  While we were away, a friend of mine took our dogs into her home to love and care for them as her own.

Awwwww….. Isn’t she the best?
Then this happened.
I’m sure it was A LOAD of fun for her. It’s certainly wasn’t A HUGE WASTE of time. I’m certainly glad she gives A CRAP about my adorable puppy.

A Haiku for Brandee:

My enormous dog
took a huge shit in her crate
for Brandee to clean.

How could you stay mad at this face? I mean, once you finished sopping up the shit in the waaaaay back corners of her gigantic crate.

She shat waaaaaay in back,
then rolled in it, just for you.
She’s considerate.

Thank you.

I’m so sorry Brandee. I only laughed a little at your terrible misfortune. It so sucks to be you. Penny is REALLY REALLY big, and shits a TON.
Next time she visits she’ll be all grown up and able to hold it better.

There’ll be a next time… Right?

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There’s a Spider in My Car

13 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by naptimethoughts in blog, bugs, family, funnys, humor, musings, parenting, spiders, Uncategorized

≈ 48 Comments

Tags

arachnophobia, KILL THEM ALL, save the children from spiders, spiders

There is a spider in my car.
It’s a crafty spider, I can tell. It didn’t show itself until I was already driving, so I would be distracted while it bared it’s huge venom-dripping fangs and pointed them directly at me and my children. Some Brown Recluse (venemous) spiders have been spotted in my neighborhood. This spider is tiny, like a pencil point with legs, but since I watch far too much National Geographic, I know better than to be fooled by it’s small size. The little ones are even more deadly than their poisonous parents. Clearly this is a baby recluse, and it has come to terrorize me and my family for it’s own sick entertainment.

It's headed right for us.

It’s unnatural to have eight legs and five hundred eyes.

Initially, I tried to slam the nasty beastie against the drivers side window. I missed, and as a result (I almost drove us into a ditch) the monster disappeared on a silken strand next to my seat, angry and out for revenge.

Now it could be ANYWHERE.

I pull over and privately freak out. I don’t want my children to know the grave danger hiding, laying in wait for a single moments lack of acuity, to strike.

I go to the back of the car and take one of my winter gloves (turning it inside out to check for spiders before I put it on) and open my door, quickly sweeping the last known location of the spider. It wasn’t there. Since I can’t use my hand to poke around on the drivers side (thats that it wants) I look for sticks to provide a more thorough search.
J says:
“Mom, I’m late for school, and it’s just a little spider”.
Just a little spider. He’s turning into quite the little smartass.
I remind him that he will not be so smarmy when I’m rushing him to the hospital for a spider bite.
Judging by the look on his face, he will not be convinced until there is venom coursing through his veins.

I open the door and begin my search for the tiny savage stalking us. Clearly this thing is out for blood, I saw the look in it’s eight thousand eyes as it made it’s escape- angry and venomous- laying in wait for me to give up the hunt and continue the drive to school.
Not going to happen, you tiny horror.
Not until I see your cold dead little body, Mr. Spider.

It’s nowhere to be found. I poke around on the drivers side door, in all the little crevices and pockets. I scream like a girl every time I uproot a dust mote and it floats to the ground. I stick my stick under the seat, (find myself suddenly $1.75 richer) and take out the floor mat (with two sticks). This is one wily spider.

Then, suddenly, the thought occurs to me— what if it was in the back…. WITH MY CHILDREN.

I play it cool.

I casually open their doors and ask them if either of them has seen the spider. (Perhaps sitting on their jugular, poised to bite.) They seem very cavalier about having a loose spider in the car.
Too cavalier.
J says to me-
“I’ll keep an eye out, Mom”
Smartass.
I make a note to myself to make sure they both stay conscious. National Geographic says venom can cause this kind of behavior.

A small sly spider could be anywhere in the back seat of my car. It’s so full of toys and general kid crap that I could smuggle a prisoner off Rikers Island underneath my children’s feet. I start poking the mound of kid crap with my stick. Buzz Lightyear says:
“You’re an asshole if you think you’re ever going to find that tiny little spider in all this shit”
Batman agrees.
Yet I poke on. J begins to wear a look that says “Please let me be adopted.”. Eventually it seems clear to me that Buzz is right. If the spider has taken up residence in the toy pile, I could poke forever and never find him.

I climb back into the drivers seat and start up the car.
I see the spider everywhere. I can feel it climbing on my body, in my hair. J is concerned—
“Why do you keep slapping yourself like that Mommy?”
Right. Like he doesn’t see the spider that’s relentlessly torturing me.
Maybe they’re in cahoots.

This is me.

This is totally me.

I get the kids to school and out of the car in record time. J is extremely late, and irritably tells the school secretary he’s late because:
“Mommy kept hitting herself and couldn’t drive right.”
Ahhhh… Kids say the darndest things, don’t they?
Silly child, get to class.

I’m sure they won’t investigate further into that allegation.

When I get to K’s preschool, I leave the drivers side window open when I take her inside, both as a surrender and an invitation to the spider to leave.
I know, however, that it’s still in there somewhere, waiting, when I get back in the drivers seat to go home.
It must be communicating with me telepathically. Miscreants like him can do that sort of thing.

Once again the spider is everywhere. My hands are flying like I know some kind of martial arts, and I’m murmuring threats to the invisible spider like that will somehow keep the invader at bay.
Spiders don’t even have ears. National Geographic says so.

images (32)

They’re everywhere.

Everyone on the road got a good look at the crazy lady talking to herself while she batted away imaginary spiders. It’s a small town, so Im thinking about sending out a blanket apology and explanation. I do have a fantastic talent for making things worse.

Once home, I give up. The car now belongs to the spider, I’ll walk to the bus stop to pick up J this afternoon, and they can just keep K until the husband can get her on his way home from work. He can drive the spider ridden car to the dealership tonight, and we’ll trade the car in for something spider free.

I wash my hands of it.
Literally, I washed my hands. I took like 6 showers.

 

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