Honey, E.T. Would Have Called, But You Stole His Finger

My mother-in-law likes to reminisce about days gone by. She especially likes to talk about her children and I love hearing about Mr. Schmitty as a youngster.

One particular story involves a bit of a fetish.

As a child, my husband, well, he had a bit of an obsession, with his feet.

That obsession may have been the result of having to wear special shoes on his feet every night. Those shoes had a metal bar between them that would keep his feet from turning inward.

Poor guy. Can you imagine night after night, lying in bed, on your back, with your feet restrained?!

Um, wait...oh nevermind.

Anyway, my mother-in-law believes that because of this, Mr. Schmitty became very protective of his feet. He wanted no one and I mean NO ONE to see them.

Once, he was using the toilet, and like most children, he peed with the door to the bathroom left wide open. His aunt yelled from the other room that she could see his hiney. His answer? "But you can't see my feet!!!"

I also recall hearing that he bathed with his socks on.

Until recently, Mr. Schmitty wore his socks constantly. I teased him and told him that he was still slightly fixated on his feet issues. He would just roll his eyes and dismiss it as being ridiculous; his feet were just cold.

I had to draw the line sometimes. You know when...well, it's just not sexy seeing glowing white, over the calf socks making their way toward you in the darkness of your bedroom.

Ahem.

Lately, Mr. Schmitty has broken free of this compulsion to hide his tootsies. He proudly struts around barefoot, allowing all those in his path to gaze at his glorious feet.

I just don't get it, first the working out and getting all buff and now the sock-less feet. What's next? A speedo or worse yet, sunning himself naked in the yard?

Maybe it's a midlife crisis or something.

Whatever it is, I've come to realize, that though his mom believed those metal-barred shoes were the culprit, I believe differently. He hid his piggies because his feet are Uuuuuugleeee!

His toes are long and a bit hammered. And the toe next to his biggest toe? It reminds me of E.T.'s phone home finger; except, well, it doesn't light up. That would just be weird.


So, honey, don't feel subconscious about covering up. I completely understand, heck, I even encourage it.

They Can't Possibly Make A Display Case Large Enough

Anyone with children knows the importance of teaching about "stranger danger" and "improper touching".

We try not to scare our offspring too much, though, we basically tell them that there are monsters lurking around every corner of the playground.

We quiz them on what they should do in certain situations. We reinforce that NO one should touch the body parts that would be covered by a bathing suit.

We do tell them that there are only a few exceptions. We tell them it's okay for mommy and daddy to help them bathe. And we explain that it may be necessary for their pediatrician to touch them during an examination, but that's okay too, and we will be right there with them to keep them safe.

As parents and protectors of the young, we strive to cover all of our bases.

But sometimes you might do too good of a job. And in doing so, you might forget to pass along some eensy winsy bit of information.

W. came home from school on Monday a little later than usual. He had taken the late bus home after signing up for spring sports. He is in 6th grade now and can finally have a crack at something new and exciting. He wants to be a track star.

The day before, I had completed the necessary health forms for the school nurse. The students were to have their physicals after school, which would be performed by the school physician.

Upon W.'s arrival home, I asked him how everything had gone. His expression suddenly changed to a scowl and he said, "Oh, greeeeeat!"

I looked at him, quite puzzled.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Um...you forgot to tell me that the doctor was going to make me....um...cough!"

Oh shit.

I immediately imagined the scenario. The doctor walks in, snaps a rubber glove on his hand, tells my 11 year old to drop his drawers, grabs his junk, and tells him to cough. The look on my son's face must have been priceless.

I'm just so grateful that he didn't slug him.

I bit my lip and tried not to giggle, "W.! I am sooooo sorry!"

He smirked, "I was like, whaaaaaat?!"

I laughed and quickly turned on Mr. Schmitty, "This is your fault! You should have told the poor boy. I mean I'm not equipped with those parts, how would I think to tell him?!"

Pass the buck, I always say.

So, to Mr. Schmitty, I present you with this Parent of the Year Award!

Stop Calling Me Evander!

Last week W. and I went for our annual dermatology appointments. After writing this post, I was a little anxious to go. I've never had any major problems in the past, just a few benign moles removed, as a precaution. Yet, I always worry because of the frequent sunburns I had during my teen years.

W. has been seeing Dr. M. for about four or five years. He has Vitiligo and some very large moles. Nothing can be done for the Vitiligo, we've tried steroid creams, to no avail. His moles are more the issue, so she measures and photographs them. She has hinted that some may need to come off in the next few years. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

When he was done with his checkup he hopped off the table and started playing his new Guitar Hero for DS, that he got for his birthday. I replaced him on the table and the Dr. started examining me.

"Did you always have this mole on the back of your ear?" She asked me.

"I don't know, I can't really see the back of my ear. Why? Is it bad?" I nervously responded.

"No, just I've never seen it and it's pretty dark. I'm going to take it off."

When W. heard this, he jumped right up.

"Can I watch?" Boys, they are so gross.

The doctor numbed the area with a needle prick. Thankfully needles don't bother me much, because W. kept telling me what was coming, step by step.

Suddenly he yells, "OW MOM, that must have hurt! EWWWW! You have a hole in your ear!"

Then he asks the doctor, "Can I see the mole? COOOOOL! Can I keep it?!"

He was totally serious and TOTALLY disappointed when he was told it needed to go to the lab.

Boys, they are SO gross. But I think we already established that.

Today I finally took off the bandage for good. I've been cleaning the wound and replacing the Spiderman Bandaid every day. Yes, Spiderman, what can I say, that's all I had. It was very much a fashion statement all week.

I decided to get a good look to see how it was healing. The mole was removed on the edge of my ear, more toward the back, right in the middle. I bent my ear forward and looked in the mirror.

OH.MY.GOD.I'VE.GOT.A.HOLE.IN.MY.EAR!! It looks like a small animal took a chunk out of my ear or one of the kids got me with a hole punch. In hindsight, I'm not sure, but I may have taken my chances with that mole because OH.MY.GOD.I'VE.GOT.A.HOLE.IN.MY.EAR!!

If Mr. Schmitty calls me Evander Holyfield one more time, I swear he's going to get an uppercut to the jaw!

UPDATE: Hey EE...you wanted a picture, here it is!! Though the picture doesn't do it much justice as you can't see the depth OF.THE.HOLE.IN.MY.EAR!! *snort.

I'm Thinking Of Quiting The Internet

A few weeks ago my computer freaked out on me. It was running slower than snail poop and it was driving me C-R-A-Z-Y. I Googled for some insight, because that's what I do, I Google. Everything.

Now mind you, I'm not a computer geek genius, though I do know a few things, and am pretty good at figuring things out on my own. Strangely, computer stuff comes easily to me. It's a gift.

I concluded that my computer was probably overloaded with spyware. Considering that I am on the internet working reading blogs so much, it's highly likely that this was the problem. All of the advice out there in the blogosphere said to download AdAware. THEY said that after running it, AdAware would take care of all that naughty, nasty spy and adware. No sweat. 'Cause you know, THEY said it. Plus I had Googled it.

I downloaded the program and ran it. Much to my amazement and complete disgust, my computer had about 837 traces of that SNEAKY stuff in MY stuff! Oh step off, yo!

I clicked on the quarantine button and then deleted these little nuisances. I smiled. I rid my baby of those icky bugs. All I had to do was reboot.

I waited for the computer to run through the startup process. I clicked on my personal icon and the computer read, "saving settings, logging off." It went back to my icon. I tried again. And again. And Again. AND.FRICKIN'.AGAIN. @#((*#&$(WY@)@!!!!!!!

Now, to make a looooooooong story short. A computer geek nerd genius needed to come by. After showing me what a real gift for computers was like and $350.00 later, he gave me some new advice on what spyware program I needed to use. I nodded. I would do anything he said because I had my baby back. Oh how I missed her.

I immediately purchased said spyware program. I was TOLD it was the fairest in the land. If this is so, then will someone please, please answer me a question? Why, as I am catching up on mommy blogs, will my browser spontaneously direct me to such lovely sites as;

• runforcover(dot)com ~ the r has been changed from a c and the n from an m to avoid traffic from the freaks actually looking for the site. Weren't they so clever when selecting their domain name?
  
• ihavenoideawhatthissiteiscalledbecauseiclickedoutsofrickinfast(dot)com ~ let me just say that what I did see pop up on my screen involved a female body part and a body part that should have been boxing someone not playing puppeteer.

How's that for a visual? Can you imagine if my kids were using my computer? W. would have been traumatized for life. Hell, I think I am.

Why Can't They Stay Little Forever?

Last week a few of the ladies in the neighborhood met for dinner. We usually get together at least 2 or 3 times a year and there are normally anywhere from 4 to 10 of us.

It's really a great night out. Most of us don't get out much and it's nice to get an occasional breather from the kids and the hubbys, though most of the conversations seem to revolve around them anyway.

Five of us met at Houlihan's, a new restaurant that opened up locally. After we all ordered our much earned glasses of wine or beer we began talking about our kids. Three of us have children in the 4th grade and we were talking about our concerns with them moving on to the middle school next year.

Our middle school goes from 5th to 8th grade. It's scary to imagine my 10 year old having to interact with a 13 or 14 year old. In school the kids are, of course, separated. However, they do have to "play nice" on the school buses.

I'm not really happy with cutting the chord and letting W. take the bus. I know I have to. I know I need to let go. But God help me if I find out some punk was messing with my boy on the bus. I'm hoping that all of the kids in the neighborhood, and there are a lot of them going to 5th grade next year, stick together.

The subject at dinner then turned to sex education. One of the mom's at the table said that the school nurse would be "bursting the bubble" next year. Huh? The kids are apparently informed that there really isn't a stork, that babies really don't come from watermelon seeds, and that you don't get a baby in your tummy from kissing.

W. will be traumatized! I swear the child has never, EVER even questioned Mr. Schmitty or I on the facts of life. He doesn't seem to even think about it. He still believes in Santa, the Toothy Fairy, and God darned Easter Bunny for crying out loud!

But apparently learning in 5th grade may be a necessity. From what I understand, there is a 6th grade girl who has done got herself knocked up. I shouldn't make fun, but if I don't, I may cry.

And get this. This one will just blow your mind, no pun intended. There is a little game the middle school kids like to play. Never mind Spin The Bottle. Forget about 7 Minutes In Heaven. No, these kids are having Rainbow Parties!

I sat completely clueless. "What is a Rainbow Party?" I asked, feeling quite stupid.

My friend answered, "The girls wear different colored lipstick and take turns performing oral sex on the boys -- leaving a rainbow of colors on the the boys' private parts."

Yup, so glad I asked. I think part of my Baked Potato Soup leaked out of my mouth on to the table.

I'm homeschooling, I swear.

What Happens When You Are Made With Sugar And Spice?

This is R.'s self portrait. She made this crayon drawing this morning after she looked in the mirror. Do you notice that one eye is smaller than the other?

This is why:

Didn't she just perfect the realism? This is what happens when my daughter gets bitten by a mosquito. She puffs up. The other day she had a bite on her knee. The knee swelled up twice it's size. We take all of the precautions; bug repellent, citronella pots, we even place those Off citronella bracelets on the kids. The only thing left is to make the kid stay indoors....forever.

Poor kid, she must just be extra sweet and tasty!

Girl Talk

Someone sent me one of those survey emails the other day. One of the questions was, "Name one thing you would change about your body." I wondered if I could answer, "Everything!" But I followed the rules and picked my biggest, no pun intended, problem. My boobs. I.HATE.THEM!

I was a late bloomer as a teen. I was flat as a board until the summer before my senior year. There must have been something in the water that August because when I returned to school BAM! there they were. Guy friends of mine wondered if I had gotten implants for my birthday. I was basically shy, so I began to hide them. I think back now and wished I had flaunted them a little more.

From that point on I always wore loose shirts, so I don't think many realized that I had blossomed so well. I was a C cup and though that isn't huge, for a thin girl they were quite large. When I got married at 25, my boobs were the subject during the reception. My dress, of course, was fitted to me and people finally got a look-see at the girls. After a few rounds of drinks, friends were asking me to jump up and down for them.

Anyway, jump to present day, I'm not that skinny chick anymore. I've also given birth to three babies, so that and gravity have now expanded my once size C to a DD. They are no longer perky, but rather "hang low, swing from side to side, and I could probably tie them in a bow". I have neck and upper back aches and indentations from my bra straps. In a nut shell, I'd like to just hack them off. And hopefully within the next few years I will be able to get that reduction.

I would love to wear a tank top and not worry that everyone is staring at my chest. But even more so, I would like to stop slouching because of the weight of them. I would like to stop taking rounds of Motrin all of the time to help ease the pain in my neck and back. It's a constant strain on my muscles.

My kids are even obsessed with them. And how couldn't they be? They are pretty much at their eye level and well, are very much "In your face!" Yesterday during a kick ball game in the yard, T. got an out and walked past me, at which point he tweaked my left one in protest.

And forget about it with R. I hope she follows in the footsteps of my mother and sister who could go bra less and nobody would be the wiser. R. is only 3 and this is the conversation we had a while back:

"Mommy I want my boobies to grow."

"R., they will as you get older."

"NOOOOO, I want them like yours, NOW!"

"Honey, you would have a hard time walking and would probably fall on your face. Why do you want them bigger?"

"I want to wear a bra."

"R. you are only 3, you won't need a bra for a long time."

"But why are mine little?" She's whining at this point like she does when she wants a toy at the store.

"God made you that way, they will grow when you are older."

"But God made me little, see?!" She lifts up her shirt.

I think to myself, "Oh Lord I really need to stop leaving my Victoria's Secret Catalog lying around. First T. and now R.!"

What Planet Are You From?

The Schmitty Family, plus one, was piled in the minivan yesterday. The plus one was my niece, A., who was riding with us back to our house. We all had been visiting my MIL for lunch.

The kids were bantering back and forth and T. pipes up with, "W. you are from Mars!"

W. replies, "Well, you are from, from....Jupiter!"

We were all pretty wound up and I just love to make my niece laugh. She's got one of those infectious laughs and she never quite knows how to stop it just short of peeing herself. So I, of course, have to egg them on with, "Oh yea? Well, then who's from Ur-anus?!"

W. and A. went hysterical in the third row. Crickets were chirping in the middle. Big difference between the 9 and 12 year old crowd and the 3 and 4 year old one.

All of a sudden A. shouts out, "Well I came from my mom's vagina!"

WTF? I guess she had too much icing off of the cake we had at grandma's house. She must be dilirious!

"A.! I'm not ready for that conversation yet, PLEASE!!"

I think to myself, "Oh no not again!"

She's practically choking on her hysterics. Remember I'm the "cool aunt who rocks!" so I guess she figured it was okay.

"Where? What? What are you talking about?" W. demanded.

"Nothing!" I said as I tried thinking quickly, "It's near Venus."

Giving The Locals A Peep Show

I really thank God for my kids sometimes. If it weren't for the funny things they do on a daily basis I'd probably be in a looney bin. I've had the worst case of PMS the past few days. I swear the older I get the worse my symptoms get. My meds aren't even cutting it, I'm an impatient, moody, crabby beotch.

Yesterday T. came to the rescue. After we had gotten W. off to school, T. asked if he could change into shorts and a sleeveless shirt. T. usually changes at least three times a day unless I'm paying attention. I have enough laundry to do and he's only 4, nobody cares what he's wearing. I swear he's going to be the next Tommy Hilfiger when he grows up. If I need to change R.'s clothes due to an accident, as she is STILL not potty trained, he'll yell, "I'll pick out her outfit." And he comes back with a perfectly matched one to boot.

Anyway, I tell him he can change because it's now very hot. Then he shouts from his room, "Can I take off my underwear." I'm assuming he, um, how shall I say it, has a skid. I tell him to make sure to place them in the laundry so I can wash them right away. He comes down and goes outside in his shorts and tank top.

The day goes by. He plays, he goes to the vet with Mr. Schmitty and Ruby, he goes to the post office with me, and the bank, and the grocery store. When we get home he sits down on the floor to take off his shoes.

That's when I see it. His little wee-wee hanging to the left.

"Where's your underwear?"

"You told me I could take them off."

I think, "I did?" Then I remember.

"T., that was hours ago and I thought you were putting on new ones! I didn't think you were going to go commando all day!"

"What's commando?"

Sheesh.

Here we go again

I am quite certain that any mom reading this will agree, when it comes to being a mom there is no subject your kids won't delve into. Some subjects they become obsessed with. And I believe the same moms will agree that when you have children there is no privacy, no modesty, and usually no dignity as well.

That being said, the subject, as you can see from this post, my kids are currently stuck on, is body parts. As men, women know that it's a toss up which head they will use to think with, depending on the situation. But for all of you without sons, let me tell you the camaraderie with their little wee-wees begins as soon as they learn to control their arms.

But this post isn't about W. or T. It's about my little girl. My demonic sweet daughter, R. She's still a little confused about the private part terminology. I guess with two older brothers, who wouldn't be at only three years old.

Yesterday I was sitting on the john. In strolls R., I don't even bother closing the door anymore, because really, what's the point?

"Mommy, I have a penis."

I roll my eyes, here we go again. "No, honey, you don't. Mommy keeps telling you, you have a vagina."

I've read all of the parenting books, I try to use the proper names for their anatomy like all of the shrinks say. And for some reason, I don't know why, I have no problem telling my boys they have a penis but when I tell R. she has a vagina, I cringe every time. Every.single.time.

"Oh. Can I see your penis?"

"Mommy is a girl too, I'm like you, I don't have a penis, I have a vagina." *cringe* I'm thinking I should record this and play it for her while she sleeps at night so I don't have to keep having this conversation.

"Oh. Can I see your bagina?"

"Va-gina. *cringe* And no, it looks just like yours, nothing to see here."

Like a flash, and we know that girl can move, she runs between me on the pot and the bathtub. I get poked in the left cheek by her little finger, what is it with my tush this week?

"Is that your bagina?"

"Va...oh forget it. No, that's my hiney. Now get out of there!" So much for the anatomically correct language.

She comes back around front. I am just about to stand up and again, quick as lightning she practically sticks her head in my crotch.

"Is that your bagina?"

I swear I heard an echo.

Hey buddy, my eyes are up here

Mr. Schmitty and I have decided to get a puppy for the kids. Well, for me too, I just love animals and think it's time for a pet. We have found a breeder in Ohio that has the type of dog we are looking for. It's one of the new "designer breeds", technically, it's a mutt. But it's the most ADORABLE mutt I've ever seen. The puppy is part Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and part Bichon Frise, and is called a Cavachon. We are waiting for the details and pictures to see if she has a female we will name Ruby. I think I'm more excited than the kids!

Yesterday I was showing T. pictures of the puppies on the woman's website. When we were done he said that he wanted to see pictures of other doggies. I Googled "puppies", clicked on images, and before I could even look at the computer screen he yells, "EEEWWW, mommy look at those puppies!"

Hooray for the internet!

Whew, that was close!

Yesterday W. had baseball practice about 30 minutes after he got home from school. That always makes for chaos. Especially because W. usually needs a fire lit under his butt to get anywhere on time. Well, unless it's a party or a toy store or the like. Anyway, everyone is under my feet. I'm spewing out orders to W., of course each order is repeated at least 3 times, because, "I didn't hear you mom." Though I believe the whole neighborhood heard me, but he, only 2 feet away, didn't. "Get a snack W., hurry up, stop goofing around you only have 15 minutes, put the toy down, eat, get your cleats, c'mon, C'MON!" He's just about to run out the door with Mr. Schmitty and I say, "Are you wearing your cup?" From the look on his face, I knew he wasn't.

"Upstairs mister, you need that!"

"I hate wearing it."

"Well, it's important."

"Why?"

"You definitely don't want to be hit there with a baseball!"

"Why? I won't be able to pee anymore?"

Now, because he is not getting in his room to do what I asked and he is going to be late for practice I'm starting to get REALLY annoyed. I'm not thinking very clearly.

I respond, "Oh W. I don't know....you don't want to get hit there because don't you want to have ki....oh crap...just get READY!"

Was I really going to go there? Was I really going to begin THE TALK with my 8 year old as he is on his way to his little league practice. Wash my mouth out with soap!

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

Well first off, Happy Valentine's Day! Feel free to send me a Valentine, to the left please, if ya wuv me.

The kids and I worked on Valentines together. W. made little snack size baggies with 2 cookies, a candy kiss, and the Valentine inside. The cards were The Pirates Of The Carribean.

There were tattoos like this one included:
This is also the tattoo I heard T. telling his brother to put on his "wee-wee". Sure, try getting that one to come off in the shower! T. is completely obsessed with his package lately. First the bubble making, then this, and last night he was walking through the livingroom holding himself, a la Michael Jackson. He had a frown on his face and I asked what was wrong. He replied, "Nothing, I just hate that it's always big." Yea, so glad I asked.

On another note, the boys flipped their pajamas inside out, put them on backward, ran around the kitchen table 5 times while yelling, "We want snow, we want snow!", they then flushed ice cubes down the toilet. It was a riot, a definite dust off the old camcorder moment. And you know what? NO SCHOOL TODAY! It actually worked. Though W. is a tad disappointed because there really isn't any snow. It's all ice. But mommy, well, this is the BEST Valentine's Day gift my boys could have EVER given me!