At 4:03pm yesterday afternoon:- I put Landis in the shower because he stunk. He stunk because apparently he had to fart and, SURPRISE!, he shit his pants.
- My sister-in-law called to see what I was up to.
- My dog was barking incessantly because I wouldn't let him in the house. I wouldn't let him in the house because he'd run away to go swimming in the pond down the street and was soaking wet. And because he was soaking wet, he stunk like smelly-wet-dog. And he was on his leash so he wouldn't run away again. And he was pissed about it and wanted me, and everyone else in the neighborhood to know it.
- Landis was calling me from the shower every two seconds so I could come and look to see if his butt was clean yet. It wasn't.
- Five random neighbor kids were running around in my front yard playing some sort of game that involved baseball bats.
- One neighbor girl was inside my house crying in an incredibly high pitched, ear-splitting voice about how scared she was. She was scared because she'd climbed the tree in the front yard, decided that she was up too high, and then was worried about getting down. Apparently she did get down, but then decided to come in the house and share the story of her terrifying ordeal.
I'm sure my sister-in-law thoroughly enjoyed our conversation -- at least the snippets of it that took place as I alternately checked Landis's butt for the 18th time, glanced out the front window and wondered if I should put a halt to the baseball-bat game, wondered how soon it would take the baseball-bat game to result in an injury, wondered if that injury would require stitches or an ER run, weighed the odds of the possible injury against the relief of having occupied kids, tried to reassure screeching, crying neighbor girl, and yelled out the back door to my smelly wet dog while I prayed that he would just shut up for two seconds so my neighbors without kids and/or dogs didn't feel compelled to call the police. If I took a snapshot of your day yesterday afternoon, what would it look like?
You know what I like to do? Cut my hair. Or color it. Or grow it. And then maybe highlight it. And then......well........hmmmmmmmm...... Maybe cut it again. So you know I can't leave my blog alone either. What do you think? Do you like my new look? Maybe I'll change it again next week.................** Edited to add: "Hey look! I changed it again! I can't decide if I like it with a darker background or a lighter background........ One of these days I'll make up my mind. In the meantime, bear with me and feel free to give your input."
Yesterday Gibson was taking turns wearing each of our various Halloween masks around the house. He spent some time as a mummy, as a skeleton, as a scary old man, and then as George Bush. (No, the scary old man mask and the George Bush mask are not one and the same, though I'll admit that I consider the latter to be much more frightening than the former.......)He wandered into the kitchen and over to where I was standing. "Mom," he asked, "Is this Barrack Obama?" "No" I snorted, stifling the desire to be a smart-ass to my 6 year-old. He was asking a sincere question, and he deserved a sincere answer without any editorializing on my part. So I did the best I could. "That is definitely not Obama.""Oh." He replied, peeling the mask off his face. He studied it for a minute, contemplating his options. "I guess it must be John McCain........"
My apologies to my loyal readers -- the few of you living out there in the blogosphere, checking in on the regular antics of the Kafsky family. I've been slack with the posting lately. Not for lack of material, mind you. It's just that I've been gone for a couple of weeks with wedding shin-digs and traveling, and the like. Did you miss me? Did you miss our regular chats about bodily functions and potty humour? Good, because today we're going to talk about butt-cracks. Specifically stinky-butt-cracks, and my four-year-old's compulsive love for talking about them ALL THE TIME. You know, I thought I knew what I was in for when I had boys. I had a brother. I knew what he was like -- always asking my mom to make him penis-butter and jelly sandwiches. Or calling people "peacocks" because he thought it was heeelarious. He could also burp the alphabet and make great fart noises under his armpit. (A skill my 6 year old has honed to perfection and delights in showing off to his peers. I know this because we got a note home about it. It said something to the effect of "Gibson had to move his bee out of the hive today for making fart noises under his armpit during class." [Sigh.....] I'm beaming with pride. Can you feel it?)But I digress.... I believe we were discussing butt-cracks. It's Landis's favorite thing to talk about. And he's discovered that he can use this phrase in a multitude of situations. Is humour called for? Stinky-butt-crack! Is the mood more serious? Stinky-butt-crack! Perhaps sad? Stinky-butt-crack! Maybe he's angry. Stinky-butt-crack! He's even been known to call me a stinky-butt-crack under his breath when he's in trouble. It's an insult I pretend not to hear since he does go out of his way to say it quietly, but also so as not to have to string him up by his toes from his bedroom ceiling. (How's that for a time out, you little stinky-butt-crack?) And just to illustrate my point about how often we have to hear this phrase, I'll share this story with you. Last night, around 10:30, Mike went up to make sure both boys were all tucked in before we went to bed. He adjusted Landis's covers, turned out his night light, and tousled his hair a little -- because really, he's so cute it's hard to resist. And how did our sweet little angle respond to this display of tenderness? He rolled over in his sleep, sighed a sleepy sigh, and right on cue, he muttered those 5 little words we never thought we'd have occasion to hear while he slept: "It's a stinky-butt-crack!"
If you are looking for me on Saturday mornings, you can find me at the grocery store. I love to be there before 9:00 a.m. It's my idea of a perfect day. Sad but true, I enjoy it. And one of the reasons I enjoy it so much is because most Saturdays I don't have to bring the kids along. But today was an exception. Mike had to work, and he had to work early, which meant spending the morning dragging kids along behind a shopping cart. But life can't be all bliss all the time, so I didn't really mind. They've been fairly good recently, and I had high hopes for our trip today. And for the most part, they were good. Except when I forgot to get the oatmeal out of the cereal isle. We were all the way down by the cheese when I realized it. "Stay here." I instructed. Landis was pushing the cart, and it just seemed so much easier to make a quick run by myself. (He's not very proficient with the maneuvering thing....) So I ran quickly to the cereal isle. But they didn't listen (seriously now, why in the world did I think they would?) and they both showed up in the isle, having deserted our cart back with the cheese. "Dudes!" I hissed. "Get back there!" "I was scared!" yelled Gibson -- whose new thing is to imagine that I'm abandoning him forever anytime I take two steps away from him. "Heaven help me..." I muttered as we made our way back to the cart. And I don't know how it goes in your house, but in mine, God forbid that one child have any sort of advantage over the other -- even a 2 step advantage toward an abandoned grocery cart. So they picked up the pace, and then threw elbows, and then had an argument over who was the first one to the cart. An argument that had them squarely in the way of an innocent bystander trying to get her hands on some dairy products. When I caught up to the little hooligans, I told them to apologize to the woman for being so rowdy and getting in her way. Gibson, embarrassed, refused. Landis just looked confused. "Apologize." I insisted. "Now." "It's OK", she said. "They're fine. Really. They're just being kids. It's fine. I promise."I thanked her for being so understanding. Not everybody in Super-Walmart is so forgiving of their antics at 9:00am. I turned back to the cart. And then Gibson chimed in....... "Yeah, Don't worry mom. We're so cute, no one minds........."
Halloween is in full-swing in our house. And I mean FULL-SWING, people. I was fortunate enough -- depending on your perspective -- to marry a man whose love for this particular holiday is so deep, it's almost demented. And though he's been banned from transforming our home into a Halloween factory until after my birthday (September 22, just so you know) that doesn't stop him from standing out in the garage for weeks prior, licking his lips and dreaming of the day when he'll get to unpack ALL THOSE BOXES. And so, promptly on September 23rd, he went to the garage, and returned with box after box after box after box, to begin the weeks-long ordeal we refer to simply as "decorating". Having been raised in this environment, you know the boys are just as nuts about Halloween as their father. And as the boxes streamed in from the garage, the clapping, dancing, shouting and jumping in circles was in high gear. Their anticipation was palatable, and trying to contain them until everything was in the house was a little like standing at the base of a waterfall and trying to hold it back with your hand. Impossible. Eventually, we gave in and let them start unpacking. The cardboard was ripped open, packing materials were flying, bats and ghosts were everywhere. Rubber masks came out, chains, dancing skeletons, witches cauldrons, the works......... The frenzy..... Oh, the frenzy.
And then, the last box. Gibson was the one who got to it. He tore open the top and peered in. Squealing with delight, he paused to take in the glory of what he'd discovered. "It's her!" he shouted. "My girl! My little cutie! MY HALLOWEEN GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!" He reached gingerly into the box and carefully extracted his treasure. And suddenly, there she was in all her well-worn, much-beloved splendor: The Dancing Bride of Frankenstein. 
We had gotten her as a gift, back when Gibson was 2, and to be frank, she really wasn't Mike's type. He considered getting rid of her. She was just a little too campy for his taste. But he was busy decorating, so he'd put her on the fireplace hearth to get her out of the way. Which is where Gibson found her. And then spent the entire rest of the month alternately staring at her, dancing to her pre-recorded "superfreak" song, and looking up her dress. (A pattern that hasn't changed in the last 4 years.) He'd carry her around the house, sleep with her at bedtime, and still, she persevered. It was, and still is, true love. And in the name of good Halloween spirit, I'd like to share her with you. So here she is. Considerably worn, and worse for the wear, she's like a Halloween version of the velveteen rabbit - minus the scarlet fever. God help us if she ever comes to life.
Happy Halloween!
Landis was half-heartedly looking over my shoulder when I signed onto the computer this afternoon, and as it was coming to life, a picture of Angelia Jolie popped up in the lower left-hand corner. "Whoa!" he said, his picture-coloring coming to a complete and total halt. "Who's THAT!?" So I told him her name. He leaned in for a closer look. "Well, I think I love her." he told me. He studied her picture a little longer and then he looked at me. "I think I want her to be my mommy."
Wait. Does my four year old wish I looked like Angelina Jolie? (Which, by the way, would make two of us.) Or does he actually want her to be his mommy, effectively cutting me out of the picture completely? I mean, with all the kids she and Brad have, I'm sure they wouldn't notice one more.... It could work. And though he's blond-haired and blue-eyed, he could get away with saying they'd adopted him from Finland or something. But seriously now.... He's FOUR-YEARS-OLD. And he was totally and completely enamoured of Angelina Jolie with one glance. Head over heels in love, and ready to give up his own mother for a chance to belong to her.
I do his laundry daily. I read him his favorite books every night. I cook his dinner, make him breakfast and pack his lunch. I kiss his boo-boos, dry his tears, and snuggle him when he's feeling sad. I laugh at his jokes. I take him camping. I let him climb under the covers with me at 4:00 in the morning, and I don't even complain when I end up with his butt in my face. But apparently none of that matters. My son is ready to trade me in because I don't look like Angelina Jolie.
Let me get straight to the point. I have had it up to my eyeballs with you and your atrocious behavior, so sit your asses down and listen up. You are adults. Did you know that? Did you know that you are adults? Because you behave like children. Spoiled brats, to be precise. And every time you show up on TV whining and crying and bickering and pointing fingers, I think I might have to gouge my eardrums out with a fork. Seriously people, if I have to hear one more instance of you whining about how you didn't like how you were spoken to, and how nothing is your fault, or how it's always someone else's problem that you can't seem to get your work done, I'm going to go get the wooden spoon.Here's a news-flash for you: YOU ARE GROWN UPS! START ACTING LIKE IT!!!!! But since you insist on behaving like children, I'm going to address you in a way that you can understand. You clearly need Momma to lay down the law. Now get your asses back in that room, and don't even think about coming out until you've worked it out. All of it. And I mean it. DO YOUR FREAKING JOB. Don't even consider showing your faces outside that door until you think you can behave in a civilized manner, because I can't take it anymore. Your asinine partisan antics are about to push me past my limits. And if I have to come up there.......... so help me, God..............you're going to wish you'd found a way to solve this yourselves. I wouldn't tolerate this kind of immature bickering and bullshit behavior from my 4 year-old, and I'm sure as hell not going to tolerate it from you.
