Jerkwood

I really can't stand this kid.

Here's why:

He's back to calling. In 25 minutes today, Jerkwood called no less than 4 times. He left a message, and before Toadwort could pick up the phone to return the call, Jerkwood is ringing my phone off the hook again.

The Howler answered it, and remarkably enough, she gave Toad the message as soon as he came in the door.

The phone rings again. It's Jerkwood.

Good God!

Toadly talks to him, says that he's eating lunch and will call him back. Don't know what Jerkwood said, but Toad says, "I'll be walking." *pause* Toad says, "Because I need the exercise." *pause* Toad: "No, I'll be walking." *pause* Toad: "I just will."

He gets off the phone. He finishes eating his lunch. The phone rings AGAIN, and AGAIN, it's Jerkwood. I picked up the phone, said, "He's still eating lunch and he'll call you when he's done." and then hung up the phone. The Howler told me I was rude.

This is getting on my nerves.

My son has no problem telling me when I'm being a nag. But with this little fart of a man, he has no backbone. He can't say how things will be (usually about him NOT driving) and NOT have to justify it or answer it again and again and again. Remarkably enough, though, they don't put ME on the phone for Jerkwood to ask me.

I don't get why Jerkwood is so adamant that Toad has to drive.

Again, I don't like this kid making decisions for people in my house.

But, I have been proven wrong recently, and because of that (and subsequently needing to admit that I was wrong), we are back to tolerating Jerkwood's calls. My unhappiness with the Toad, while not growing, is at an all-time high.

I told Toadwort today that I will PAY ANY AMOUNT OF MONEY to block Jerkwood from calling if his incessant dialing and demands do not stop. It's not like we delete the idiot's messages from the machine or not tell Toadwort that he called--the messages stay, and we give him the messages.

Before I put on shoes and went outside to sit and keep an eye on the Howler, the phone rang again.

If drastic measures need to be taken, I will take them. I'm not on the Do-Not-Call list and yet, I don't get many calls from telemarketers. You do the math.

Toad Funk

Let's just say that teenage boys have a smell. It's not attractive. There's a reason some of them spend so much time in the shower.

Unfortunately, I don't have one of those. I have one who revels in the stench his body creates.

Over time, the stench ferments into a lingering, gagging kind of smell.

We don't care so much, if he can keep it contained in his room. But when it forms a cloud that begins hanging over the hallway and stairs, the upstairs begins to have the feeling of a bad horror flick: The Smell That Wouldn't Die.

We refer to his room at times like this as "Ass Caverns". It's dark in there. Three windows with the blinds pulled down and the curtains drawn add to the mystery of the place.

It's treacherous to enter. Like the Greek boy who used string to find his way out of the labyrinth, it's best to have someone else know that you're "going in" and how soon to call for help if you don't return.

It's worse if he's actually in there--he's probably sleeping, and that means he's au natural. If he's not sleeping, he's au natural, and even if you knock before entering, there's a good chance you'll hear him scream--because he's au natural, and it's un natural for you to see it.

It's like playing Russian Roulette with your senses--can you survive the smell? What will you see in there, and will it turn you into a pillar of salt?

If he ends up living with the squirrels, I wonder if he'll be au natural as well as au squirral.

I'll Scream Until...

I puke.

That's the Howler's new M.O.

Tantrums. Gotta love 'em. She did laugh a little (between shrieks) when I tried to show her how to really throw one.

Then she got all snotty (literally) and yakked all over the carpet.

I wish she'd figure out that:

a) I really do want to know when that attitude gets her some where.

b) Screaming until you puke doesn't get you anything except hoarse and vomit breath.

*sigh* It's gonna be a loooooooooooonnnnng summer.

To Be Complete

I have to add stories from last year to this blog about The Adventures of Howler & Toad. It's only fair--some of these stories are the funniest events of their lives.

If you click on the 2006 or 2007 at the bottom of one of these posts, it will take you to that year's pre-adventure blog adventures. Clicking on Howler or Toad will take you to their individual adventures, including the pre-adventures blog adventures.

(and if you already knew that, forgive my moment of control freak weakness!)

I also ask that you forgive my forays into commentary on life as a parent also. Sometimes, what I have to say is that important.

Urgent Answers Needed

Again, not specifically about the Howler or Toad, but inspired by children's television and my brother, recently a Dad for the 2nd time:

Dateline: Thursday, March 29, 2007

My brother is now a dad for the second time.

It's adorable.

The first time 'round, he was nervous, as you'd expect.

This time, he's funny.

At Christmas time, he was singing "Victor Vito" like it was his favorite song.

Now, just before Easter, he's calling my house with "urgent questions."

This will usually get either Kevin or I rolling our eyes before we dial. It's always an adventure to talk to him--especially after already having talked to him and this is a *call right back*.

So, tonight, he desperately needs me to call him back because he needs to know:

Why is Little Bear Buck-Ass Naked when his parents, and grandparents are wearing clothes? And why does Little Bear wear pajamas, and a scarf and hat (and sometimes a coat), but he doesn't regularly wear clothes?

This also lead to a conversation about why does Father Bear always wear a suit and tie, but he's supposed to be a fisherman? How many fishermen do you know who wear suits and ties to work? Seriously. (I explain that if Father Bear were to wear a yellow rain slicker and funky Gorton's fisherman's hat, he might look too much like Paddington and it would confuse the locals.)

We end up discussing Franklin also--Kevin and I have some serious doubts about the sanity of the people who created that little whinefest.

Why is Franklin, a turtle, called Franklin, but all his friends are called "Bear" and "Beaver" and "Fox"? Why isn't he called "Turtle"? And if you want to argue that his last name is "Turtle" and I'm talking silly, let me remind you that technically, EACH AND EVERY ONE of his friends is doing just that--answering to first names that are identical to their last names. "Bear" has a family--you guess it--headed up by none other than "Mr. Bear". Duh.

I'm not even going to go into the whole discussion about how the girls in Franklin are "Beaver" and "Goose". I'll let you do the math on those.

Well, then, we've come full circle: we're back to Little Bear. There's a similar problem in that show, as his friends are "Cat" "Hen" and "Duck." The confusing part is "Mitzi" the monkey, and "Emily" and Emily's stupid doll.

It drives me to distraction: The butt-ugly monkey, which has no business being the woods in the first place, has a name. The ugly little girl who should have been eaten by the Bear Family has a first name. That stupid doll has a first name.

Technically, Little Bear's first name is "Little".

Why doesn't anyone else have a real first name? And why don't the Bears EAT Emily, Mitzi, Cat, Hen & Duck, putting us all out of their misery?

Mostly, I'd just like to know why the Howler adores these programs so much. It's like she has an Annoyance-O-Meter, and if the needle's in the red area, then it's a done deal for her.

I could rant for days about most of the drivel that's on TV for children. Little Bear and Franklin are just the tips of the iceberg...but I'll save the theme songs for another day.

Against A Growing Trend

While not technically about either Howler or Toad, this commentary is my take on a particularly vile trend in children's toys:

Dateline: Friday, February 23, 2007

I have to say that I think there are some pretty insipid toys out there--especially for girls. My Little Pony is not the least of the things I hate in the toy aisles, but have been found in my home and life recently.

I've even bought the damned things. But I don't have to like them. I have a daughter who loves horses of any kind, and if a MLP with braidable hair is what she wants, well, that is what preschool girls like--dress up, ponies, and princesses.

But, I digress.

Specifically, I have to say that the whoring-up of our daughters is very much out of hand. The younger the girl, the worse, it seems, it is. Size 6-6X dresses that bear more midriff than I did while in full-on labor (and believe me, THAT was no small midriff); glittery makeup marketed to 5 year olds; ultra low rise jeans with pre-manufactured rips; skin-tight tops that read one size but are actually the same size as toddler clothing; high heels and seam-up-the-back hose... it's the Whorification of Females in America.

"Mary Kate and Ashley design a new line of clothing for your WalMart shopping CrackHo preteen--ON SALE NOW!"

Geez.

Along with the whole children's clothing What Not To Wear train wreck, the toys marketed to little girls are trashy too.

Let's take a look at the Bratz phenomenon. They wear enough makeup to be seen from outerspace. They shop. They go on dates with boys. They are visions of fashion--if you see fashion as underpants and tank tops--ONLY panties and tanks. The problems do not end there. There are Bratz Babies. They are the diaper wearing bling set--literally. The dolls come with a diaper, earrings, painted faces, and pouting bee-stung Molly Ringwald kissable lips. These are a pedophile's dream. A *come hither baby*--LITERALLY. The ones that are "Kids" and "Teens" aren't any better.

This is action figure porn for our daughters.

There is no way, NO WAY, I can look at these things and NOT see my daughter and yours, dressed and painted, walking the streets looking to score. I don't care what anyone else believes, there is no way these dolls do anything except give our daughters the message that only her looks are important; she's only good for one thing and that one thing is sex; that she only has worth if she has a boyfriend.

If you say that "I don't let my daughter dress that way" or "We don't have those values" but "I buy them for my daughter"--WHY? If you don't like the *fashion* they project, you don't like the values they offer, WHY would you allow them in your house?

WHY wouldn't you strap on a backbone and have a conversation with your daughter detailing WHY you don't like them? Any age girl is able to understand "I don't think [little] girls should dress that way." or "I don't think girls your age should wear make up like that. Actually, I don't think ANY girl or woman looks good dressed or made up that way." or if she's older, use it as a conversation starter--"What do you think a girl who dressed that way would be like? Why?" or "Would you want to dress that way? Why?"

At my house, I want my daughter's self-image and self-esteem to be about HER, not what she has or who she has with her.

My example to my daughter may not be a "lady" in any classic sense, but at least I will be doing everything in my power to keep my daughter from equating "lady" with "lady of the evening".

Barbie never looked so good, did she Gloria?

Unrealistic measurements aside, give me Barbie--decades old Barbie. Barbie who has clothes that actually fit her and cover her body; Barbie who actually wears underpants as underpants; Barbie who rides horses, has her license to practice two kinds of medicine, flies airplanes and is lucky enough to NOT work retail. She even recently dumped Ken--the beach bum eye candy who never held a real job, trashed the Town House with weekend parties, never helped with the kids, laundry, housework, grocery shopping, and who never refilled the gas tank on that spiffy pink caddy on his little jaunts 'round town.

Barbie, my Women's Lib friends, is becoming more and more the kind of role model we want our daughters to have.

My soon-to-be 5 year old can and does understand that we do not allow the Bratz in my house. She's not to ask for them; the answer will be "No."

I'm sure there are those who think that my "hard line" about this is uncalled for--possibly even damaging to my daughter when it comes to her relationships with her peers.

If all the other moms jumped off a bridge, should I jump off too?I think the answer to that is pretty clear.

The Beast

Two stories to explain this reference:

Dateline: Wednesday, August 16, 2006

As I've said before, my life seems to be modelled on a sitcom. And not just any kind of sitcom, mind you, nothing less than a WB sitcom .

Case in point: Today I woke up ten minutes late. You'd think, for normal people, that this really isn't worth mentioning. Hurry a bit and you'll catch up--no problem.

Not so in the Land of Mumple.

Everything was going along okay--catching up was actually happening--and I wasn't going to be late for work.

Then I stepped outside.

Last night, I had made the decision to take the car--the car that I rarely drive. The only reason we have the Beast is that when Kevin bought the truck, we decided to keep the car for 5 months for the Toad.....and in January, it becomes his.

When we got a 3rd key made, I gave the Toad the keyfob--I don't drive the car that much, "I won't need it.

"HAH!"

Yesterday, I took the car to pick the Toad up from work. Nothing bad happened, other than a crappy job parking the Beast when we got home. The car sat innocently awaiting it's prey, where it gets parked at the neighboring house, on the other side of the fence. I did not lock it with the keyfob.

Apparently, when you lock it with the keyfob, it sets the alarm.

An alarm, surprisingly enough, that can only be shut off with the keyfob. 6:50am is NOT the time to discover this. The alarm was activated when I unlocked the car with the key.

I had to go back through the latched gate, up across the yard, and into the house (Thank God I hadn't locked the door behind me) to get the fob. The alarm is blaring.

I grab the wrong fob.

I'm walking back across the yard, alarm still blaring. I'm hitting buttons on the fob like a mad woman, trying to shut off the alarm. In reality, what I'm doing is unlocking and locking the truck--which is parked behind me. The alarm is still blaring.

I have to go back into the house, get the right fob, and then walk back across the yard hitting buttons to shut the damned alarm off.

Needless to say, I was late for work today.

But I'll bet everyone else in the neighborhood was up and at work early.

~~~~~~~~~~AND~~~~~~~~~~

Dateline: Saturday, December 02, 2006

There's a reason I do not like that car.

First, it was Kevin's car. He drove it, so it was totally his choice. Fine. I can live with that, as long as I don't have to drive it much.

So I don't.

Then, Kevin buys a truck (before you get all excited thinking that I have lots of money, we've had the car 3 years, and it's paid off). We decide that since the Toad is getting his driver's license, and we said we'd buy him a car, we'll give him this car instead. Toadwort likes that idea--he wanted that car anyway, and any other car we attempt to buy him will cost us what this one is worth... either the car itself will cost that much, or keeping the new heap on the road will.

I continue to happily drive my van, except for a few occasions, the most memorable of which I've already reported here (see above).

So, in a continuing effort to give the Toad driving time, I take him to work in *his* car, so he can drive. Joy. I am slowly coming to hate the Beast.

Why?

We've been keeping in my neighbor's garage. She doesn't have a car and doesn't drive, so she's totally fine with that.

So, Toad goes to work. I drive home.

The problem? The garage is situated such that it's best to back in to park.

I hate backing the Beast up more than I hate driving it. I voice my concerns to Kevin, and he, being the epitome of quick thought and correct memory, tells me, "Back it up. Don't be a sissy."

I pull into the driveway. I pull ahead, then commence backing up procedures.

I hit the freaking house! (Did I mention that it's an attached garage?) Luckily, I didn't damage the house.

Toad driving: $45 permit
Toad car: $3500
Mom backing Toad car into house: $45 damage
Kevin having a good laugh at my expense: PRICELESS

Nothing Costs $100

Dateline: Saturday, February 17, 2007

So, the Toad did something to the Beast.

We're not sure what, exactly, as he's not speaking up. He was driving it for at least several days with it "dog tracking" down the road. How he managed to stay in his lane is beyond us. He claims he hit "nothing" and that it must be something with the power steering.

Apparently, he thought that, much like a Borg ship, it would self-repair and self-correct.

The Idiot. Anyone who has driven anything would be able to tell there was something seriously messed up on this car. Anyone who had previously driven this car could tell there was something messed up on this car.

The rear passenger side wheel was, to use the technical term, WONKY. Absolutely at an angle that is not normal for a tire on a safely functioning car. There was a chunk of the aluminum wheel gone.

When Kevin got underneath it, he could see scrapes and dings--with no dirt or rust. No way this happened weeks ago.

The boy is still saying, "It must've been when I spun out." and "I thought it was the power steering." As if, between self-proclaimed Car Guy Stepdad Kevin and myself, we're total morons. Does he think we're Amish and have never driven a car?

Anyway, a new, matching aluminum wheel cost $50 and the alignment cost $47.95. AND we may have to take it to a body shop to get the body straightened out. It depends on how it drives--like we trust the Toad's assessment at this point.

The Toad is rather surprised at how much we DO actually know about what he did, and he's more surprised about the cost. Self-repair isn't as cheap as he thought, I expect.

My frustration level is at it's limit. Perhaps, if he were a true idiot-savant, and not just playing one on TV, I'd be less angry and frustrated. He doesn't have the common sense God gave a goat, and he seems to think that this is somehow my fault.

During the first conversation I had with him about the damage to the Beast, he implied that, because he's 18 and has only had his license a month, somehow I was missing the point. He got pissy because, apparently, I've been through all this before, and he hasn't. He is under the impression that he has older brothers and sisters that I have parented and raised, but have never met.

I can honestly say that as much as I believe it totally sucks sideways to be a teenager, I can say that it sucks worse to be the parent of one.

Full Moon Fever

Dateline: Friday, February 02, 2007

Apparently, the Howler, much like the Toad before her, has found some sort of soul soothing mellow-out tones in Tom Petty. Sometimes, it's creepy how alike their tastes are.

Toadwort liked the EXACT same album, way back when, and now, the Howler, daily, turns on the stereo and knows exactly which of the 3 CDs in it is the attractiveness-challenged Mr. Petty.

She then adjusts the volume to the "Blast Mom Out of the House" setting.

I think that setting is 11.

She then leaves the vibrating downstairs for her bedroom. She shuts the door. Since the stereo is positioned immediately under her room, she gets the full effects--feeling the beat in her feet, changing the words as only a four year old can--without the ear drum damage she's inflicting on me.

The bonus in this is that I cannot hear the phone ring, and if I do, I can't answer it because I cannot hear what's being said to me...not that it matters, as it's almost always my mother calling.

Not that I'd answer it anyway.

I'm too busy dancing at the zombie zoo.

Is It Wrong?

Dateline: Friday, February 02, 2007

To make gagging noises while the Howler is watching a Care Bears video?

I think not.

First, it's crappy animation.

Second, the voices they are using are mostly whiney--and she gets whiney when she watches the dammed thing.

Third, it's nauseating "CARE BEAR STARE" They pull that little number out pretty quick sometimes and, at other times, seem to have no clue as to the power they just used 10 minutes ago in that last episode.

I have to say, too, that the sucky Irish brogue they have Good Luck Bear using is pretty bad. Think of the movie "Leprechaun" and how horrid the entire thing is....boil that down to one really bad imitation brogue and slap it into this video.

Yeah, it's that bad. I can do a better Irish brogue, and I sound like I'm deranged when I do it.

So, for those who don't know me, I have little tolerance for stupidity, and less tolerance for emotional blackmail. I hate manipulators and I think anyone who uses feelings as a means to an end should be flogged--regularly and often.

And here we are at my house, knee deep in the crapola Forest of Feelings with Professor Cold Heart pulling ice cubes out his ears; a soundtrack that sounds warped and voiceovers that are all breathy--almost like they hired whiney porn stars to read these crappy scripts. And we get to watch it over and over, as many times as the VCR rewind will allow on any given day.

Thank God and the Star Friends that Kevin didn't buy it on DVD.

The good news is, the Howler also likes to blast--and I do mean BLAST--Tom Petty Full Moon Fever over the Care Bears video sound. It's like she knows how soon the gagging will start, and rather than argue with me (you know what a simpleton I am), she'll just turn up the stereo and drown out all that nicey-nice feelings crap to appease me.

Driving Me to Distraction

Dateline: Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Toad turned 18 yesterday. YAY!

First, I want to say that he is old enough to be 18. I don't think (or feel) old enough to be the parent of an adult. Not that he's overtly adult anyway.

There is, apparently, a grace period for those who have trouble with reality--that would be the Toad. He doesn't graduate from HS until June, so he's got a 6 month grace period in which to become a functional adult.

Yesterday, he also took his driver's test. He passed. He's now sanctioned by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to handle a vehicle weighing several thousand pounds.

It adds another dimension to my role as *Damage Control.*

You see, when he was younger, say, about the Howler's age, I discovered that my main function as a parent was Damage Control. The difference is that now, it really is as much "Damage to the world as well as damage to him" in meaning.

Pray for me; coupling this with turning into my mother does not bode well for my life, either.

I'm Turning into My Mother

Dateline: December 20, 2006

(This is background for the next Toad Adventure)

Last night, the Toad had his final high school Christmas Concert.

I sat there, watching my boy sing (and rap. OMG! He's too white for that!), and all I could think was, "OMG! Look at that girl's hair. And that one's. Do they really think that's attractive? And those clothes! Could she show any more skin and not get arrested? His mother let him out of the house in THAT?"

Those were my thoughts during the concert. Each thought lasted seconds as the next moved up to take it's place...until the final blow: This sounds so familiar (the voice in my head, not the Christmas music).

OMG! It's happened! I sound just like my mother.

*sigh*

I had been doing so well.

The Fish Slayer

Dateline: Monday, November 06, 2006

First let me begin by saying that from the beginning of the Toad's childhood, fish seem to have extremely limited lifespans when in my house.

He won a goldfish at the fair. It died within days. Not really a big shock, but we purchased a replacement fish. It died within days, spawning a new childhood rhyme:

One fish
New fish
Dead fish
No fish

If my mother is in charge of feeding the fish, there's a good chance we'll come home to a cloudy fishtank and dead fish. The Fish Slayer gene is apparently hereditary.

Kevin, the Howler, and I left on a Wednesday evening. The Toad was given specific instructions: feed and water the cats, feed the fish. The cats are easy--if the bowls are empty, fill them. Feeding the fish, however, seems to be akin to doing brain surgery--how much is a pinch? What do you mean by "Twice a day"? Too hard....must kill fish.

We get home on the following Sunday afternoon, and the fish tank is not only cloudy and populated with half-and-half fish. Half are dead, and the rest look like they are dying.

Kevin cleans the tank, all the while muttering about Toadly the Fish Slayer. He fishes (HAH!) out the dead ones and we hope for the best. More fish die.

Kevin is now singing along with cartoon theme songs, changing the words to reflect the Toad's new title: Fish Slayer.

Tommy Too

Dateline: Saturday, August 26, 2006

The Howler arrived home today, after spending 6 days at Grandma & Grandpa's house.

She mentioned going to the county fair.

They are planning a Halloween party for October when we are up for our next family visit.

She told me she's getting married.

She's decided, at 4 years old, that she's going to marry "Tommy Too", the son of a friend of my SIL.

How exciting!

I'm sure it will be especially exciting at Tommy Too's house--I don't think he's been informed yet.

When I asked Kevin if he'd thought to ask if Tommy Too would be invited to the Halloween party, she informed me, "I'm gonna grab him and HUG HIM!" She looked so very girly when she said this.

Scary--the Howler has decided she likes Tommy Too.

"I smell otters"

Dateline: July 25, 2006

When the Howler was little and just learning to talk, she would say, "I smell otters."

Generally, only if she smelled something she didn't like.

It took forever to figure out what she meant, because sometimes she would say it, even if she were smelling something good (like supper).

Over time, she has come up with some interesting phrases.

She began by calling her brother "Derder". We thought it was a nonsense word she was using, until one night at supper. She was obviously talking at him, and she kept yelling "Derder!" So, duh, figured that one out. (It was eventually shortened, by her, to "der" and in general, has been a very descriptive word for him more than once. Smart girl!)

Anshinnigans, as in: "I've had enough of your anshinnigans."

Something that surprises you: "That scared the chickens out of me."

Try to not giggle. It's not funny.

How I Be My Name

Dateline: July 13, 2006

The Howler has learned (is learning?) the Lord's Prayer.

When I first wanted to begin teaching it to her, she informed me, "No, Mommy. I'll freak out.

"I countered with, "If you don't, I'll freak out."

She won with, "I'll freak out MORE."

But, for Daddy daddy daddy, she will learn it.

Are Fadder who art in heabeen how I be my name. Dye kingdom come I will be done. On earf as it is in heabeen. Gib us dis day are daily bread and forgib our sins as we forgib doze and lead us not into temptation but deliber us from ebil for because of duh power and the glory for ebber and ebber. Aymen.

Yes, folks, she can say "temptation" but can't say "thine."

Stupid CAT!

The episode of note from March 2006:

When I got home from work tonight, Kevin was telling me about his evening at home with the Howler.

They got home (he picked her up at my mom's) and she came rushing into the house, announced, "I have to go check on Scout." and headed up to her room. He thought nothing of this--one of the cats usually sleep in her room when we're gone.

A few hours later, he realizes that he has not SEEN this cat, and so he heads up to her room (which she had "redecorated" before she and I left the house earlier and he had already straightened up) and opens the bottom drawer in her chiffarobe.

There's Scout, looking confused and put out that he woke her up. She had been, apparently, in there since about 2pm today. She took her good sweet time getting out of the drawer, too. She was enjoying the hours being cozy in a "bed" that was made up for her in there........and was wallowing in the joy that is known as not being bothered by anyone--and not being shoved into the doll highchair or hauled around the house "because I love her and she likes me to hug her."I think this cat has brain damage from previous escapades into enclosed furniture.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now, in July (2006), the Howler is trying to convince us that Scout can open a closed door (no latch, it's on an old antique washstand in the playroom), get inside, AND pull it shut so it sticks.

There's no polite way to explain to the 4 year old that while the cat may be that retarded, I am not.

And there's no way to say anything with a straight face.

Toad on Road

Dateline: July 4, 2006

Theo finally got his learner's permit. Yep, the boy is driving. Mostly in parking lots, and not over 35 miles an hour, but he's driving.

God help me.

I've managed, so far, in the little time we've spent with him behind the wheel, to not turn into my mother. It's not easy.

He's actually not doing that badly, but I remind myself, "it's early yet."The worst thing I've shouted so far is "BRAKE!!!!!" and I think I've only grabbed the dashboard twice. That's pretty good; I've got issues.

Great big fat control issues. Even the Nut Guy wouldn't touch them. Smart man. Anyway, I do have control issues. I like to be in control. I like to be the one deciding whether or not I'm going to go headfirst through the windshield and I like knowing that if I do end up embedded in a hillside, it's because I put me there.

Luckily, after 17 years, The Toad has figured this out. He can't figure out how to do homework and pass English, but he has managed to figure out that I like to be in control. And that I can only take so much of his tromping on the brake (even at 1o mph it can be rough on you) and he's been understanding of that.He's also been nicer to be around.

I hope it lasts--his nicer attitude, my nerve, and the brakes on my van.

Rumple Mumple

My house, June 27, 2006.

Tonight, after we ran to the store to grab the few things Kevin forgot to pick up over the weekend, the Howler was getting her bath.

From the time Kevin gets home, all she says is "Daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy daddy." (At least, it seems like it.)

She's in the tub, and she starts, "daddy daddy daddy daddy" so Kevin says, "Howler, I'm changing my name from Daddy to Rumplestiltskin." Within 5 minutes, she's yelling, "Rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple rumple."

All I can do is laugh. I'm still laughing, when Kevin says to me, "So, you think that's funny, do you?" I remind him, that as the Mumples that makes him "Rumple Mumple." I laugh harder. It's starting to hurt, I'm laughing so hard.

Kevin then discovers that his nose hair trimmers (ewww) are in the clothes basket at the top of the stairs. He asks me what they're doing there. I don't know. He asks Toadly about it and Toadly says, "I put them back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I guess. Pretty sure."

"Where did you put them 'back'?"

"Well, if you're asking, they're in the clothes basket."

"What were you doing with them?"

"I was trying to fix my toe." (Ewww. Don't ask! He goes to the doc's Thursday to get the dang thing looked at. Ewww!) Kevin is appalled that his nose hair trimmers were used on Toadly's feet. (Even Toadly acknowledges that his feet are disgusting. Even without whatever is going on with his toe. Ewww)

Kevin wants to know if he looks that stupid. I can't stop laughing.

When putting the Howler to bed, I notice there's a tear in her comforter. She tells me she "must have teared it somewhere." Kevin looks at it. He says, "No. What did you do?"

She tells us, "I founded the scissors and I cutted it."

Okay. We're not happy, but, it's really Toadly's fault, so Kevin goes over to Toadly's room to make it clear that he can't leave things like that lying around.

We ask her if she "cutted" anything else. "Oh sure. I cutted the hair on my teddy bear." She shows me her Care Bear--who now has a crew cut and male pattern baldness. Then, we ask her if she used the scissors on anything else. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"No." I notice her CPK baby on her vanity. I pick it up. It doesn't have much hair to begin with...and now, it has less hair in front and less hair in back. Chop Chop.

We're trying not to laugh. The Howler is sincere when she says, "they are beautiful now, aren't they?" And she goes on to explain that the CPbaby was complaining about her hair being "clumpy" and needing a hair cut.

Kevin asks her WHERE the hair is. She (still very sincere) says, "Oh. I setted them in my chair and cutted their hair. See." She runs over and shows us how they sat like good girls in the high chair to get their hair fixed.

We're trying very hard not to laugh, and Kevin is failing. My sides hurt from laughing (and not laughing).

*sniff*

My baby boy is growing up.

Tonight was the first night of his last HS musical performances.

He did well. I am proud.

I like him this week, much as I've liked him this week for the last 4 years.

I will miss seeing him on stage.

It was weird tonight to talk with him, hang out a bit, and then leave, without having to drive him anywhere. All I had to say (over and over and over and over) was, "BE CAREFUL."

Tomorrow night, we take the Howler to see it. That should prove interesting.

Announcements

A few days ago, in the local paper, there is the article about the high school's spring musical. There is a photo, also.

Toadwort generally, does not fill out forms for bios for these things. So, I scan the article, thinking it's going to have his name, and "is a senior."

I was moderately surprised that is actually listed more. Actual activities that someone (Toadly) wrote down on a form to be submitted.

I am more surprised when I get to the final sentence. It says, "...wants to be a writer and then a Priest."

Now, I'm not surprised, per se, about either of those options, but I'm surprised that the Toad never once mentioned that he's getting more sure of the calling. I had to beat my head into a wall to convince him to talk to others in our church about how to tell if he does or not.

And mentions of it are usually one sided: so, have you been thinking about it? What have you been thinking about it? His side of the conversation usually involves a snotty "yes" and a shoulder shrug.

He can submit it for the newspaper, but he can't mention it to me at all? Even when I ask?

Although, as much as it took me by surprise, to hear my mother reading it over the phone and sputtering after the words actually sunk in was priceless, and so worth it.

Hey Spike, Hey Spike, Hey Spike

Toadly has a friend. A short, stumpy guy named Jerkwood. Jerkwood is about 1/3 the size of Toadly, so seeing them together, and the way Jerkwood acts, it's like watching Tom & Jerry cartoons with Spike, the dog, and the little yapper who keeps saying, "Hey Spike. Hey Spike. What we gonna do today, huh, Spike." Makes you want to squash him like a bug.

He apparently has our number on speed dial. And it's like he's got OCD when he calls. He'll call and call and call and call--even if we answer and tell him Toadly isn't home. If only we could have flood control installed on the landline...

We quit answering the phone when it's him for two reasons. First, see above. Second, Toadly only answers the phone if 1) it's not for him; 2) we tell him not to; and 3) if we're home. If we're not home, it's for someone other than him or if we tell him to answer the phone, it just keeps ringing. I'm not an answering service (Toadly has no money to pay me), so I won't answer the phone if it's Jerkwood anymore.

It doesn't help that this kid is demanding. Just the way he says, "Is Toadly there?" makes it sound like he's standing outside, looking at our house, and he knows we're lying. Even if we're not.

And, now, apparently, he's comfortable enough in MY home to begin to give ME orders.

Now, this doesn't work well for several reasons: Kevin & I, each, have our authority issues. We also GIVE the orders 'round here, not take them. This isn't a restaurant, and I'm not your waitress.

Jerkwood doesn't seem to GET that. It's a foreign idea.

We've overheard conversations--Toadly is a jerk himself, but, I have come to the conclusion that Jerkwood asks for it.

Well, now, about the two strikes. Neither of the parental units said much about Jerkwood and his demanding ways (except for a few admonisitions about not becoming anyone else's taxi service) until yesterday.

Strike ONE: Previously, on Toadly-At-Large, Jerkwood calls and wants to know if Toadly is coming over. Toadly has been informed that he will sit down, not rushing, and he will eat supper with us, before he goes to Jerkwood estates.

Jerkwood wants him to drive. The Toad isn't driving much right now because of (yet another) accident he had. So, he tells Jerkwood, "No."

Jerkwood demands that he insist that he be allowed to drive. Toadly, sensing trouble afoot, hands ME the phone, and Jerkwood asks (same demanding tone) if Toadly can drive. I laugh hysterically. Toadly has to explain this response.

Strike TWO: Yesterday, approx 4:45pm. Jerkwood is here, sitting in the computer chair, staring at the protected password screen. Toadly has told him that it is pw protected and that he, Toad, did not have the pw. Jerkwood answers Kevin's "hello" with "Can I have the password?"

Kevin says "No."

Jerkwood wants an explanation (as if we owe him that--we don't, if you were wondering). But Kevin explains: "He doesn't do his homework, he doesn't get the password."

I explained to Toadly last night that if he can't curb this retard, I will. I will not have a boy, especially one who does not live here, telling me how I will do things, or how what I will and will not tolerate from the Toad. I will not answer to a 15 year old. He doesn't pay my bills, and even if he did, there's a really good chance I'm not answering to him anyway.

I told Toadly, too, that if Jerkwood is in MY house, he will NOT touch MY things--including the computer. If Toadly tells him the *way it is* and Jerkwood doesn't like it, Jerkwood is very likely to discover how many bounces short stumpy guys make on their way to the curb.

I have no doubt that we shall soon see if Strike THREE is coming, and Jerkwood is going.

Commando

The Howler went to preschool commando last Wednesday.

I laid out her clothes, including underwear. I was in the shower when she got dressed. I had no reason to think she didn't put on panties.

We went to McD's for lunch after preschool, as a treat before going to the doc's for her checkup and shots for school. At McD's she had to go to the bathroom, and low and behold, she's panty-less. Thank the God of Small Miracles she was not wearing a dress today.

I don't know what I want to do more--be mortified that she went to preschool commando, or laugh out loud.

Toadwort, at least, waited until he was 8 or 9 to try commando...and he did it in the summer.

She's insistant that she not put on panties to go to the doc's.

God help me, but this child is going to *be the death* of me!

Purpose

In case you're wondering, I've decided to share how entertaining my children are, on a blog that contains nothing but them.

I'm hoping that it will balance the frustration I often feel--if the good and bad are both on display, I can stay out of the booby hatch.

I also think they're pretty hilarious most of the time, and, if truth be told (and here, it will be), I think you will too.

Happy Easter!

Yeah, right.

The Howler has been a bundle of nervous energy. She wasn't bad about Christmas. I don't know if it was the spring-like weather (I mean, why would you expect Spring to have spring-like weather anyway?), the birthday party, or Easter itself, but I have been listening to her talk, non-stop for the better part of a week.

It's easy enough to do the selective hearing thing--she does it often enough to me. But, what I can't take is the constant motion, the rise in volume, and the way she launches herself AT me when I'm not looking.

How I haven't sustained a serious injury yet, I don't know.

Today in church she refused to shut up. She would not be silent, or even quiet, no matter what. The only peace we had was when my mother took her to the bathroom.

Then, towards the end of service, she decided that she would lift her dress as she danced.

Her father was about to explode. I was very close to actually dragging her out by her hair.

After service, she was a ball of nerves, still, and we made it 15 minutes after service before we hauled her to the car. She slept for all of 8 minutes on the way home, and I honestly think the only reason she finally quit talking is that all her father & I had to say to her was, "We're angry with you and we aren't really speaking to you right now." By the third attempt to divert our attention, she got the hint.

She was slightly better behaved at home. Slightly. She didn't go spastic over her basket, which was okay. She's not that big on chocolate and sweets. She didn't want to watch the Charlotte's Web movie the Easter Bunny brought her. She was relatively quiet and listened fairly well.

Then we went to my mother's for dinner.

The Howler was fine until my brother & his family showed up. Then it was every man for himself! She was crazy--not listening, whining, jumping on furniture. Even when someone specifically told her "No", she went ahead anyway.

Considering my brother's oldest was in the room, this is not a good idea. (God help me, I can't remember if she's 2 or 3 right now.) The little one does everything the Howler does, including jump from the furniture.

I finally had to drag her (yes, I said DRAG) her from the LR to the DR and make her sit on a chair. Of course, I didn't hurt her, but you'd think I was poking her with red-hot needles the way she shrieked.

She didn't her way. No one came to her rescue. Not even my grandmother, who, as I distinctly recall, told me off for correcting my son when he was about the same age. The Howler got control of herself, when she was informed that if she didn't, she and I were going home, RIGHT NOW. And she could cry and shriek herself sick the whole way.

She was much better behaved after that, but it set the volume for the rest of the evening. EVERYONE was talking in their *outdoor voices*. By the time we left, all I wanted was silence. Not a peep--no background noise, no happy voices, no sad voices. NO SOUND please.

Of course, it's not really a holiday unless your nerves are fried, but Easter is supposed to be a more laid-back holiday, is it not?

The high point of the day was that the Toad was more social than he's been, and he was actually not putting off the "how could you do this horrendous thing to me" ("this" being curse him with such a family) and he walked home to get his car and head over to Jerkwood's house for a full night of Geekapalooza April '07.

The Spawnlings

Too many people won't like that term. Get over it. I spawned them; I live with them--I can call them what I like.

Why, yes, I do love them, but Thank God I don't define myself only by them. And anyone who cannot see their children for who they are--good and bad, amusing and frustrating--needs a reality check that won't bounce. (My theory and hope is that they will get one soon enough).

I am the kind of parent who can love them with that primal-what-on-earth-would-I-do-without-them-all-encompassing love, but there are days when I would be willing to consider selling them to the gypsies...and since I'm really really blessed, I have a day or two, now-and-then, during which I'd consider paying the gypsies to come and take them. At least for a few hours.

I find them alternately amusing and frustrating. Usually at the same time--and sometimes, for the same reasons.