Please note, you need the sound on, and you should read along for maximum FUNNY AS HELLNESS.
John and I quote this relentlessly around the house now, and the amount of laughter it evokes is off the scale of measurable hilarity.
Seriously, if you don’t think this is funny, I don’t get you. And you definitely don’t get me.
And I might even have to kill you in your sleep.
Indoctrinating Braden into the world of TEH INTERNET CAN HAZ FUNNEH:
PS: He is incapable of sitting still, in case you were wondering.
PPS: My next mission is to train him to use this swiffer thingie I just got to clean the kitchen floor. You can take 2 of the segments out and make it “toddler size.” Best discovery I’ve made all year.
PPPS: I’m all about the child labor.
It’s Valentines Day.
I’m thinking of him today,
as I always will on this day.
He is so special to me.
The way it feels when he holds my hand.
The soft caress of his fingers on my cheek.
That special smell that is only his.
I love him in a way that I will never love anyone else.
When he sings to me my heart fills with joy.
Dancing with him is divine.
There’s something so intimate about sitting alone in the dark with him, his arms wrapped around me.
Every time he tells me he loves me, everything else is swept away.
I would do anything for him.
He is bound to me for eternity.
On this day, 3 years ago, I found out I was pregnant.
I will never receive a more profound, meaningful, or loved gift.
I hope you can all remember to find meaning and love, too, wherever it waits for you in your lives.
No matter what day it is.
There are people who suffer outrageous tragedy and somehow they pick themselves up and not only survive, but shine. They become an inspiration to others. They advocate, support, march on.
They live, not without pain, not without sadness, but with a beauty in the face of tragedy that says to others that they still see good in life. That there is still occasion for happiness, and that laughter is healing. They help other people to believe. To Hope.
And when their long-awaited dreams are realized, those who love them cannot stand by and just let that pass without notice.
There must be rejoicing amongst all. Lifting up. Celebration!
And, because I admire and adore her, I really wanted to join this celebration, donate a little to the cause, and congratulate Tanis on this incredibly joyous and long overdue occasion. But when I read the email and post from Catherine (Her Bad Mother His Bad Redneck Aunty) and it became clear that, in order to participate, I had to talk about the ways in which I’m a “Redneck Mommy?”
Well, I got really depressed. Because there really is nothing for me to talk about along those lines! Total bummer, man.
I mean, we are just totally not rednecks over here. You know, it’s not as if I grew up in a town that was so small it had to join with another, nearby town just to have enough people to form a high-school. Or as if that high-school actually had goats in its proverbial backyard. *cough*
And it’s not as if there were corn fields right behind the house I grew up in, and my little brother and I played in an old, falling down barn, building forts out of discarded tobacco-drying sticks. I never built a fire right up against the old house we rented that was built in the 1800s and had no central air.
We so totally did not play on old stumps in our backyard and have a pile of sand there, too, that our cats absolutely did not shit in and then we played in it some more anyway. Seriously. Didn’t.
I never once stepped in actual cow manure while playing at a friend’s house! We did not burn garbage in an old water well on the back of the property we lived on. And I have no idea what it’s like to watch my mother pluck the feathers out of a freshly slaughtered chicken.
And my husband is totally not a redneck, either! He is like, WAY more Not A Redneck than me, even! He doesn’t play country music for a living, and he has most certainly never, ever said as a part of regular conversation, without a hint of joking intended, the words “over yonder,” or “them are.”
Or “here in a little bit” to mean, “in a little while.”
He is not from Texas. He does not refer to our dog as a “turd-hound.” He has never danced the Two-Step or gone hunting a day in his life.
(Interjection: If you ask him, he will tell you that dancing the Two-Step is NOT “redneck.” It’s “country.” Then, when you ask him what’s the difference between “redneck” and “country?” he will fidget and say, “I don’t know.” And you will point and laugh at him, and mutter, “Sooo writing about this.”)
He has never crapped in the woods and then wiped his ass with a ROCK. And he doesn’t speak with a drawl. Ever.
And this? It is SO TOTALLY NOT HIM.
Photo is property of John Owens, used by permission.
Facebook is a wonderful thing. Heh.
Nuh-uh. Nope. Totally not him wearing that bolo tie.
I do not go for days without a shower or actually like the taste of Ramen Noodles. I do not go around barefoot all the time, even in the dead of winter. I have never cut my own hair. Or peed on the side of the road. Or drank the shiznite out of some Koolaid and walked away with a Sweet-Ass Red Mustache. Or used a hoe, on a garden, and not the kind of ho you’re thinking of either, because I’ve totally used the hell of out them hos.
Never worn a “wife-beater” tank top with bra straps showing under it.
If I had to put together a cowboy outfit, I’d be screwed, because it’s not as if there are cowboy boots or hats easily accessible around here. *shakes head back and forth vehemently* And there really are no guns here. Especially not a shotgun wrapped in a damn rug because we’re too lazy to figure out a better way to store it. Oh no.
Our Christmas tree is soooo not laying down in our yard, all dried out and crusty, begging to be hauled away from the reach of disapproving eyes.
WE DO NOT STILL HAVE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON A PORCH COLUMN BY THE FRONT DOOR.
Additionally, I never say, “ya’ll.”
My child is not, in fact, running around in nothing but a diaper, right at this very moment, banging a piece of metal he broke off of the wall-mounted toilet paper dispenser up against the living room wall. To say that was the case would be a total fabrication of the truth. Never happened.
And bah Gawd, we doan be a’ havin’ a rickety, hand-raised metal fence out tha back o’ the house tah keep tha dawg and tha youngin’ in, walk ’round half nekid in front o’ them thar open winders, and most definly doan never scratch ar hind quarters or go a’pickin’ ar noses in public!
That just ain’t decent, folks!
We are a strictly, 100% Non-Redneck Family around here.
So, I must regretfully decline taking part in this fabulous celebration for Tanis. As I am just not able to join with the others in proper fashion, you see.
So happy for you, Tanis. My Totally Not Redneck Family and I are rejoicing for you and yours.
Rainbows.Unicorns.Glitter. You know.
He’s more pissed off on a regular basis about things like why he can’t have a million and five cups of apple juice in one day and our infernal, never-ending desire to torture him orally with that weird plastic stick that has bristles, under the guise of “keeping his teeth strong, healthy, and clean!”
But the sunglasses? Meh. He’s so over that.
And I just can’t help myself. I beg that no one gets offended, but I feel like I have to say, as per some comments on yesterday’s post, that Braden actually has not only 2 pair of sunglasses made to actually fit his face, but he has been given another pair of my old sunglasses to delight himself with. So, no worries, he has sunglasses to play with.
I hid the broken pair from him that night (after he tried to wear them with one side broken off and got a bit annoyed when they wouldn’t stay on), and he never even cared. I gave him the replacement pair a day or so later, and he happily put them on and ran around, no questions asked.
They are really manly, too. Silver Leopard Print, Baby. Yeah. (Of course, again, he couldn’t care less.)
Eh… uh… about yesterday’s post… the sunglasses per se really weren’t the main idea I’d intended for the article to focus you on, rather they created a situation that made my mind stretch a little and my emotions warble and dance. I wanted to share with you the little emotional jig that was being performed in my head and my heart… see if maybe you could dance the steps with me.
By the way (*huffs and puffs, theatrically*), I’m pretty good at figuring out how to fix the silly little things that my 2 year old worries about, in a practical way. Gimme a lil bit of credit as a mom, folks, dang. I’m not a TOTAL moron, really! (No, really. STOP LAUGHING BEHIND YOUR HAND. I CAN SEE YOU, DAMNIT.)
And no offense to anyone, cause I adore you guys (you commented, that means you gave a shit, and I adore you), but there is no amount of super glue or duct tape that could hold the metal/plastic together for long enough to withstand even 30 seconds of Two-Year-Old-Boy-Play. Braden can look at things hard enough to break them, sometimes, I swear. So that made me giggle.
So, anyway… I was just making some connections between this little thing and larger emotions and issues… painting a small picture that mirrors a large and complex one in the adult world?
Bah, sometimes a girl just doesn’t get her point across.
I should stick to fart jokes, right?
These sunglasses have brought Braden great joy for the past few months.
When he first started playing with them, he was a little unsure of what to do with himself. He’d hold them up to his face, turn them, flip them.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
He would wear them on his belly. His navel was protected from the sun’s harsh rays as he spun in circles around our living room, singing.
More and more he put them on his face. Showing them off to everyone. Smiling, laughing. So proud of having them there.
An accident, really. He dropped them and immediately stepped on them before he could still his forward motion. I saw it happen. One of the supports snapped right off.
I wailed inside. My whole body simultaneously tightened and melted for him. I just knew there would be a complete meltdown.
I was wrong.
He sat down on the floor and delicately picked up the two distinct pieces. He was quiet. His mouth was a tiny, slighty open “o” as he sat there, brow furrowed.
He held them in his hands, looking at them, his face full of questions. *melting*
I bit my lip and I told him that I was so sorry, but there was no way to fix them. *tightness*
He just stared at me with his big, blue eyes. *melting*
I told him that they were broken, forever. *tightness*
He kept trying to piece them back together anyway. *melting*
There he sat, holding them up against one another… over and over again, because he just knew that eventually they’d be fixed again.
That is him right now.
The beautiful, innocent child, blissfully unaware that some things can never be fixed after they’re broken, no matter how hard you try to put them back together.
In my heart, I know that my jaded view is not the one I want.
I want to believe, like he does.
Moreover, I never want him to stop believing that.
Oh world, please don’t take this from him for a long, long time.
Maybe there’s time for me to learn to believe again, through him.
Alternate title: “My lips hurt real bad!”
(for the Napoleon Dynamite fans.)
I don’t know why this video makes me so happy, but it does. There is something about the way he applies it, so freaking seriously. Having kids makes you think stupid things are cute. But, yeah.
Incidentally, Vimeo wanted to make me wait 85 freaking minutes before my video was ready for viewing. In fact, Vimeo actually said to me, “Due to a high number of uploads, this video will be converted in approximately 85 minutes. You may now leave this page and we will email you when this video is finished converting.” Really, Vimeo? I have your permission to leave this page? Thank you so much. How gracious of you, Vimeo.
And along with that information, they taunted me with the knowledge that “Vimeo Plus” Members are moved to the front of the line for video converting. Click and you’ll be greeted with, “Buy now for $59.95 a year!”
Yeah. I think I’ll pass. Oh look, there’s a YouTube button on my toolbar!
So, thanks, Vimeo, but no thanks. By the way, Youtube was willing to convert my video right away (I timed it: 3 minutes.) For free. Stick that up your “Vimeo Plus” and spin on it.
Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be as cute as my kid applying chapstick. Just a guess.
The thing that came to mind immediately when I saw this week’s theme, “Chipped,” was Braden’s two front teeth.
I am horribly obsessed with the Chip Status of his front teeth. And it’s not because I’m some freaked out, obsessing mother who picks over every little detail of her son’s appearance.
I mean, it’s true that I’m freaked out and obsessed, but it’s generally over things like how many visitors my website has had on any given day (where the hell were you people YESTERDAY???) and whether or not Conan O’brien will ever admit that we were meant to be together forever, leave his wife, and marry me.
What? He totally sent me a secret message the other night. You think it was a coincidence that he was driving a Lotus on the show? And that the side said, “Team Lotus?” Please. My destiny is finally being realized. That’s all.
The Eagle Flies West at Midnight. I am coming, Conan. Secret message received.
So, my son’s teeth? HE WON’T STOP CHIPPING THEM.
And the only time he ever had a ‘noticeable mouth-related-accident-causing-parental-distress-complet-with-excessive-hyperventilating-and-hand-wringing’ was this:
And after that, one tooth was moved back for awhile, but it repositioned itself. And there was no chipping associated with the incident, at all.
And it only took me 2 whole months to stop gasping for air and clutching my chest.
Anyhow, apparently his teeth have decided that they are made out of that chalky crap that they used to make those “candy cigarettes”** out of, and every now and then, small pieces of them just crumble off into his mouth.
Mmmm, Candy Teeeths.
Every time I notice that there is just a little bit less tooth there in the front of my little boy’s facehole, I get a little more frantic. I am developing a special facial twitch just for the occasion.
I think the Tooth Fairy is even receiving certain frequencies that my brain waves are emitting when I go into this frantic state. They translate something like, “OMFG, ARE HIS TEETH GOING TO JUST ENTIRELY CRUMBLE IN AT SOME POINT, WHAT THE HOLY HELLLLL?!? *twitch, twitch, spazz*”
And yes. I KNOW that it is really not that noticeable. And that he is FREAKING GORGEOUS anyway. Seriously, I live with this kid:
I KNOW he’s freaking beautiful.
I’m not concerned with his looks. But I might just start injecting him with calcium while he’s sleeping out of the fear that this is an indicator of Bone Related Things To Come.
*dies immediately at the thought*
**And by the way, WHAT THE HELL WERE PEOPLE THINKING TO GIVE KIDS CANDY CIGARETTES TO EAT JOYFULLY???
I guess the “candy gun” and the “candy meth lab” did not make the cut during final product testing.