Taking the heart road.

Sometimes Braden (now age 4.5) asks me how to say things in Spanish. I go to this website and we enter words and then we learn now to say them together. He especially enjoys the feature where you can actually listen to a pronunciation of the word. Unfortunately, however, he gets really frustrated when we encounter a Spanish word with an “r” in it, and he can’t say it exactly the same way. I’ve tried to help him learn how to roll his r’s, but he hasn’t been successful yet.

Today he asked how to say “tree” in Spanish. The answer is “arbol.” He became very frustrated about the sound of his r’s again. I began encouraging him to keep trying, but he just kept telling me, “NO, because I CAN’T do it.” This prompted me to launch into a long discussion with him about how you have to keep trying when you can’t do something the first time, rather than giving up, if you really want to learn it. I even gave him examples from my childhood.

(I totally went through torturous and seemingly endless trials in front of the bathroom mirror to learn how to roll my tongue. I was going to be damned if my brother could do that and I could not, and refused to believe the BS idea everyone was feeding me that it’s a genetic trait and you can’t do it unless you inherit that. IN YO FACE, FALSE POP SCIENCE.)

Braden indicated he didn’t agree with my sage advice about trying and learning. So I told him that he can take a slightly easier path and trust my advice, or he can be stubborn and take the hard road through life. He considered this for a few moments, and replied, “I think that instead, I am going to take the heart road, Mommy.”

Me: “What?”
Braden: “I’m going to take the heart road instead.”
Me: “Oh? What is that road like?”
Braden: “It has lots of heart patterns on it. Red ones and pink ones too, and I like them. And lots of heart rocks. And heart shaped trees.”
Me: “How does that make you feel?”
Braden: “It makes me feel so happy.”
Me: “And where does this road lead?”
Braden: “It leads to everywhere you want to go. And there are stars racing in the sky.”

My friends, the heart road is paved with red and pink heart patterns, strewn with heart rocks, and lined with heart shaped trees. It will make you feel happy, stars will race in the sky overhead as you travel, and it leads to “everywhere you want to go.”

I guess being happy on “the heart road” is better than being miserable while struggling to learn rolling your r’s in the long run, huh? This kid kind of totally disarms me every damn day. And he really has no idea how brilliant these things he says really are.

I’m still a firm believer in trying for the things you desire, but I’m glad to have someone in my life who reminds me it’s not always a bad idea to voluntarily take the heart road.

Fatherhood: It’s all about providing a positive role model.

Better not drink all the booze. His teachers may need some.

Braden started a “Kid’s Day Out” program today. He’ll be going there twice a week for about 4.5 hours.

I made a joke on Twitter last night about it, where I may have said something like, “Braden is starting a “Kid’s Day Out” program tomorrow. I’m sad. And by sad, I mean, HELL YEAH BITCHEZ!!!!!!!!!!!1!1 *cough*”

Give or take a Hell yeah. Or a few exclamation points. Or something.

Okay, okay so those were my exact words.

I was really just kidding. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve had this written on my calendar for MONTHS in bright red ink, circled in double-wide black sharpie marker with large, swooping circles and underlined with pink glitter pen ink that almost screams I CAN’T WAIT, HOLY CRAP, I CAN’T WAIT.

Nope.

Who would do something like that? Pffft. Not me, that’s who. I’m a loving parent who never takes a moment with her son for granted.

No, you may not borrow my calendar to check on something real quick. Get your own damn calendar.

And it isn’t like I’m insanely stocked on party streamers and noise makers and booze and practically did flips all the way home from the damn place today. What kind of horrible parent do you take me for?

(Do not pay any attention to that pile of streamers and noise makers and booze over there. I am collecting for Goodwill. That’s the donation pile. Shut up. People who shop at Goodwill have to party too, DON’T THEY? Look at you, all High and Mighty, all “only us highly privileged people get to have parties with streamers and noise makers and booze.” You disgust me.)

Furthermore, I didn’t run out the door without even saying “Goodbye” to him, or telling the teacher his name. I didn’t forget to leave his lunch with him, and just throw it at one of the windows of the building as I was running away, deliriously screaming (or doing flips). And I didn’t yell something like, “YOU MAY NEVER SEE ME AGAIN!!!!” followed by mad cackling so loud it scared the birds out of the trees in a three mile radius.

I’m kind of baffled that you would even think any of those things. Where did you come up with that crap? Are you mentally unstable? I think you might need help.

I’d have to be as insane as you clearly are to do any of those things. I mean, I’d have to be plain out of my mind to do anything other than have been excited for him for the past week while at the same time feeling a weird tightness in my chest that I couldn’t shake.

I’d have to be kind of a crazy lunatic not to realize that, while cliched, this is literally the start of a long process where my child starts to cleave from me.  This is a thing I am both carefully, joyfully, preparing him for with everything I do for him every day and dreading with all the tiny fibers in my heart – the heart that clenched up a little this morning when I kissed him goodbye and I had to leave.

But I’m cool with it. Yeah, totally.  I didn’t feel kind of angsty while I was packing his lunch, I didn’t get a little sentimental when I wrote his name on a tag for his backpack, my heart didn’t swell and smoosh when I watched him walking to school with his Daddy, I didn’t take too many photos of him on his first day of school, and I didn’t frown a little when I got home and the house was blessedly quiet.

And empty.

Sigh.

This will be good for him.

I hope I can survive it.

(The booze will help. WOOOHOOOOOOOOO!)

Fingers in the nose – no, no! Using a tissue for boogers – yes, yes!

a page from “No No Yes Yes” by Lisa Patricelli

For a very long time, this is a rule that Braden has respected. Hey, if Mommy says fingers in the nose is a “no-no” and there’s even a book backing her up, it must be true.

But now we have reached the Age of Contrary. We see evidence of this with classic conversations like, “Here’s your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” “NO. Dat’s not peanut butter jelly sandwich, DAT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY.”

And who could not see the genius in “Sit down at the table now.” “NO, I HAVE TO SIT IN DIS CHAIR NOW.” (The chair at the table.)

And if it’s fun to say “NO” to things just so you can restate them in a different way, well, then it must also be delightful to do things that have been forbidden. It’s all just part of the same circle of fun, right? Of course it is!

Life without testing the boundaries is boring, my friends. And the boundary between fingers and boogers is just SCREAMING TO BE BROKEN.

I mean, just look at how much fun this little dingaling is clearly having!

did he really have to be wearing the shit eating grin?

And so it goes, the boy realized that perhaps even if the book and The Mommy say fingers in the nose is not so groovy a thing to do, it can, in theory, still be done. And so he tested this idea, and found that yes, it can be done, and in fact, he quite enjoys sticking his fingers in his nose.

Over and over again.

it kills me that he can make even booger picking cute

Though it is clearly quite a bother to request a tissue before nostril exploration has begun, apparently it is no problem at all to do the same thing once one’s finger has been befouled. He walks over to me with his finger stuck out in front of him, a fine specimen riding the peak of his pointer, and says, “Put my booger in a tissue.”

Such gifts he presents to me, and lo, they take my breath away. It is an honor, such an honor.

And hey, I guess I have some idea of where he gets the appreciation for sticking things in his nostrils.

i.am.dead.sexy.

At least he’s not sticking other things in his nose.

Yet.

Don’t let the man get you down.

And if you must submit, make sure you let them (the powers that be) know you’re going to do it your way.
Especially if your way is like a cocky little bastard.

Gah, I love that little troublemaker.

I clearly have superior parenting skills.

Braden is fully toilet trained.

I say this and feel odd, as if I’m talking about having gotten the puppy completely house trained. But yeah, it’s a lot like that, considering he used to piss on the floor pretty regularly.

And before you (I’m talking to “you,” the person who has spare time in his/her life to make asshat comments on posts because you hate yourself and you’re taking it out on others) go making some bitchass comment about how that wouldn’t have happened if I’d not let him run around naked all the time, please to be looking at this: click here for a special, pre-valentine’s day gift of love from me to you.

In all seriousness, though, leave any comment your heart desires.  I like it rough.

Also, I fully expect gratuitous thank you’s from ALL of you because for a split second, I considered posting Avitaballs as the link up there.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Now we can move on.

So, Braden has been reliably doing all business on the toilet for quite some time now, but you’ll have to forgive me for not talking about that as the progress/training was ongoing. If you have children you know the rule: IF YOU CELEBRATE IT TOO SOON, THE UNIVERSE WILL PUNISH YOU WITH A SWIFT REGRESSION.

It is only now, after such a long time, that I feel safe telling you…

MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH DIAPERS ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH SHITTY AND PISSY UNDERPANTS ANYMORE! THERE AREN’T PUDDLES OF URINE ON THE FLOOR IN THE BATHROOM ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO PULL DOWN TINY UNERPANTS FULL OF BROWNIE BATTER ANYMORE!

When he can actually wipe his own ass, I think I’ll bake him a fuckin’ cake.

Now, having said all this, we *do* have occasional pee accidents because he has taken to doing the very same thing his Mommy does. He gets all wrapped up in something and he can’t.stop.and.go.pee.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my son is a Pee Holder.

He pretty much refuses to stop what he’s doing until he reaches CODE RED. At that point, he’s running to the bathroom like his testicles are on fire and sometimes he ends up wetting his pants while he’s right in front of the toilet trying to pull them down.

Which, yes, is maddening, and I’m all, “DUDE. You finally learned how to do this really well, don’t go screwing it up by waiting too long. Don’t wait, come right to the toilet!”

To which he replies, “What? All I know is that I’m totally going to forget everything you just said except that part where you said ‘don’t go screwing it up’ and I’m gonna yell that at top volume in public, repeatedly, the first time it seems like it might be really embarrassing for you. I might add in that word you said in the car the other day, too. ‘Asshole,’ right? Right. Now go wash my underpants, beesh.”

So, okay, yeah. I admit there are still a few accidents here and there. And the occasional shart. Which is really just funny, quite frankly, because he says, “Oooh, Braden pooped in pants,” and then quickly follows that with “It’s okay, it’s JustUhShart!”

It’s all par for the course.  Most of the time, things are now clean and dry around here, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

I have to admit that the Sentimental Mommy side of me does miss seeing that chubby hiney he used to flash as he ran around the house threatening carpets from wall to wall. Just a little.

But sometimes, we have special moments like the one that happened the other day:

Braden: *fidgeting in living room*

Me: “Do you have to pee?”

Braden: “Yes.”

Me: “Go to the bathroom.”

Braden: *doing the hammer dance in the living room*

Me: “What are you doing!? Go to the bathroom and PEE!”

Braden: “No, I DANCING FIRST.”

Me: *trying not to laugh. failing miserably*

Hey, at least he has his priorities. Sometimes, before you go to the bathroom, you just have to say, “STOP. HAMMERTIME.”

I stand by my celebration.  Because that? Is clearly a sign of superior parenting.

Do you feel the burn?

When sloth and apathy has set in for months, it’s hard to get your ass moving again.  And even once you’ve passed the hurdle of actually making yourself START moving with effort once more, you face that initial battle of trying to stop screaming out in pain and agony at every little leg lift find your strength again.

Exercise takes strength.  And strength is built via exercise.  Chicken. Egg.  Circle, circle, circle.

So when you’re trying to get back on track with a healthy lifestyle, you have to force yourself through that beginning time, when the shit is HARD.  And you have to keep going until you can hack it.

And sometimes it’s hard, in the middle of a workout, to feel confident that you can do that.  Especially when all you want to do is power jumps on the instructor’s face.  What?  I am NOT full of anger and bitterness, and if you even hint that I am, I will eat your face. (I’m sure it’s full of lean protein.)

What I really love is when a workout instructor is saying some shit to me like, “You should be feeling some heat in your thighs now… almost a little burn!“  right around the time when I’m looking down in bewilderment because my left thigh literally just exploded and peppered the wall next to me with clots of flesh and my right thigh currently has a 4 foot flame shooting from it.  And my ass just sent me a memo that said, “Really?  You’re serious?  Just checking.  Because… really???”

Yeah.  Almost a little burn.

Whore.

Look, lady… did you forget what it was like when you were fat?  Before you became this little waif of a thing that is now cheerfully telling me to, “see if you can push it just a little bit deeper each time!”

Oh, I am, cutie-pie, I am.  I’m pushing the imaginary knife blade just a little bit deeper into your upper torso (can you feel the BURN!?) every time I stab you with it inside my head.

Maybe she was never fat.  Maybe she has always been so skinny that her nipples existed on her chest completely independent of the titty base they are generally known to reside on in females. (And no, I have nothing against boobies of any size, but just let me rant here, ok?)

I’m sorry, I just can’t not see them.  In that tight-ass yoga top they are like little rocket missiles under a tight stretched tarp and I’m hearing the countdown in my head at full volume.  They are moments from firing and I don’t want to get hit, okay?  Someone needs to deactivate the launch sequence.  Who readies missiles that are still in storage anyway?

Where the hell is Jack Bauer when you really need him?

Clearly, she is excited about the burn.

I’m excited about making it through this without dying.  Which I’m not entirely sure yet is going to be happening, but I like to delude myself like that.

Wait.  What did she just say to me?  “Really challenge yourself.”  Were you not here just now when I said I was going to try to make it through this alive, woman? Clearly you do not understand that is a challenge in and of itself.

Shit, it is a challenge for me not to come over and take a bite out of your ass cheek.  I haven’t had a burger in weeks.

And if she says, “for an extra challenge…” one more time, I think I might just choke on all the cuss words that want to fly out of my mouth because YEAH.  Really, trust me, I don’t need anything extra at this point.

Unless it’s pickles.  On the ass burger I’m about to take from you.

And still, I’m doing this.  And I want to do this (hahaha) and I am going to do it again.  Because I know that over time it will get easier and I will hate her less and less.

Wait, she just said, “I don’t know about you but I’m really starting to feel my legs!”

*insert mental image of me SHITTING MYSELF I’M LAUGHING SO HARD*

If I could FEEL them anymore, I’d actually be able to “control it” like you keep telling me to do and then I wouldn’t be shaking, and tripping over my own two feet every five seconds, woman.  But thanks for letting me know that YOU can feel YOUR legs.  I am so proud of you.  You are doing great!  Soon you’ll be even MORE sexy and attractive than you already are!  And then there can be an even greater, more stark contrast between the two of us.

Really, the hilt of the knife couldn’t go any deeper.  I need to invest in an imaginary pitch fork or something.  Axe?  Hm.

And if you’re disturbed by this?  Me having immature, malicious thoughts towards my workout instructors is really nothing new.  See here.  While this makes things no less disturbing, at least you can see that I am consistently whacked out.

Oh, but now she’s saying something that makes me love her.  A lot.  (And it wasn’t, “Would you like ab fries with that ass burger?”)

“Last one.”

Okay, Miss Itty Bitty Everything.  I think I can forgive you.

But right now I need to go see what I can do about my right eyebrow.  That four foot flame really took me by surprise.

Cramming nuts and wieners in my mouth. Oh yeah. I said it.

So, I recently made you read about how my mouth stinks and my pits are a sweaty mess of BO pretty regularly lately, but that it’s just a mild distraction from the nest of greasy hair in knots all around my face and the bags of fat hanging off my waist and ass.

Er, or maybe I just said I’ve stopped having good hygiene and I’ve gained weight. Hm. Words words words.

Well, I’m trying to smell less like ass and stop being a jiggly mass of cellulite speckled, moving J-E-L-L-O (Pit Sweat Flavor), and I figured that since I let you in on that, I’d go ahead and offer an update on “How this stupid shit is going so far.”

Did I just call my Unfattening and Destanking “stupid shit?” Why, I did, didn’t I? I must be bitter about the whole thing.

You already know that I wandered into the kitchen at 3am one night and crammed my mouth full of sticky smashed peanuts. Mmmm, peanut porn.

Well, every damn night I’ve been telling myself once I look up and see it’s about 9:30 or so, “Okay, Lotus. NOT GOING TO EAT ANYTHING ELSE TONIGHT.”

And then around 10:30 I look at myself and I’m all, “So, what are we gonna eat!? Pretzels? Beer? Oh, hell yah.”

And, ok. So, I’d call that mild failure so far.

But what’s NOT mild failure? Well, that would be GIANT FAILURE.

Did you think the peanut butter at 3am was bad? (No? WTF is wrong with you? That is ridiculous. You should NOT be eating a spoonful of nut (hehehehehehehehe) at 3am.)

I can top it.

Wiener.

That’s right.

That’s what I woke up cramming into my mouth the other night.

*pause*

And I’m not talking about a fun-time wiener, I’m talking about a cylinder of smashed pork lips and penises.

Oh baby, now THAT’S sexy.

That’s how I want you all to think of me.

Yes. I’m the chick standing in her kitchen at around 3am wearing underwear and a wife beater with peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and a hot dog dangling from her lips.

And I am probably scratching my ass.

Or farting.

Ok, both.

It takes effort to be THIS SEXY.

Oh, but I’ve lost 5 lbs so far.

And if you even try to patent the peanut butter and wieners diet before I can get to the patent office, I swear I will hurt you with knives.

Mmmmm.  Peanut Butter Wieners.