Oh, Those Eyes…

Somehow, those eyes even override the disgustingness that is Crusty Sick Nose.

They also help him get away with crap like this.

Yeah. He can reach stuff on the counters.

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It only takes a moment…

…for a toddler to get into serious mischief.

Never underestimate the little heathens.

Here’s video, for those interested in the cute factor.

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I guess I should go look up ole’ Baldie.

When I posted about how Braden ventured to improve the (obviously) drab paintjob in our new rental home yesterday, I got a RESOUNDING response in comments:

“BUY THE FRIGGIN’ MR. CLEAN MAGIC ERASER. REALLY. BUY IT OR WE’LL RAPE YOU WITH A BROOM HANDLE, YOU IDIOT!”

Okay, so I added that last thingie. But just mostly because I’m kind of tired and out of it. Ok, okay. It’s because I’m deranged and psychotic.

A couple of you asked me if it came off the wall okay, and I laughed, because I took the time to photograph it, but I haven’t even considered cleaning it. If you could see how much of our crap is sitting in heaps and piles all over the place, you’d understand that it’s soooo not on the top of my list of things I even give half a flying turd about.

Oh, that and the fact that I’m a pretty crappy cleaningthingstypeperson.

In fact, I’m much better at things like playing in the yard…

…and relaxing in the bath tub.

These talents take much practice to perfect. I hone my skills carefully and I refuse to let the perfection I have so carefully developed dull from lack of repetition.

Just sayin.

So, back to the marks on the wall thing.

I do have to mention that Mr. Lady told me to spray hair spray on it and wipe it off. This did a couple of things for me: reminded me of how practically anything she says makes me laugh (even if she means it) and reminded me that I have no idea where half of my stuff is anymore.

What box is the hairspray in? Who the hell knows, people! It’s probably in the pile of boxes in the garage that are mingling with pieces of upside-down furniture, randomly draped curtains and scattered clothes-hangers. For all I know, it is procreating with the garden hose. God help us.

Speaking of, I better find the box with the clean underwear in it or wash the ones I’m currently wearing one of these days.

And NO. There’s no such thing as TMI at Sarcastic Mom’s Place.

Once I get my unmentionables washed and weave my way through the garage to the car, I’ll look up ole’ Baldie and give him a go, reporting back to all of you on how it went.

And I’ll even buy the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and see if it takes the marks off the wall.

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What I’m doing right now instead of writing posts…

What I’ll be doing after that…

I can’t wait until everything is all sorted, and I can take you guys on a tour of the new house!

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Scatastrophe

All the poo in the world was smeared into my living room carpet last night.Ok. So maybe not ALL the poo. But it sure SMELLED like all the poo.

Oh, before I go deep into this, I’m going to be a nice girl (please be appropriately shocked) and warn you that if you are squeamish about things like stinky, smooshy DOODOO, then you might not want to hang around for long.

And if you can stand reading about it, but seeing a picture would make you toss… well. Yeah. I’m postin’ pictures on this here biznatch.

So. Have I thinned the crowd? Oh COME ON PEOPLE. If I see you leave the room, I SWEAR I’m handing out Atomic Wedgies.

And you there, mister. I know you LIKE them, so that goes opposite for you. No wedgie for you if you leave.

*points at misguided pervert #52*

Ahem.

So. Yeah.

By the way, as some of you will recall, this is definitely not the first time we’ve had a Turdrageous Experience around here. And it’ won’t be the last, I’m sure.

Anyway…Last night, I made the IDIOTIC mistake of assuming that since my lovely, sweet-smelling son had already massively unloaded into his diaper right after dinner, that another fecal catastrophe would not be scheduled for the span of about, oh, let’s say AT LEAST 10 minutes.

I took off his diaper, did the necessary cleaning, and decided that he could have a good long run around with no pants on.

See, Braden is insanely vulnerable to getting diaper rash – and when I say rash, I mean awful, horrible, make-you-want-to-curl-up-in-a-ball-and-die-just-from-being-the-witness-to, weeping, oozing, bloody wounds on his sad, poor little tender biscuits.

If you look at my kid’s ass the wrong way, it turns red.

So we always give him at least 5 minutes of air drying time… and whenever we think “the time is right” we allow him to run naked.

When your kid takes a huge dump, you tend to think the time is right. You don’t expect another one for awhile.

My advice here for anyone thinking the same way: Don’t be an idiot.

And especially don’t think this when you just fed your kid beans and barley soup.

He ran joyfully to the living room and began playing with his toys, uttering the sweet little Toddlerese gibberish and squealie laughs of baby happiness that make a Mama’s heart feel happy.

I excused myself to check e-mail in the next room.

I could hear his little exclamations of joy and discovery.

Less than 5 minutes passed, and there was a bit of quiet. Then footsteps.

He came into the room. So did the odor.

I made eye contact with him. He turned around and started heading out again, quickly.

“Braden JAMES!”

(I warned you.)