More than half is better than none.

• Laundry? SO not done
• House break-ins? Well, the door is totally broken now, so I shouldn't ever have to do THAT again. Please don't come rob me.
• Coffee? Of course I got that right. What is one without one's priorities?
• Possessions? Moved. Currently being rained on.
• Kids to school? Yep, early for once.
• New carpets? Fucking teases. 3rd time in a row new carpets promised, delivery failed. Grrr.
• Doctor? Not helpful. Not one little bit.
• Hot date? Better than hot. Made up for rest of it.
• Dentist? Will it never end? I'm considering dentures.
• Find kids floor? Going right now.....

Pushing it a bit

Normal day:

• Coffee
• Kids to school
• Blog
• Blog
• Tickle babies
• Facebook
• Lunch
• TV
• Blog
• Blog
• Blog

Today:

• Desperate push to do laundry
• Break into own house
• Coffee
• Move 1/2 of possessions to carport
• Kids to school
• New Carpets
• Doctors appointment
• HOT DATE!
• Dentist Appointment
• Find kids' bedroom floor

All of that? Before the kids come home today.

I already have a headache.

If loving you is wrong...

I don't wanna be right.

Molly got it stuck in my head again. Just when I thought I was over it. Damn you, Molly. Be warned, it's seriously like crack for moms. You're going to need it. Click with caution.

Trade-offs, or Good Vs. Evil

We all have our things with cleaning. Even those of you us* who hatehatehate housework have something that you like. Whether it be your Roomba, or huffing Pledge, we all like something. I, personally, cannot get enough of the smell of my laundry soap and would rather have a root canal than have to part with my excessively large stash of stain-removers. I like stains. I kick stains asses.

My husband simply cannot live without Windex. He loves it. He couldn't care less if the entire house had a hurricane blow through it (not true), so long as the coffee table shines. Turns out, he's not the only one.This, of course, is the most awesome awesomeness ever. This means I just got one less chore to do. She loved it. He sprayed; she wiped. She told him where to spray and he obliged.She and I have fun cleaning games, too; she'll grab a sponge and say, "Cwean, Momma!" and then my kitchen cabinets get scrubbed, but this was dad and she sorta has a crush on him and now they have this new game to play together. It's important to have someone who shares your obsessions passions.You know what's not awesome in any way about this whole thing? The fact that all of this happened at 11:30 in the PM last night. Eleven. And Thirty. At NIGHT. You see that bottle in the very corner of the picture? That was as close as she came to it for hours. Someone needs to talk to this kid about the human body and it's need to sleep.

No, really, I love housework. It's, like, my total favorite thing ever. And if you believe that, I also have some beach-front property in Denver I'm looking to unload.

Wiimergency!

How to repair a Wii in 10 easy steps:

1. Watch your wife totally lose her shit over a little jingle in the Wii.
2. Sit back calmly as wife goes at the Wii with tweezers and stuff.
3. Giggle when you remember the fate that befell the old VCR, and the $75 bill incurred 8 years ago to remove $0.73 from car cd player.
4. Listen as wife calls EB Games (site of purchase).
5. Wince when wife hangs up and calls Nintendo.
6. Shiver a bit as you hear words like, "Not covered under warranty" and "shipping to where?"
7. Clutch wallet in one hand while wife talks on the phone; start shaking the Wii with other hand.
8. Notice slight glimmer in wife's eye at the mention of Richmond.
9. With no way to know that wife has been looking for an excuse to go have coffee with this chick, but fully aware that something has made her very happy indeed at the prospect of driving to Richmond to drop off the Wii, and being quite certain that's it not that "I just found a way to save $20 on shipping" glimmer that she gets when she's cheap, ATTACK THE Wii. Go out it with ruthless abandon. Try to open the casing. Get out the really little screwdriver. Get that sumbitch fixed, and quick. She's got something up her sleeve, that one.
10. *Timing is crucial on this step* Right as wife (is she flirting with the Nintendo dude or something? Why the hell is she so happy all of a sudden?) writes down Repair Order number, right as she's doing it, close eyes, hold breath, pray a bit, and extract one small, white button that goes with nothing in this house from the belly of the Wii.

Voila! The Wii is repaired, you just saved $75, and now your wife doesn't get to go hang out with bloggers. Mission? Accomplished.

This Week in Review: The End is Extremely Nigh

(Updated. I can't get anything right the first time.)

Well, we figured out this week that the fire gods like to taunt us, the flood gods love us and want to shower us with water affection, and so now all we need is a hurricane and a good ol' mudslide and we will have the Wrath of Nature fully upon us, straight up biblical style.

Also, having repair-folk in your house for 12 hours straight is exhausting.

I learned that I really gotsta get me one of these. It is the coolest tool ever. Also, did you know that you can drill little holes in your wall after a floodish event and then run a whole lot of industrial fans in a room, and by doing so you can save your carpet and walls?

You can! You have to run a lot of fans, though.

And don't forget to put them around the washer & dryer, NOT IN FRONT OF THEM, 'cause if'ins you had a little water issue, you are going to have a mountain of baby blankets kids' laundry* towels to wash.


All of that? From one little crack in one little pipe dead smack in the middle of a support beam in the ceiling.

I found out this week that when the worlds' elements do lay siege to me and mine, we will survive, thanks mostly to our couch.

Under those lovely and quite expensive cushions one can find food to eat, including but not limited to bread, crackers and popcorn kernels, utensils to write SOS notes with, marbles to play with or fling at thine enemies, and a sock, I believe. Everyone knows that socks are essential for keeping your toes warm, and your hands, and can also be used for a nose warmer, ear muffs, and in dire emergencies make fabulous baby wipes. I highly recommend warming your nose before you get with the diaper change, though. And of COURSE there are golf tees. Lots and lots of golf tees. Who doesn't put golf tees in their Apocalypse stash under their couch?

Most important of all, though, is that this week I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am indeed capable of keeping all three of my children alive long enough to see their second birthdays.

This outfit came from her God Grandmother, who, from here on out I will refer to as GiGi (get it? God Grandmother? CUTE. I wish I'd thought of that 2 years ago.)

She's tired, and in no mood for pictures (that don't involve peek-a-boo), but this is the Cutest. Outfit. Ever. The fabric has a shoe pattern all over it. Shoes, 3of3's #1 obsession. The pants? Totally reversible. That is one handmade, full of love, birthday outfit. Thanks, GiGi. I am swooning.


Also, The Retropolitan is a genius. GENIUS.

Quite the week, eh? Thanksgiving is Monday (here) and I haven't even bought one stick of cream cheese yet. Yikes.

*If you really think I would use my children's baby blankets that are stored in the Room of Perpetual Floods or their laundry that they had just worked so hard to sort, wash and dry to soak up a water leak at 1 in the morning, you would be totally right** quite mistaken.

**Yeah, you're right. And yes, I suck.

Funnest Fun Ever

You know what makes a night better than anything else? Staying up until one watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, because it's the best show ever and you don't care at ALL if you have to get up at 7 the next morning to take care of your kids. Not just staying up until one, but turning the tv off at one and thinking you hear the washer running. Not just hearing the washer running, but hearing it running some 5 hours after you put in your last load. And then going down to see what the story is and seeing the motherfucking river Nile coming through your basement ceiling.

That is the best night ever. Really.

I mean, you get to run around like a chicken minus a head, trying to find the main water shut off, right after you have polished off and entire bag of pretzels, and you have to pee, and you have 3 kids, and those kids like modern conveniences like, oh, water in the morning. And you have a standing inch of water in your basement.

This rocks, of course, because it means you get to spend from 8 am until 1 pm the next day with your landlord, who hasn't slept more than 8 hours in a week because her 3 year old niece just had open heart surgery, and a plumber, who totally falls all the way down your stairs at some point in the repair process, and you can't even brush your teeth. You can't even brew a pot of coffee.

Best. Night. Ever.

Tales of crazy screaming mullet pirates

First things first: I'll average the reaction to the scampi and give it a solid 8. (I KNOW; I can't believe it, either.) 1of3 vowed to eat not one single bite, but I have that nasty-mom-'take-one-bite'-rule, and it turns out he lurves it. 2of3 liked it, but mostly just liked the pasta. 3of3 ate broccoli and pineapple. She's refined like that. All in all, it was a hit.

And now I will bore you with stories of my retarded family.

Josh took the boys to get haircuts. 2of3 sits down in the chair to get a cut and the lady asked what grade he was in. His reply, in one breath with no pauses at all, was, "I'm in 2 I was in grade 1 so now I'm in 2 I'm seven I hate my older brother it SUCKS to be seven." The lady laughed so hard she had to walk away for a minute. She came back and asked him how he liked his hair cut, and he told her he wanted a mullet.

I have no response to that.

Josh got a haircut, too. He's trying to grow it out after 35 straight years of the exact same cut, and so he has to re-train it. Re-training it means he has to walk around all day with a do-rag on his head. The only thing we have that even comes close to working for this is a Tiger Cub bandanna, and so he has spent two full days with a bright orange rag on his hair. He has decided that this makes him Captain Jack Sparrow. He runs around saying arrrrgh. He calls me matee. It's funny. We were on the deck and he flicked a bee, mid-air, away from us and said, "You know why I can flick a bee while it's flying? 'Cause I'm a pirate." Another bee landed on the floor by his feet and he kicked at it. He missed, and as he jumped into the air to stomp on the bee, he exclaimed, "Argh! I am a PIRATE!"

*splat* Pirate: 1 Bee: 0

While they got haircuts, 3of3 and I were getting groceries and as we walked down the aisles, we passed a man who gave me that look; that look that either means, "Isn't that baby cute? I have a baby, too. Maybe they could be friends" or "Isn't that baby cute? That chic sure does make a good looking kid. Maybe I could procreate with her, too". Those looks are hard to distinguish. Anyway, shortly thereafter tiny little aliens flew their tiny little mothership into my daughters' nose and started eating through her brain with razor sharp tiny teeth (well, that's what it sounded like; maybe she just wanted candy) and the same man passed us again. He stopped, turned to my little banshee and me, and said, "Wow. She sure is cuter when she's not screaming."

I agree, fully.

Victoria's Secret needs a produce section

The other day, 3of3 and I went to the mall. To buy bras. See, I only own 2 bras. I just never think to buy them and when I have to, inevitably someone needs a new backpack or track shoes or another brand new set of golf clubs. Again. Bras are expensive. They have to be budgeted in. And I hate spending money on myself. Anyway, I finally decide that it had to be done, no matter what, so the baby and I head off to the mall. We stop for lunch first and then pop into another store to pick up a pair of pants for me because I am now wearing a size of pants that I ain't never gonna tell you, and then she starts screaming. Ugh.

What stops screaming? Chocolate ice cream cones, that's what.

We head to the undie store and she is now fully chocolate dipped, but she's happy. I have no idea what size bra I'm in these days, so it takes me a minute to look around and grab a few that look like they might work. She's still quiet, and so we press on.

About this point is when I start noticing a few women giving her looks, and then giving me looks, and not the "oh isn't she sweet" looks, either. A salesgirl walked by us and said "GOD. What happened to that kid?" A little toddler hand shoots out from the stroller and not only is it chocolate brown, it's pink on top of that. The little hand grabs a bra beside her. Her little hand leaves what looks like a paint print on the bra. I look in the front of the stroller and holy god in heaven the kid is up to her eyeballs in filth. It appears that she has gotten into my purse while I was looking at undies and grabbed my lipstick, lipstick that costs more than she does, and smeared it all over herself. Her eyelids, her ears, her whole face, the front of her shirt, her Crocs, everything is covered. The stroller is covered.

I. Could. Die.

At this point I decide that I have come this far and I am seeing this shit through. We go into the changing room and I get my top off and a bra on and she starts screaming at the very tip top of her lungs. SCREAMING. BLOOD F*#ING MURDER SCREAMING.

Nothing will stop her. I try to ask her please, to let momma do this one thing, that it's really important and that momma's boobies are so saggy that she's going to start wearing them as boots soon if she doesn't get a new bra or two and dear god child will you just stop with the crying for 2 more minutes and here's another tube of lipst......

And that's when I stopped. Sagging boobs be damned. I cannot replace that lipstick. They don't sell my brand in Canada.

I totally started crying.

What's a girl gotta do to get a bra around this joint?

She screamed all the way out of the mall, across the parking lot, into Safeway where we had to pick up some milk and the screaming continued without letup or sympathy from passers-by until we passed the apples.

*sniffle* Appool? Momma, appool. Wan appool." And that was it. No more crying, no nothing. Especially no bras.

I have a favor to ask

But first, before I take my leave for the weekend, I have to mention that today, for the first time in the history of my mommydom, I am letting my children walk themselves home. They each have a toonie in their pocket

so they can get a treat from the corner store on their way home. We have rehearsed this walk a thousand times. It's safe, the other kids go home that same way, it's an easy downhill walk. I know all of this.

I am totally freaking out.

Anyway, I am going to ask you all for an eencie teencie little favor this weekend. See, there are quite a few of you who stop on by my silly little blog on a regularish basis, and I thought it might be fun if I actually knew who all of you were and how you stumbled upon my site. And so, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to click up there on the title of this post and say, "Hi, my name is Babelshneed and I tried to google Worst Mother Ever and here's where I ended up."

Or something like that. I'd love it if you did. All of you. Even you, Veronica.

My daughter is totally OCD.

She's also 1, and don't think that doesn't make for tons of fun. She's a clean freak, but all Libras are, and so we work with that. She loves to paint all over herself and dump mud in her brothers' hair and color on the walls or the momma, but god forbid anything should sully her little hands. You'd think someone had just chopped them off, what with the screaming.

Her new favorite word is clean. The other day we spent a good chunk of the afternoon scrubbing the cabinet doors. This is her idea of fun. Her new favorite game is make mom clean up spilled drinks. It goes something like this:

We get about halfway through lunch when she grabs her cup and dumps it on the table. She then points at the puddle and says, "Cwean, Momma!" She loves this game with all 30 inches of her being. I do not.

When she eats, she has to have a paper towel under her plate. Not a place mat, mind you, a paper towel. And not a whole paper towel, either. It has to be one folded in threes or one of those "Choose your size" towels. She has to have this so she can center her plate in the middle of it and then line up her cup in the space to the left and her bread/cookie/dipping sauce on the right. Everything has to be just right and she will spend however much time she has to in order to get it right. I cannot, under any circumstances, try to help her with this. Once everything is evenly spaced and level, the cross-dumping begins. Cheerios go into cups which go onto spoons which go on toast which then gets lifted and dumped back into bowls. Rinse, lather, repeat.

At snack time, she usually stands at my feet and points up at the cupboard containing the desired yummanummy of the day. And screams at it. This is pretty par for an almost-two-year-old, but the best part of it....example:

She wants an ice cream sandwich. I open the freezer (bottom drawer freezer thingy), get her the treat and almost completely but not quite close the door to the freezer (if there's one thing I am incapable of, it's closing a door all the way. It's obnoxious). She will unwrap her ice cream sandwich, put the wrapper in the trash (neat freak) and before she takes bite one she will walk back to the freezer and push it closed. I didn't even notice it was still open.

She, like her father, cannot stand it if anything is ajar. Her shoes sit in a rack with 4 drawers. If I pull out a pair, she will watch to make sure I push the drawer back in. If I don't, she will. Every goddamn time.

When it's getting dressed time, well, most of the time I can pick out her clothes. Not always, but she's not exactly tall enough to reach her drawers and so I have the evolutionary edge. But shoes, shoes are a whole different story. The shoes are stored at toddler level. She is very, very picky about which shoes she wears. And if there happens to be a buckle or a lace on the shoes-o'-the'day, forget about it. She spent 10 minutes the other day (which is, like, a month in toddler years), trying to tie her shoes. The amazing thing is, she got them half way tied. I kid you not. She can get her shoes on the right feet every time, she can buckle her own boots, attach her own velcro straps, and she will not even entertain the idea of your doing it for her. We usually skip the shoe part until she's fastened in a car seat and quite helpless to stop us. Oh, and crocs. Little baby crocs have saved my sanity.

This has all happened before even her second birthday. I am totally afraid of this kid at 13.

Just stuff

I am still sick. I woke up a few days ago and didn't feel exactly like this anymore, and so I thought I was on the mend. And, in fact, I do think I am one my way to Wellsville. I finally swept my floors, although I almost bought a Roomba; yes, they were so bad I contemplated robotic intervention. I got the laundry done. I even made the 3 hour round trip drive to the bank (see, I am way too cheap a bastard to pay some dumb ass bank $50 to wire money into my account when I live all of 30 minutes from the American border. I'll do it myself, thank you very much). I was doing ok. Yes, my nose is still packed full of stuff the same color as this blog page, but what can I say? I like things to match. Yes, my tum has been upset all week, but I figured that had something to do with the packed nose and the post-nasal drip and a fairly strong gag reflex. But last night, oooooh last night, it all came crashing down. About 10:15 or so my stomach told me to take a flying leap and turned over several times. Now, I never, ever throw up. I have a stomach of steel plated steel. I can clean up puke, I can watch people bite the heads off praying mantises (which are an endangered species, people, and it's totally illegal to do it, but if you did, I could watch it just fine*). I only puke when I'm drunk and when I'm pregnant. Funny, one usually leads directly to the other and the both make me hack. Coincidence?

Anyway, I was not drunk and since I picked up one of these beauties**,

I know I most certainly am not playing host to any short people. But for some strange reason, right about 10:15 last night, I had to throw up. My kids have never actually seen me throw up before, and 2of3 sorta freaked out. Yes, honey, even moms throw up sometimes. And when they do, well, let's just say that Mr. Creosote ain't got nothing on me.

There's no point here. I thought I was better; I clearly am not. And now I'm totally afraid to eat. I'd rather listen to 7 hours of Kathy Griffin than throw up once.

On another note, I am thinking it might be time to change my email address. Unlike my incredible traveling blog here, I have had to same email address since the dawn of man. Which is fine, except that my email is the first 4 letter of my name and my boys names. Which is also fine, except it might be time to accept that I now have a third child and maybe start including her in some things, like my tattoos, or my jewelry, or my email address. And hell, the boys have their own email accounts now. Maybe I should just have one in my very own name? Maybe???

Maybe I'm not quite ready for that just yet. So I'll leave it up to you, dear readers. Do I get my own, shiny new email address or do I bank on the fact that I've got 3 good years before this kid can read and 7 or so before she gives a dingo's kidneys about email?

*Turns out, they're not. Bite away, dudes.

**Good lord, someone needs to post the chastity belt scene from Robin Hood, Men in Tights onto Youtube. They're ruining my blog vision!