When you join the league of SAHMs (stay at home moms) you forget that there are social graces amongst those who are not of your league. This is easily demonstrated in poop talk. You do not go to lunch with a childless friend and discuss the varying scents and textures of your babies poo. That is assuming you want to continue your friendship with this particular person.

I live a good life, the majority of people who surround me are able to talk the poo talk. However, I have a single sister in law, she just turned 22 and has her masters in accounting and works for the top accounting firm IN. THE. WORLD. Unfortunately I became too comfortable with her over the last week and let my “wall of tact” come crashing down.

She had asked if I had some extra products available to *ahem* assist in her monthly womanly journey.
I retrieved what I had from downstairs and while walking towards her with my head in a box of Tampax I shouted “I don’t really have a whole lot of supers, but I do have an ENORMOUS SUPER DUPER OVERNIGHT PAD…”

It was only as I got the word ‘PAD‘ out and held it up to show her I saw the look of horror, panic and fear in her eyes. She was on the phone. With an associate. A male associate. A professional male associate.

A professional male associate that she has to see on a daily basis in an office setting who probably didn’t want to know about my one last super duper enormous overnight pad. Or the fact that she was on her period.

Whoops.

I don’t do pressure cookers.

I will most likely never own one. Why not? OH! Did I not tell you about the time that Cody almost BLEW OFF HIS FACE WITH A PRESSURE COOKER?
He was making mashed potatoes at my moms house.

Silly me figured I knew what he was doing. Until I heard,

“Hey, how do you get the lid off?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never used one, don’t you know?”
“No, I only ever watched my mom and I don’t think this one is like hers.”

Excuse me?

You’re cooking with a lethal pot under the direction of WATCHING YOUR MOM over six years ago? Swell.

He started to grunt as if trying to push a very stubborn rhinocerous.

This is NOT how you open a pressure cooker.

Correction, this is NOT how you open a pressure cooker properly.

The BANG! was louder than a shotgun. Cody’s yell was not a good yell.

In less than the time for Cody to yell “I’m, um, okay?” I thought

“Heisdeadheisdeadevenifheisnotdeadheismissingalimborhisfaceor

hishandcanhegotolawschoolwithoutahand?Wouldhegetascholarshipfor

suchaninjury?NOtheywouldprobablykickhimoutforbeingsostupid.WillI

evenstillloveastupidstupidfacelessman?”

Ah, irrational fears.

I got up from the couch and before I even turned the corner into the kitchen I saw a good portion of the dozen potatoes smeared all over the wall 30 feet away from the stove. When I actually turned into the kitchen I saw a husband covered, COVERED, in scalding potatoes, I couldn’t see out the kitchen window because it was covered in potatoes, and the ceiling. OH THE CEILING.

The handle of the pressure cooker had busted OFF the pan and the handle was lodged into the ceiling. A ceiling surrounded by splatters of mashed potatoes. At least it wasn’t his face, right? The lid was lying off to the side of Cody’s feet.

I took a deep sigh and picked up the phone.

“Hi, mom, what kind of pressure cooker do you want?”

“Oh but I have a pressure cooker, it’s on the shelf…”

“Um, mom, no you don’t. Well, you did, but now you have a halfway decent attempt at a skylight.”

“Show her! Go show your mom!” Cody said through hysterical fits of laughter.

Now that’s never a good thing to hear.

the moosh came up the stairs to me, nothing looked wrong or out of place.

That is until she reached down her pants and pulled one of my sister in laws nursing pads from between her legs.

“IT’S MY PAD!” she declared, holding the round white pad up in triumph.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you have an observant audience at all of your bathroom performances.

I’m considering hanging giant jingle bells from any and all items the moosh is capable of standing on. This would include chairs, stools, buckets, laundry baskets, boxes, paint cans and potties. The creaking of chair legs across a laminate floor is a dead giveaway that the small person in your life is participating in naughtiness. I was stupid enough to put felt feet on my chairs back home therefore muffling any sounds of mischief. It was shortly after this mistake that I came down from taking a shower and found the moosh on my counter making herself chocolate milk. Greatly facilitated by the placement of a chair. Now, she actually did a pretty good job. She didn’t spill any milk but the seven scoops of chocolate powder to her four ounces of milk would have been nothing less than pretty stinking nasty. When I told Cody he said “Did you show her how to do it right for next time?”

NEXT TIME?

I don’t feel such a feat needs to be on a three year olds resume. Using the potty? Yes. Making chocolate milk? No. Besides what would be next? Making her own PB&J? Beef stroganoff? Maybe doing her own laundry? While those would be lovely things for her to learn, there is too much disaster associated from such acts being performed by a three year old. And besides, I’m pretty sure that’s why child labor laws are around.

Today my sister-in-law turned to me and said, “there’s a chair headed across the floor in the kitchen.” Her mom ears are much more fine tuned than mine given that she lives with this boy everyday. I went upstairs to a chair pushed right up against an open fridge and a moosh butt hanging off the top shelf trying to reach the yogurt I just told her she couldn’t have.

Time out ensued.

These are the times it sucks to be the parent in charge.

the moosh, if you ever read this, just know I was beaming with pride on the inside at your cunningness and refusal to take no for an answer.

You’re totally my kid.

Did I forget to mention that she made her own chocolate milk in a lion costume?

Who got Wii’s for Christmas?

I sure didn’t!

But I was sneaky enough to take one from my nephews so we could play while they slept. (One of the few reasons being a grownup is awesome.)

HOW MUCH FUN ARE THEY?

 

We did a little golfing, a little baseball, a little tennis, some bowling and a whole lot of boxing. Because Wii boxing unleashes any pent up anger you may be feeling and allows you to kick the virtual trash out of your spouse who insists that when he said he “suffers your wrath” he meant it as  a compliment. And kick his trash I did. I’m even a little sore. I’ll tell you what, you hold your abs in tight enough and virtual whoopings become a full body workout. Yep, this old lady was winded by a VIDEO GAME. I only suffered one injury during tennis, Cody got me with his virtual backhand.

This is where I mention that all those claims that people made about throwing themselves or their Wii remotes through the TV are COMPLETELY TRUE.

 

Because it nearly happened to us.

 

Sweet sweet victory.

And then there was the baby that played along. Turns out I’m not the only one addicted to baby crack. Watching Cody hold and play with a little two month old baby girl?

 

A dozen half naked Australian male models rubbing me down with exotic oils don’t even hold a CANDLE to Cody playing with a two month old baby girl.

Dear Santa,

Next year I would like a Wii and a baby girl.

xoxo-Casey

As a gift to you, your reader and myself,

I’m done with this posting everyday garbage.

Happy Birthday Jesus!

When I joined with Cody’s family seven years ago there was only one grandchild.

There are now seven.

We are quickly being outnumbered.

As I sat against a wall last night while we tried to fake some sort of family all together dinner I realized the adults are losing.

Little people are over taking our lives.

Adults: nine.

Kids: seven.

Five of the seven are fully capable of forming complete sentences, making demands and having opinions.

Five of the seven are also boys.

Four of the five boys spent the evening hurling themselves down the stairs.

the moosh spent the evening wondering who the heck these guys were and where the heck they came from.

the moosh is lost in a sea of sound effects, Spiderman, guns, cars and Transformers.

As am I. I never had a brother. I only have one little girl who oozes princess and bleeds pink.

Mrs. Fussypants just found out that she is knocked up with her fifth boy. As in they will live in her house all at the same time for at least 18 years.

Let’s all give the fabulous Mrs. Fussypants a big bloggy round of applause and congratulations.

That woman has balls.

12 of them.

Anybody else have what seems to be a senior citizen driving you around?
An angry, opinionated senior citizen*?

Cody is an angry driver. An aggressive driver. A very impatient driver.

A driver that makes a comment about EVERY OTHER CAR THAT DARES TO GET IN THE WAY OF HIS LIFE GOALS AND AMBITIONS.

If someone slows down to get a good look at some Christmas lights?

“HOLY CRAP PEOPLE! WHY ARE WE GOING TEN IN A TWENTY FIVE?”

If someone slows down to make a right turn? (The NERVE!)
“GOOD NIGHT! ARE YOU STOPPING OR TURNING?”

If someone doesn’t turn left at the first opportunity?”
“OH MY HECK! I WANT TO GET HOME BEFORE CHRISTMAS DUDE!”

Oy.

Please tell me it’s not just mine.

Because he may have been gone forty days but it only took four minutes in a car with him to remind me about all that “other stuff” I didn’t miss so much. Good thing we watched so many movies. Made me forget about all that other stuff.

Until we got in the car again at least.

*when I say senior citizen I am using my own 80 year old grandfather as an example. I don’t mean your sweet gentle natured grandparent.

This is one of those posts that no one related to me is EVER going to talk about.

They’re just going to stick their fingers in their ears and scream “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU” and pretend that I don’t talk about my lady bits on the internet. But frankly, I have some information that a lot of you will be interested in. (This is an invitation to quit reading dad, neighbors, father in law, mom, bishop, priests, prudes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

When this posts I will be at the airport surprising my husband. He thinks I am three hours away in his hometown and that he’ll be riding out with his sister tomorrow.

WRONG.

Instead his wife will be picking him up at the airport with a key to a hotel room five minutes from the airport.

You know, so we can go watch the news and take a nap.

IT’S BEEN FOURTY DAYS. Seriously, quit tsk tsking me. We have a lot of movies and books to catch up on together.

Heh.

Little does he know I spent an hour with a woman named Lisa on Monday. Lisa ripped every hair from my most tender areas with hot wax.

Whoo.

I know there’s a lot of you out there who have wanted to do this.

I haven’t even “used” it yet but I can already tell you to go do it.

It’s marvelous.

Your clothes fit better.

Really.

Yes, it hurts. 

And it involves some yoga type poses to get to all the, ahem, crannies.

I’m pretty sure I was more modest in the throes of childbirth.

Also, if your waxer uses hard wax you’ll need to know there will be a moment where it feels as though your, well, you know, is being sealed shut with a wax chastity seal.

But whoo.

It hurts so good.

I made a friend go with me and do it at the same time.

She’s test driven hers.

And whoo.

It will make watching all those movies much more comfortable.

Movies are always better when your jammies fit well.

Heh.