The naked truth about kids and being a mom, aka: birth control.
In my house, aside from 2 devil possessed children, there are 4 fantastically furry cats. The two oldest are brother and sister, and I regret to say that they managed to have a litter together before they could get fixed. But that’s totally normal in the animal kingdom right? Right? Any who, the other two are mother and son. The mother came to us as a knocked up alley cat. Her name, Putana. It’s Greek for slut. Perfect.
After Putana came into the house and decided to give birth under my couch my oldest female decided that was the perfect time to start peeing……on everything. She pees on toys, dishes, backpacks, bathmats, blankets, clean clothes, dirty clothes……..me. You name it, she has peed on it. I was dealing ok with it until she peed on my last week.
I heard scratching in the kids playroom so I poked my head in to see what was going on. There she was with her furry butt in the box of Thomas the Train toys. I flew across the room and snatched her up! Did you know that cats, much like infants, don’t stop peeing when you pick them up? Neither did I. I looked down and saw yellow cat pee running down my leg onto my foot (so glad I don’t wear shoes in the house). We zip through the toy room, through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the laundry room where the cat box is. She was done by the time we got there, and there was a nice long stream following us through all the rooms.
"This is the last straw, you’re done!" I yelled. One week later and she’s still here.
After the shock of being peed on wore off and a shower was had, it was time for bed. All minions were tucked in for the night and I was on my way there. I snuggle down into the middle of my bed, surrounded by big fluffy pillows and drift off to dream land……or so I thought.
"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy……….I has to pee." says a little voice from next to the night stand. I reluctantly roll out of bed and pick my son up. "You have to pee?" "Yup." "Ok." And down the stairs we head. Half way down I feel my side get really warm. Really really warm. "Theo? Did you just pee on me?" "Uh huh." Awesome. Did you know that 3 year olds, much like cats, don’t stop peeing on you even after you ask them about it? Neither did I.
Twice, twice in less than 6 hours. By two different beings. By two different species even. Just my luck. I am officially done with pee and taking applications for volunteers who would like to get peed on. Pheobe starts potty training in less than a year so if this position can be filled by then it would be great. Thanks.
As any mother will tell you getting ice cream as a family when you have kids is always an experience! Especially when they don’t know how to wipe their own butts.
It’s Friday, what better thing for a family of 4 to do than to go get ice cream? So that’s just what we did! Huge heaping servings of chocolate, soft serve vanilla, coconut, and heath bar were served up in cones and dishes. I am the mom, I got a cone because I have good positive control! Right?
Five minutes into our ice cream feast Theo looks up at me with those panicked eyes that I know too well. “I have to poop!” Loud and proud in the middle of the ice cream shop. We hurry off to the bathroom, and close the door behind us. Once the door is closed and I see Theo standing there with a look of distress in his eyes with his pants around his ankles….standing next to a toilet that looks 3 feet high. I move forward to help and it dawns on me that I am holding my double decker coconut and heath bar cone in my hand.
Now what? Seriously? Am I really stuck in here in this dilemma? I lift him up with my left hand and stand there wondering if it is acceptable to eat my cone while waiting for my son to finish pooping. I lick…..I sniff…..not a good idea! “I’m done!” Great! Record time! I go to grab the toilet paper (ice cream still in hand). No tp on the little roll. No tp on the left large roll. No tp on the right large roll. No tp on the back of the toilet! Are you serious?!?!?!?!
What to do. Poop in the 3yr old’s butt and an ice cream in hand. I’m Totally going to be busted publicy for eating in the bathroom! I then slink out with my cone behind my back and a 3yr old still sitting on the toilet (confused at this point). I quietly ask for a roll of tp and slink my way back into the bathroom, ice cream still in hand.
Once behind closed doors i can breath a sigh of relief. I then begin to pull the wrapper off the tp. Not working with ice cream in hand. I then start looking for some kind of magic ice cream cone holder as if all ice cream shops would run into this problem with their patrons. Nothing. I look at the electric hand drier. No. I look at the sink. No. I look at the tp holder. Eww, no. I am then left with no choice but to slink out again with ice cream in hand.
I go up to my husband and ask him to hold my cone, knowing it will not be anywhere close to it’s original state when I come out of the bathroom for good in another 2 minutes. Back in to the bathroom again. I help my son wipe his butt (the high light of all my days) and then go to flush the toilet.
I look down and notice the poop is dangerously close to the front of the water. I cross my fingers and flush. The poop sits there like concrete in a wind storm. I go to flush again. Damn water saving toilets!!!!! Why do you not fill up quickly?!?!?! I wait 30 seconds and try to flush again. Nothing. Meanwhile my son is getting fidgety and wants to know why he can’t continue to enjoy his chocolate goodness waiting for him at the table. “Wait a minute Theo, Mommy is trying to fix the toilet.” “Fix the toilet?” “Yes.” “My poop broke the toilet?” “Yes.” A look of shock.
I try to flush again. I give up! If we’re in there any longer people are going to start to wonder. I go back out to the counter and hand them the bathroom key. I look to the floor and say, “My son clogged the toilet with his poop. Sorry.” and walked away. The 3 teenages behind the counter giggle and start to color on a piece of paper.
All the giggling and scribbling produced an “Out Of Order” sign for the bathroom door. I try to explain to them that really all they have to do is try to flush it again. As if a 17 year old wants to hear that! “It’s ok, we’ll just leave the sign up.”
Five minutes later a family walks in. They need to use the bathroom. Awesome.
When the kids and I walk the dog, my son likes to hold the leash and run up and down the sidewalk with the dog dragging behind him. After about 5 minutes of this the other day he ran up to me and handed me the leash. Confused, but relieved for the dog, I took over and resumed walking. Then there was a little panicked little voice behind me that piped up, “I have to pee!”
I turned around just in thime to see my son standing in the grass between the sidewalk and the road with his pants down around his knees. Facing the road. Ready to pee. Just like the dog.
I can no longer blame my children’s bad habits on my husband, it’s totally the dog’s fault.
My house only has one air conditioned room, the living room. This leaves the rest of the house to feel like the face of the sun, HOT! Needless to say all things that breath congregate in the living room (dubbed the Awesome Room) as much as possible. Because of the fact that there is limited space in the “Awesome Room” we try to keep the majority of the kid’s toys on the face of the sun.
Last night my son decided that he wanted to play with his trains in the “Awesome Room”. When asked if he could play with them I said yes he could. I then noticed that he wanted to play with ALL his trains (there are upward of 50 or so). I stopped him before he could maneuver the large box of trains from the playroom to the living room. “You can play with your trains, but you can’t bring the box into the living room.” Those are the words that were formed in my brain and came out of my mouth. “Ok Mommy.” Followed by a huge grin.
Two minutes later I hear what sounds like a waterfall of trains. I turn to look toward the doorway of the living room and see all the trains dumped over the threshold and onto the living room carpet. The box was still out in the hallway.
Next time I will form my words a little better.
We have been dog sitter a little white rat dog for almost a week. Let it been known well in advance that I do NOT like dogs! Clarification, I like other peoples dogs that only bother you for a few minutes and then leave. I dislike having a dog in my own home that I have to take care of.
Night 1 consisted of the boob licking dog getting her nick name, The Boob Licking Dog. We were warned that she would not do well in her crate in a new home and that it was “ok” to bring her to bed with us. As soon as this rat dog was in my bed she starting licking my boobs. I tried everything, I pulled the covers up, I put a shirt on, I put her on the floor. And she STILL found a way to get to my boobs!
This dog has continued to be a thorn in my side sinse that night. Every night I have had to get up with both the kids AND this damn dog due to bodily functions! In short from 1:30am to 4:30am I am dealing with some sort of bodily fluid coming from at least 1 of the 3. It really is fantastic.
The second day here the boob licking dog nipped at my son while they were playing. My husband, in his booming New Yorker voice, scolded the dog and smacked it on the toosh. The dog will no longer go near my husband. This leaves the damn thing attached to me for even longer periods of time.
I have 2 kids, 4 ovely needy cats (that are peeing all over everything because they dislike the Boob Licking Dog as well), and now a rat dog who is glued to me everytime I sit/lay down. Down right peachy I tell you!
Having a boy means endless amounts of penis shows. Regardless of how much or little clothing my son has on, his penis will inevidably come out. Just this morning my husband asked him to get his iced tea out of the fridge. Before turning toward the kitchen to fetch the iced tea my son pulls down his underwear so that his penis was hanging out over the top. He then proceeded to execute the entire iced tea evolution with his penis hanging out. The soundtrack to this happening was “Eeeeee, penis!” everytime he entered a room. Having a boy is not for the modest family.