The Crisps, The Bloods, and The Lion Kings

I love my grandpa. I was the first grandchild, and I was a girl, so my Grandpa Harold spoiled me ROTTEN. I mean, really rotten. When I was little he would take me Toys R Us and FAO Schwartz like every weekend and bought me so many stuffed animals my mom didn't know what to do with them. That's not the only reason I love my grandpa, I love him even more now because he does really cool things with me. Like buy me tickets to The Book of Mormon, which is hands down the best musical EVER. So yeah, my grandpa's awesome. Here's another reason why he's awesome.

So, my grandpa is an oral surgeon. He's a dentist, but the type that takes your teeth out. Like your wisdom teeth. After he semi-retired, he started helping out at a correctional facility. That's a fancy word for "jail". After a couple weeks of working on "the inside", my grandpa decided to share some secret knowledge he gleaned. About gangs.

So, we're in a restaurant (another great thing about my grandpa, he always takes us to really nice restaurants and always treats) and my grandpa says in a hushed voice, "Hey, Rebecca...do you know what that is?" And he does something weird with his hand. It kind of looks like Phoebe from Friends, when she's trying to teach Joey guitar? And all of the chords have their own hand gestures and names for what they look like? Well, I think my grandpa just made the hand gesture for the "Old Lady". Anyway I say cautiously, "Nooooo...." My grandpa lowers his voice even more and says (completely serious), "That's the gang sign for 'The Crisps'." The Crisps??? I try to stifle a laugh and say to him, "You mean The Crips??" "Yeah, yeah, that," my grandpa says, "You know, there's a lot of gangs in there. There's even some members from The Lion Kings!" 

Now, I really can't contain my laughter. I choke on my water and stutter and manage to get out, "You mean the Latin Kings? Oh my god..." and I continue to laugh. By now, the rest of my family members at the table want to know what is so funny, so I let them in on my and my grandpa's conversation and now the entire table is laughing so hard, we all just simultaneously peed ourselves. That being said, I would just love to live in a world where the most dangerous and notorious gangs are named after cereal and Disney movies. 

Oh, those grandpas. So naive...

Carnivorous Squirrels

Sooooo my house almost burned down yesterday. And I am convinced this is all Steve's fault.

Four days ago, on Friday, I came home from work and patiently waited for Steve to come home from work. When 6:15 came and went and Chloe was getting fussy due to wasting away from starvation, I decided to go ahead and make dinner for the two of us. So, dinner is done and I've just done all of the dishes, the kitchen's been cleaned up and I've got Chloe in the tub when Steve gets home. Steve has the brilliant idea to use our only nice pot to deep fry chicken in. Which he's never done before. Oh, and he decides to do this using an entire bottle of olive oil. 

I say to him, "Please don't leave me a huge mess to clean up."  "I won't," is his reply. So, the next day I come home from work and the pot of used oil is still sitting on the stove. Steve gets home from work and I say, "Could you please wash that pot?" I get a grunt in reply. Later, I let the dogs out to do their business while I get their bowls of food ready. I look out the front window and see Ty, our Black and Tan Coonhound, scarfing whole chicken wing bones. Bones that were just sitting there, on our lawn, right outside the front door. "Ummm," I say to Steve, "your dog just ate like 7 whole chicken wings that were just right out on our lawn? Whyyyy are their chicken wings on the lawn and not in the garbage?" Steve says casually, "For the squirrels." Really?? I had NO IDEA that squirrels hunted and ate chickens! Someone better warn the lake association before the people who sell fresh eggs down the street lose their flocks to these carnivorous squirrels! 

I just don't get it, I really don't get his train of thought on this subject.

So, the days go by and STILL there is a pot of oil on the stove and I absolutely REFUSE to wash it. I pick up after this man each and every day. He seems to be physically incapable of the following mundane, every day activities:
1) Throwing ANYTHING away (including, but not limited to: beer bottle caps, old receipts, junk mail, empty milk cartons, empty food packages, clothing tags, etc etc)
2) Putting clothes into the hamper instead of on the floor next to the hamper
3) Putting away ANYTHING

So, I say to myself, this is not my mess. I work all day just like he does. Except when I come home, I don't get to watch Mustang and quad videos on YouTube. No, I make dinner and give Chloe her bath and get her ready for bed. Oh, and take care of the animals and write lesson plans and cure cancer and perform quantam physics, and and and...

So, I come home yesterday to a house full of smoke. I panic, leaving Chloe in her carseat outside on the front step, I rush into the house and find the flame of the front burner of our gas stove is on full blast. I quickly turn off the gas. There is smoke EVERYWHERE. And it smells like my house is a KFC on fire. Because. Of. The. Oil. In. The. Pot. On. The. Stove. Yep. 
The pot of oil, the very one that has been the subject of my nagging for the past 4 days is sitting precariously on both the front burner (the one that was left on) and back burner. And it is burning. And smoking. FML. I open every window I can, but its about 2 degrees outside and can only leave them open for about a half hour before I start to freeze to death. So I close them and can't fully air out my poor house. 

Steve and I conclude that one of the cats (probably the fat ass, Mona) climbed up onto the stove to drink from the pot of chicken grease and, when jumping down, knocked one of the knobs into the "on" position. 
So now, everything we own - including my nice winter jacket, our shower curtain, our couch, and our bedspread - all smell as if they have been deep fried and then burned. 
And, of this I am certain, all because Steve didn't wash that f-ing pot. Which is now ruined and in the garbage. 

At least now the carnivorous squirrels of Harwinton have some nice chicken grease to feast on. 

Unaccompanied Minors

Over the weekend I went thrift store shopping with my friend, Laura. Oh, and her 3 young children. 

First, we stopped at Burger King to get the kids dinner. We get our food and all is fine until I mistakenly try to discipline a child that is not my own. Do not do this. Ever. I mean, EVER. Seriously.

 First of all, it was totally not my place to say anything, but I thought I was helping. Really. One of Laura's boys was practically sitting on his toddler sister's lap and she was getting really fussy. As in, making a noise that sounds like a drowning cat, fussy. Laura asked him (nicely) to move. Which he wouldn't. I thought I would help by adding that if he didn't listen, I was going to take his leap pad. Wrong move. Her son got very angry with me and started making a "I'm being possessed by the devil" type face and began screaming. Ugh, sorry Laura. I said I was sorry to her son and all was well, but I still feel so bad about it. Because, I mean, like who the hell am I to  get involved like that? I'm surprised Laura didn't smack me.

So, we make it to the thrift store and Laura and I start browsing in separate aisles. Suddenly, I see a shopping cart filled with children careening through the store. Logan (who is 3 & 1/2) is standing up inside the cart. Paige (the 1 & 1/2 year old) is sitting in the child seat portion of the cart. They are being pushed by Jack, Laura's 6 year old. "Pushed" being the operative word here. It is more like Jack is trying to get enough speed to catapult his brother and sister into space and if they don't go fast enough, they won't break the atmosphere and will explode into millions of tiny pieces. So Jack goes flying by me, all the while Logan is making a sound that compares in both volume and sound effects to a car alarm. I turn to watch them go right past me, the slowly turn back to browsing through the store's selection of clothing while simaltaneaously muttering out loud (so the stranger shopping next to me can hear me), "Wonder where those children's mother is?" Okay, so that last part didn't actually happen. I'd be such a bitch if I had done that. But, I did turn away from Laura's kids and pretend I didn't know them. That actually did happen. Sorry, Laura. I can't believe you're still friends with me.

But, aside from this isolated incident, I really do adore Laura's kids. Jack is hilarious, constantly saying things that lead me to believe he's going to be a stand-up comedian. Like, for example, in Laura's last blog (she writes one too, btw, and you should definitely check it out- http://thematoscircus.blogspot.com) Jack smacked Laura on the ass and called her "Ol' Lady!" Awesome. 
His younger brother, Logan, is just so stinking cute and adorable. He was me giving hugs and kisses yesterday that made me just melt. And he's in love with Chloe and is super sweet to her. And Paige, well, let me tell you, that girl is going to cure cancer. She's just that smart. I mean, she's 1 & 1/2 and she can count to 3. But not just say the numbers, she can actually show you 1, 2, and 3 items. I'm serious. She's a flippin' genius.

Anyway, I think these photo booth photos taken at the Danbury Fair Mall yesterday completely sum up everything you need to know about us and our kids

Take 1:

Take 2:

I think the best one is the third photo from the top in "take 2":

So in all, it was a very eventful shopping trip and Laura and I were very excited about our thrift store finds. I got about 8 or 9 pairs of name-brand pants for Chloe (Baby Gap, Children's Place, Gymboree, etc) and a shirt for $16.00. Awesome! Laura got the steal for the day, finding a brand new pair of Oshkosh snow pants for like $3. I love being white trash! Just kidding, shopping at a thrift store doesn't make you white trash. But I actually am starting to think that I am (just a little). But that's another blog.

Y'all come back now, ya hear???

Sleepless in Harwinton

So, after our co-sleeping debacle, I decided to fashion a "toddler bed" for Chloe to sleep in. The idea was, that it would be a sort of co-sleeper. You know, those bassinet-type beds that are on level with your own bed? After the baby falls asleep with you, you just slide the baby over onto her own bed. Also, she's in arms reach should she start fussing. Here's what I'm talking about:

Look how happy that mother is. Her little one can't fall off the bed and mom has her own space on the bed as opposed to being squished into a little ball with an elbow/knee/foot in her back. 

Well, Steve had decided to pull all the couch cushions off the couch and place them on the floor next to our bed in order to create a crash landing pad for our little stunt girl. I decide to take it one step further by hauling the mattress out of her crib. Which, by the way, is a very expensive "nature-pedic" organic cotton mattress that my mother bought me. One that Chloe has not once slept on. So anyway, I struggle and grunt and finally get this thing out of the crib and have it leaning against our own bed when Steve comes in. "What the..." he begins.  "Listen," I tell him, "if this doesn't work then, whatever. What have we got to lose?" So I shimmy the mattress down on top of the couch cushions in between our wall and our bed. Almost a success. There's about a half a foot drop from our bed to my make-shift co-sleeper. But, if I can get her on it, there's nowhere for her to fall.

So, last night we went to bed as usual. When I was certain Chloe was in such a deep sleep that no amount of movement could possibly wake her, I start the artful process of moving her to her new "bed". I carefully slide her to the edge of the bed and then proceed to shake her violently while screaming, "STAY ASLEEP! STAY ASLEEP!!" Well, that's what I might as well have done since the second her body hit the new mattress, she began to flail all of her limbs and cry. Sigh. So, now I am on the makeshift toddler bed with Chloe, letting her nurse herself back to sleep. My plan is to get her back to sleep and then slip out, unnoticed, into my own bed. That's the plan, anyway. The reality is that Chloe clings to me like this is Sophie's Choice and any small movement I make, including breathing, results in her wailing like the world is ending. 

I do eventually manage to slip out of our lovely arrangement and do get to sleep in my own bed, on my own side, without any foreign body parts touching my body...for all of an hour. I timed it. I left Chloe on her "bed" at 12:22. I woke up to her crying at 1:20, took her into bed with me, and we both went back to sleep for the rest of the night. But hey, that's the longest she has ever slept in her own bed. Ever. So, maybe we're making progress? 

Anyway, here's my "toddler bed"(patent-pending):

Yes, that is a giant stuffed unicorn wearing my sweater. The idea being that Chloe would have a mass next to her that smelled like me and thus, was me. That was they idea, anyway.

That's all for now! Sweet dreams!

No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed!

So, if you read Steve's status update this morning (which he called his "blog", hilarious) then you already know what happened. Our daughter Chloe fell off the bed. Again. Now, before you go calling CPS, let me give you some background.

Chloe suprised us by being born a month early. She was 5lb 4oz at birth and we ended up bringing home a 4lb 13oz teeny tiny newborn who didn't even fit in her preemie-sized jammies. I was very very very diligant about NEVER falling asleep with her my arms. I was too scared I would crush her or drop her or that my falling asleep with her would cause her to stop breathing since everyone tells you the second you give birth how "dangerous" co-sleeping is. We didn't have to worry though, she was great. She slept in her bassinet without issue and all was well. For about 4 weeks.

As soon as Chloe hit "full term" it seemed a light switch flipped in her little brain and suddenly, 6:00pm would roll around and Chloe would start screaming. Nothing we did EVER made any difference. I would have just nursed her, she'd be dry, she'd be swaddled....and she would scream and scream and scream until about 1 or 2 in the morning. She would have screamed for so long, she'd be hoarse. I'm not even exagerating.

So, here I am in my living room with a crying infant who has now been crying for about 7 hours. She's been nursed and swaddled, I'm shushing and bouncing and falling asleep on my feet. I haven't slept in about 4 days and I'm starting to hallucinate. I enter a delirious state where I remember what it was like to sleep. Finally, I take her into my room, lay down on the bed with her in my arms, and start to drift off. When I wake up, its 10:00 in the morning. And so starts our co-sleeping journey. 

Now, before you go crazy and chastise me and say "You never should have done that!" I need to ask you, what would you do? Seriously. What would you have done? Steve says I'm compeltely at fault, but this is not true. Because while I was in the living room with the banshee that possessed my lovely, sweet little newborn, where was he? Sound asleep in the bedroom, enjoying ANOTHER uninteruppted night of sleep. Now, had Steve just ONCE come out into the living room and said, "Here honey, let me take her for a little bit. You go to sleep." We might be in a different predicament. But he didn't. And to this day he'll tell you there was nothing he could have done for her. He doesn't have boobs, so what could he possibly do? Well, he could've done what I did. Walked around the living room, humming and singing, rocking and bouncing and, if all else failed, going for a ride in the car. So yes, I think we're both at fault here.

So, here we are, 13 or so months later, and our daughter sleeps in our bed. Out of which she fell last night. We're considering buying a bed-side rail (like in hospitals, or for old people) or getting a co-sleeper and then, (hopefully) transferring her into her own toddler bed. The crib is not an option. You so much as go near that thing with her in your arms and she starts to wail like I'm about to put her into a torture chamber.

Besides, how could you say no to this cutie?

Well, that's all for now. Oh, and if my dad asks? Chloe sleeps in her crib.

The Gangsters on the Bus

Here's a snapshot of my day.

I get up at 5:30 in the morning, rouse a very sleepy, very cranky toddler and strap her into her car seat, drive her 30 minutes to day care, then drive another 30 50 minutes to work. I then teach the most boring subject allllll day (7:35-3:15), pick up aforementioned toddler up from day care (at which she has not napped ONCE), drive into our area, run about a million errands, and then FINALLY go home. I get home, on average, around 5/5:30. I'll do the math for you, that's 12 hours. From start to finish. 

So now, I need to change the baby, feed and walk the dogs, feed the cats, get the pellet stove going, and get dinner made. All before the hubs fiancée' gets home at 6:30. Yeeesh. So, imagine you're in your kitchen, cutting up raw chicken with a huge cutting knife while you have at least 2 burners on the stove going. You do not have any free hands and your beautiful, 15-month old daughter begins to cry. I wash my salmonella chicken-covered hands. Here's a cookie, Chloe. Back to cutting. Okay, that's bought me all of 8 seconds. Now she's really complaining in earnest because her mother is ignoring her, neglecting her, setting her on fire, sticking needles in her eyeballs...and other horrors she must imagine happen when I don't pay 110% of my attention to her. So I do the only thing that keeps her from going into full psycho fit mode: I sing "The Wheels on the Bus".

 Now, for whatever reason, this song is the methadone to her tantrum and she stops immediately to listen to me. So, I'm singing every verse I can possibly think of. I've already gone through the wheels going round, the horn beeping, the lights going on and off, the doors open and shut, the mamas, the dadas, the babies wah, wah, waah-ing and now...shit. I'm drawing a blank. Chloe senses my hesitation and begins to start the pouting mouth that is the precursor to her crying and I'm starting to panic. So, what the hell, I start to make up my own verses:

"The teenagers on the bus go O.M.G, O.M.G, O.M.G! The teenagers on the bus go O.M.G...Allllll through the towwwnnnn...." and "The seniors on the bus go 'What'd you say???'"

And it is when I am doing what must be a song-writing work of genius that I turn and see Steve standing in the doorway. What was I singing, you ask? Well....

"The gangsters on the bus go, 'Yo, what up?' 'Yo, what up?' 'Yo, what up?' The gangsters on the bus go, 'Yo, what up?' Alllll through the towwwnnnn...."complete with my my own version of what I'm sure are legitimate gang signs. Genius, right? Well, I see Steve standing there like he's seriously contemplating just turning around and going right back to work, but doesn't since he probably thinks I'm a bad influence on our very impressionable young daughter and he should stick around and supervise before I start showing her how to roll a joint curse. 

So, don't be surprised if you see Chloe flashing the well known gang sign for The Lion Kings. (That, by the way, is an inside joke I will have to save for another blog)

Peace Out, Yo.