Texts, Lies, And Boobs Made From Ballistics Gel

Something fishy is going on here.

So I went away for a night. Just me. No kids. No Jeff. Just a nice relaxing getaway with a few other people who also haven't had a good night sleep since the Clinton administration. And while we still didn't get much sleep, at least our insomnia was the result of bar-hopping and having to pee in the middle of the night, and not the result of being startled awake by a mini-person appearing at our bedside and insisting that Cookie Monster was scuttling around the house and making ridiculous demands for Oreos at 2 in the morning.

I wasn't really that worried about Jeff being alone with the kids for 24 hours. He's a pretty capable person. Were he dumped onto a deserted tropical island, armed with nothing but a shoelace, a broken lighter and an empty paint can, he would find a way to either sustain himself for the next ten years, or fashion an elaborate escape plan that would land him on another tropical island, this one inhabited by voluptuous Pacific Island women bearing pineapples and pina coladas. 

Disclaimers

So the other day after the kids were in bed and I began my nightly ritual of lounging on the couch with a beer and pretending I don't have kids, Jeff hopped on the computer to do a little uninterrupted surfing.  I was deeply engrossed in a show of cultural and historical significance (I think it was Footloose), when I heard Jeff groan from the kitchen,

"Bekah.  That is so disgusting."

I almost jumped up, convinced that he'd caught me taking a swallow of beer that was three weeks beyond its Born On Date.  (Because he works in a brewery for a living, Jeff has turned into somewhat of a snob when it comes to a bottle of suds.  If beer came from a cow, he would insist on drinking only that which came fresh from the animal's udders.  I think his career has somewhat ruined his appetite for anything but recently bottled Anheuser-Busch products.  Thank God he's not a gynecologist.)

"What's so disgusting?" I asked.
"This!" He pointed at the computer screen, where I could just make out my One Mom's Trash blog onscreen.  "You actually dug through the garbage at the doctor's office?"
"Oh.  Well, yeah.  I mean...it wasn't really full."
"Still, you willingly put your hands in a biohazard?"
"Good grief, Jeff, it wasn't a biohazard.  All it had was crumpled up table paper."
"And used ear speculums."
"It really wasn't that gross.  Our garbage here is much grosser."
"People put rubber gloves and snotty tissues in there."
"I didn't see anything like that in there."
"And then you went and blogged about it."  Jeff sounded appalled, as if the only thing worse than the woman he married rolling up her sleeves and rummaging through a pediatrician's trash can was her announcing this to the blogosphere.  If he only knew what I rescue from our toilet on any given week....

"So what?" I asked.  Yes, I was starting to get defensive.  Because I was suddenly growing paranoid that my readers don't find my weekly epitaphs about my children's bodily functions and exasperating antics nearly as endearing as I'd thought.  I began to doubt every word I'd ever written about my children--the book, the articles, the blogs, the stories I've been collecting for months and months like a stand-up comic preparing bits for various shows--and wonder if it's entertaining at all.  My God, do people think I'm really that revolting?  Does no one else out there let her dog lick spilled macaroni and cheese from the floor?  Does anyone else pinch her children when they try to run from her in the toy aisle at Target because she doesn't want to shout and have everyone within earshot judge her for being a bad mom and losing her temper?  Are my words just echoing out to an empty universe where I am the only Occasional Bad Mom floating around in the void?

But that I thought about all the other moms out there who have left me comments or told me in person that they totally understood such-and-such entry, about how they have Been There, or Are There Now, or Can See There looming on the horizon like a bratty storm cloud blowing toward them.  And I realized that if my husband wants to think I'm disgusting for digging through a garbage can to find my son's matchbox car and my hair clip, then I'll let him go ahead and think that.  I know many of you out there would have done exactly the same thing as me.  We are Moms, dammit.  We dig through garbage to retrieve toys.  We paw under carseats to scrounge up enough quarters for our kid to ride a merry-go-round.  We drink our kids' backwash because they want to taste our iced tea.  We blow on food that's too hot and apply the proper amount of sunscreen and offer up the last M&M or bite of ice cream.  We do everything we can to make sure our kids are happy, healthy, and will grow up to be functioning members of society (although sometimes our efforts result in our kids being whiny ingrates who can't wipe their own asses until they're 9...but we still do our best.  More or less.)

That being said, I would like to throw out the disclaimer that we were at the doctor's office early in the morning, when the garbage can was pretty empty, and I didn't come in contact with any rubber gloves, used tissues, diapers, hypodermic needles, old bandaids, raccoons fighting over chicken bones, or Oscar the Grouch.  And I washed my hands thoroughly afterwards.  And if we had been in a gas station restroom and flies had been buzzing around the garbage can and Elsa had thrown away something really important, like her pacifier or the car keys, I likely would not have pilfered through the trash for them.

I would have made her do it.

What the Tech?

What is it with men and technology? Seriously....

So we've finally decided to emerge from the Dark Ages of giant, bulky, two-foot deep big-screens and purchase a flat-screen TV. Well, my husband has decided. I'm perfectly happy with my hulking monstrosity of a television set that currently occupies one-third of our family room. I mean, it still works. It turns on and off and serves as a competent babysitter for my children when I need to check my email or fold the never-ending laundry or, ahem, blog.

But lately my husband has been poring over Crutchfield catalogues, his eyes glazing over as he flips through the pages featuring heroine-chic TV sets, TV sets that look like all they've had to eat all day are cigarettes and Tab.

He has his heart set on some model that can do everything but cook and clean my house. He showed it to me online (on his Iphone, which is a whole other blog), the expectant look on his face so adorable as he waited for me to be as jazzed about the Hertz, the Pixels, the rate of return on its 401(k), its favorite movie. And to be fair, it looks pretty cool. But for God's sake, as long as it's color and doesn't come with rabbit ears, I'm happy.

The following is an actual conversation about the TV in question between my husband and me....

Jeff: I'm thinking we should get the 8000 model.

Me: Okay

Jeff: I mean, the 7000 would be okay, except that it doesn't have the same megahertz and you can't get on the internet.

Me: We can get the internet on our TV?

Jeff: Well, on the 8000 we can.

Me: But we have a laptop.

Jeff: Well yeah....

Me: What else can it do?

Jeff: Its refresh rate is 240 Megahertz.

Me (not having the slightest idea what the hell that means): Okay.

Jeff: Plus it can...he launches into a very technical description of the innate intelligence of the 8000 model, making it sound like it can outthink our own son and will soon replace our 10-year-old dog in the family hierarchy.

Me: Okay.

Jeff: But I don't know....we don't really need all that stuff.

Me: Okay.

Jeff: But it's only an inch thick.

Me: Whatever you want, Hon.

So after much hand-wringing, vacillating between exactly which model he wanted, the 6000, the 7000 or the Triple Lindy 500,000, he finally ordered one. And while I guess it would be nice to not have a TV set the size and shape of a Fotomat booth in my house, I have found myself much more interested in what type of TV stand should go beneath it. And how to rearrange the kitchen table so Rollie will still be able to watch Zooboomafoo while he eats lunch.

Momma Don't Got Your Back, Son

It's your typical afternoon in the Scott household. I'm taking a stab at preparing something edible in the kitchen, Elsa is writhing around on the floor, somewhere between semi-irritable and completely miserable, and Rollie is busily arranging our throw pillows so that they rest between the couch and the coffee table, forming a tunnel he can crawl through.

Soon I tire of Elsa's pathetic whines for food, sleep and attention, and so I sit her in her little activity tri-pod and ask Rollie to entertain her. Then I retreat to the kitchen, my back now to my children. I hear Elsa whine a few more times, but then her mood suddenly brightens, and she begins to chuckle.

"Thank you, Rollie," I call. "You're a good big brother."

His reply is a loud, "UGH!" and I hear the pitter-patter of feet on wood. Except we don't have a wooden floor.

I'm almost afraid to look.

When I do, I see Rollie, clad in just a diaper, standing atop our coffee table, Elsa looking on in total delight. Then he leaps over the tunnel he built and lands on his back, feet in the air, and yells, "Tah-DAH!" Elsa laughs and squeals, egging him on.

"Wow," I say. "That's quite a trick, Rol." I don't scold. I don't yell. How can I, really? I'm the big idiot who told a two-year-old to entertain his little sister. I didn't specify no acrobatics on the furniture, no flying leaps in your diaper, no attempts to defy gravity in the house. In fact, I pull out the video camera, because this is one of those moments that's even funnier in retrospect.

Then my husband comes home. Cue the lighting crash.

We're back in the kitchen, my husband and me, and in the middle of telling me about his day, my husband suddenly shouts, "Rollie, get down from there Right Now."

I don't have to look this time. I know damn well Rollie is doing the ol' jump-from-the-coffee-table-and-onto-the-couch trick.

Apparently, Rollie made it known that he wasn't about to get down from anywhere Right Now. Because my husband springs into action, striding across the kitchen and into the family room. Dadda means business.

"Rollie," my husband says, "we don't stand on the coffee table and we don't jump on the furniture. That's naughty. I know Momma doesn't let you do that, right?"

Rollie doesn't respond. I don't know if he's trying to protect me, or if he really doesn't know if jumping on the furniture falls under my umbrella of restricted behavior. And I hate to admit it--I really do--but I'm not about to turn myself in. All I do is stand in the kitchen and try like hell to not meet my son's questioning, confused eyes. And I make a mental note to delete the footage I took earlier, the proof that not only do I indeed allow Rollie to jump on the furniture, I encourage it.

Much to my relief, my husband drops the subject and starts horsing around with Rollie on the floor, and all is forgotten. By them, anyway. I'm left wondering just what is worse--letting Rollie hurl himself from various elevated surfaces in the house for my daughter's amusement, or not coming clean about it. Does that make me a bad mom, or a liar? I guess it makes me both. Well, at least I learned my lesson....Next time I tell Rollie to cheer up his sister, I'll add the clause: No Furniture Jumping--Dadda's almost home.