I ADMIT IT -
I AM NOT SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER!

Why are our kids cursed with so much homework these days? And why is it so labor intensive? My God! These kids have so much homework that they're lugging around these 50+ pound backpacks that's making chiropractic possibly the fastest growing profession. They are so bent over that kissing them good bye each morning consist of me getting on my hands and knees to find their little faces under all that baggage on their backs. I know their down there somewhere. Some of it is so mentally challenging that I have to remind myself that they are in elementary school and not college.

Somehow, in preparing for these standardized tests from hell, teachers forgot that kids should have a life after school. But my kids are caught between wanting to play versus the guilt over the difficulty level and amount of homework they have had towed in for the afternoon; particularly math. I have finally concluded that giving birth to four children, all a la natural with blood vessels popping out of my eyeballs and feet facing the heavens, which then results in sitting on a diaper-filled ice pack for a whole week, is a walk in the park compared to navigating the twins through their 5th grade math!

My oldest daughter fears and loathes math homework more than she does going to the dentist, the doctor, and having all her arms and legs removed - at the same. She's in the mind-splitting midst of both fractions and geometry. She's the kind that mopes and whines through the entire process; can't find a positive solution to anything, and I'm gleefully anticipating having my head shaved than this. This child actually growls at me while I'm coaching her through some of this stuff. Her repetitive "I don't get it", plays over and over till it is burrowing a hole in my cerebral cortex. 5th grade math is ruining my relationship with my daughter. What has taken us 11 years to nurture and mold together, this math class has undone in six months flat! I don't even mention having her use the after-school tutoring program anymore; she thinks it's for complete morons and is afraid her social standing with her peers will become null and void. Yep folks, step right up and watch! It's the beginning of those most memorable tween years; I'm so looking forward to having what's left of my brains extracted through my nostrils during this time.

Oh, it doesn't help either when her teacher admitted that the entire timed he's taught math, he never found a use for a majority of it that he teaches. Oh THAT's a great motivator for my daughter; THANKS! You know how many times I've heard her whine that to me? All while I'm in the process of pulling my hair out over the internet surfing for "how to teach your kids math in three easy lessons"? By the way, no such site exists. But her teacher, in a sense,is right. If we are suppose to use the math that we spent so much of our childhoods agonizing and evoking our own gobs of self-doubt over, then why can't anyone correctly calculate measurements for a sheet that actually FITS my king size mattress? I, to this day, have never bought a fitted sheet that goes on my mattress without acquiring injuries that nearly caused a fractured lumbar vertebrae putting the damn thing on, while straining in various positions of almost perverse peculiarity!

5th grade math turns Nadia from a somewhat reasonably acting 11 year old, into that character from the movie "The Ring". You know, the slumped over, dark-eyed girl in the white t-shirt with a chalky white face and hair that looks like it was washed in motor oil and grass clippings when it crawls out of that well. That's Nadia to a tee when it comes to this stuff. While "tutoring" my daughter through this numeric minefield, I've almost grounded my teeth to the point that my molars might be comparable to a geometric flat plane (see, I must be learning something too)! My husband leans over to remind me quietly, "Just wait till she gets PMS. That time is just around the corner". This just HAS to be the moment where the Karmic Universe allows me to smack him silly, cause I do not need this added stress right now! As I am NOW waiting for the phone to ring to signify that I have seven days to live!

But let's have a brief recap of the history of math from a different perspective, shall we? We have the Egyptians on one side giving us what we now know as fractions, and the Greeks on the other, inventing geometry. Hmmmm..... let me see what they were thinking while conceiving clever little equations that would eventually break down the family unit upon the arrival of 5th grade math. Did they know what affect they would have on our kids when they broadened the "rules" of our current math system? I THINK NOT! But..... maybe they did and that was the whole point. To PERMANENTLY SCREW UP the minds of future generations and then sit back from the afterlife and laugh themselves silly, while watching our children sort it out over mindless consumption of pizza (they were in cahoots with the Italians too). It wasn't a harmonious balance of numbers and reason; this was designed to create a wide divide between those deemed as "genius" and the rest of us who totally do not know what the hell is going in math; which by the way, is about 85% of the world's population! This stuff makes one crazy; this is why people like Einstein (think: really eccentric hairdo!), understood it, but the collective majority does not! And those who eventually "get it", wind up crazy themselves.

Can someone tell WHY we adopted a mathematical system from a group of people that we haven't even figured out HOW they built the pyramids USING this system yet? I agree with my daughter, fractions is a big fat mix up of the most confusing ways to fry one's brain in a very short period of time. Let's look at it logically; why is 1/16 smaller than 1/8 when 16 is a larger number than 8, Hmmm? Logically, 16 is a higher number than 8, therefore 1/8 should be smaller than 1/16. But Nooooooo! The Egyptians said, "we're gonna make the bigger numbers actually smaller, then watch all of society go completely mad, burning shit down trying to figure out WHY". And WHY when dividing fractions, did they decide to REALLY screw us up and say "no, you really gotta flip em then multiply them". Isn't that just MULTIPLYING them. Why can't they say "just don't divide fractions at all, just flip and multiply them"; make something simple out of the process. But then to add to the confusion, why do we flip and multiply in the first place; why don't we just divide the damn things like they said to? Divide means to divide and multiply means to multiple; you can't mix this stuff up or people will kill each other over it. This is why the economy is so screwed up; because of fractions, and fractions being turned into decimals, and flipped, smashed, run over by a freight train to the point that NOBODY understands math... PERIOD! Least of all my daughter right now!

Now we come to the Greeks and the freaking names they gave shapes and triangles. Think about this: we adopted a highly regarded system of math from a culture who thought wrestling naked was a good idea - wink, wink. Not only do we have to learn the shapes and what they mean, we have to learn a whole new language along with it. And if we have to learn this language, then why didn't they start teaching Latin in the 1st grade instead of in high school because that's all messed up there! There's this whole vocabulary of hexa's and octa's, poly this, and rhombus that. Let's add a few more terms like congruent and quadrilateral, and parallelogram and we're not learning math; it sounds like we're preparing for a "Dancing With The Stars" episode! And do I really need to know how many ways you can twist a square around and name it a new name? No - a square is still a square with four equal sides, so you don't need to always add regular polygon next to it. After dealing with this stuff, I'm beginning to resemble a little like Medusa myself. Nadia has now evolved into the Cracken.

So I sit with my daughter and sludge through this stuff knowing her and I are going to be reaching for a Motrin afterwards (I may add a glass of Pinot Noir with mine). I am plagued with motherly guilt on whether 5th grade math will permanently affect her self-esteem for years to come; only time will tell. I know for sure that the current educational system has complete negated individual learning styles and opted for the same menu I serve at dinnertime: "take it or leave it". So offering her an educational solution based on her strengths and weakness will never present itself unless Zeus intervenes and throws one of his famous lightning bolts at the Department of Education and they change the system; or I win a million dollars in a lottery and can afford the right private school with those God-awful uniforms that look like they were designed by the munchkins from the "Wizard of Oz". But until that happens, I can offer my loving support and the only advice a mother can give: "Math doesn't define you as a person Nadia; what you do with your life does. You are already born with gifts you haven't even realized yet. Focus on those. But just remember this, if you don't pass it now, you have to repeat it all again... in 5th grade."

Then my husband waltzes in towards the end of this disaster and suddenly becomes the boisterous voice of reason. He sits us down to explain that the the Egyptians created a system of measurements that are effective and useful, like when I cook. He did have to bring this to a level we could both reasonably understand. And the Greeks created a way by which we could have structures to withstand hurricanes and earthquakes. Hurricane season is coming; I get that part; blah, blah, blah. Then he completely loses sight of simplistic explanations and starts mentioning that junk about how you can't fit a round peg into a square hole, and stuff. Didn't know where he was going with that frame of thought as my head begins to spin. And then he had to mentioned Einstein somewhere in the whole bloody conversation which made me think he was going in the same path as one who is one wave short of a shipwreck! Yes, he agreed with me when I said that it all sounded confusing and ridiculous, but that "it works". He's lost us as usual, and Nadia's zoned-out, blank look on her face has signaled to me that she is officially comatose.

Well, what I've learned from this so far is that my presence gracing the show "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?" are about as realistic as the national budget being balanced using this genius form of math we've adopted from cultures who neither like to wear clothing when exercising, or care to pass on the reasoning of how and why they built something the way they did. And I don't think we helped Nadia much because I think she has opted out of going to college in favor of joining a circus. Boy is she gonna be livid when she finds out that the Greeks and the Egyptians had a hand, and a protractor, in crafting those pretty tents!

MY HOUSE IS NOT MESSY.........
IT'S AN ARTIST EXPRESSION.

I was going to write about house cleaning, but every bored housewife throughout the generations has written on that subject, so how mundane is that? The reality is is that I have four kids so my home is never going to be a showcase for Lifestyles of the Middle-Class and Average. I prefer to think of my home as in a constant transitional phase. One moment it can be spotless. The next, it resembles something like a leftover from a frat party - minus the alcohol containers. In my view, our mess is a creation in it's own making by my own built-in crew of unrefined, yet purposeful designers.

My being motivated to tackle this ever-evolving mess is sometimes like pushing a one ton boulder, up a hill, in a blinding snowstorm while vultures are pecking at what's left of my brain. Motivating the kids is even worse. I'm thinking that getting a daily root canal is a welcoming change than coercing my kids to clean anything. The twins are now 11, and their style of cleaning the dishes together resembles midgets wrestling each other while culinary props and discarded food flies to and fro between table and sink. The trash can is nothing more to them than an repulsive kitchen embellishment; therefore my kitchen begins to resemble graffiti art with our dinner leftovers used as the medium. What takes me 20 minutes to do, is now going into two schizophrenic hours with them.

Nadia's Moroccan/Grunge themed room has taken a look like that of a Jackson Pollock abstract painting. It's like that art toy we had as kids where the 4 x 6 paper rotates really, really fast while one squirts drops of paint onto it and your left with a picture of splattered paint lines. Yep, that's Nadia's room; except with clothes and a lot of other unrecognizable paraphernalia! Her room is a montage of old schoolwork, unfinished art projects, and a ever-growing stuff animal and pillow collection that's like climbing over Mt. Everest to get to her bed. The other day, I found that she actually does have carpet in her room and it's flecked with bead laden safety pins. In her brim-filled drawers lies the world's largest collection of candy wrappers I have seen since this side of ALL the Halloween candy last year. In fact, I AM recognizing candy that she got from last Halloween. When I confront her about where she got it all, she replies "I DON'T know". Last time I checked, I did NOT give birth to anyone in this family named "I don't know".

My personal favorite is observing the laundry slowly pile up like some sort of monumental sculpture that even Michelangelo would be envious of. I like to marvel in its fluid curves and refined droops, and wonder when the right flow of air circulation will finally knock that sucker right over so I'll have to eventually deal with it. Monday's are laundry day, and why I choose the first black day of the week to tackle laundry is beyond me. Maybe it's a substitute for flogging; domestic goddess style. But the punishment starts as soon as I see my babies ride off on that school bus at 7:45 every Monday morning. It is organized by darks first, colors then whites. It is followed by a harried flurry of folding with my three year old. She's a big helper in this department even if all she manages is a fold, fold, wad, wad of the laundry.

I'm not sure what my husband is attempting to create in the kitchen, but it involves leaving every single cabinet door completely open after searching for only one item. I wear bumps on my head these days like bad jewelry because I have smacked my head into the corner of those kitchen cabinets being wide-assed open, one too many times now. The kids seem to like this skill of his; they too are following in his footsteps. And I have to play a game of hide and seek after he empties the dishwasher. Somehow he thinks that sheet pans are colored coordinated with my mixing bowls. Or that my cutting knives belong in the spice cabinet. I've often wondered if 60 hours of mind-numbing training from Food Network would fix his issues in the kitchen.

And let's talk about the bird cage. These are my husbands love birds, so naturally he feeds, waters, and once in a blue moon, cleans the cage. I already watch over four children, cook, referee, entertain, occasionally be a teacher, clean up after the hamster and the cat, and breath sometimes; so I already have a lot on my plate. All he has to do is clean the freaking cage once a week! But he has positioned this thing right behind my computer chair now so I HAVE to notice the "garden" that is forming on the bottom of the cage where the dropped food is collecting. Or that cascading kaleidoscope of moths that have surprisingly hatched and are circling around my head while smacking the bloody things to their death all over my keyboard, which I am picking out as I type this! Not to mention the moths on the walls that I will have to hunt the ladder down for in order to scour their squashed grey matter which now resembles a Rorschach Inkblot Test!

"Kurt, will you please get rid of these disgusting birds if you're not going to clean the cage each week!" I beg.

"Why don't you put them on Craigslist if you don't like them," he answers. (They suddenly become mine?)

MY reply is, "Does this mean I can throw your clothes away since I don't really like washing them?" Of course, he totally ignores my response.

Now getting Nadia and Toni to clean their bathroom takes nothing short than an act of God to do. Especially after they've closely inspected the area. See, Nia has decide to use the bathroom mirror as sort of canvas for her toothpaste drawings of late. She is creative, but nothing we can hang in the Guggenheim Museum yet. Oh, and those clever little balls of wet toilet paper that she has meticulously placed on those itty bitty tiles on the floor are like scraping concrete when you finally realize that they are there. We think she's a Picasso in the making. Nadia thinks she's an out-of-control train wreck!

"Moooommmmmmm! What is this!" Nadia screeches from across the house. Even the People's Republic of China can hear the child scream.

"What!" I yell back

"WHAT is this?", she screams back

I walk to the bathroom to see what Nadia is in hysterics over this time. Upon arrival, Nadia points dramatically at the floor between the cabinet and the toilet. There sits a pile of.... what is that? After closer examination, and a few sniff tests, I realize that Nia must have gotten hold of some scented body lotion. She has mixed it with cinnamon (that explains why it disappeared so fast this week). Combined the two with what looks like red glitter (but the jury is still out on this one), and plopped a good three inch pile on the floor. It is now the consistency of soft glue and totally grossing Nadia and Toni out. Of course Julian is now over my shoulder and wildly animating how it's a big pile of poop and ribbing the girls on how they have to clean it up. This teasing complete infuriates Nadia to the point where she stomps off and absolutely refuses to have anything to do with cleaning the bathroom today. Toni follows suit, and Nia stands at the door in her ballet tu-tu, dancing in circles singing "glitter poop, glitter poop, glitter, glitter, glitter poop!" Julian smiles at me and walks away as if to signal his job is done.

Now Julian is a bit different. For a boy, he is surprisingly organized, keeps his room clean, and his drawers are a semi-neat array of properly folded clothes. This side of him actually showed after gawking over an old Elvis movie when he was 3 years old. Every since then, his room and his clothes must be presentable at all times. He even irons! I have NO idea what Elvis has to do with this, but it works for me. I frequently feel the need to use him as an example for the girls; but I've read that this is a child development no-no. He is also a budding artist and his own unique flair is beginning to show up in his everyday life. I am full of praises and glowing admiration for his discipline. He is almost successful in bridging his daily chores with his imaginative side; with the exception of dishwashing.

When you visit, do not expect everything in it's place, or glossy fingerprint-free walls. My kids apply their ever-increasing palate on just about anything that has a surface. They are not yet professional house cleaners either. Their training in this department will still take many years; and may not be completed until their 30 and have kids of their own. Though my home is a bit dusty, a little rough around the edges, and my antique shelf is in a constant disarray from tiny fingers of curiosity. In my opinion, it is not messy - it's just an artistic expression.

ALL COUTURE IS NOT CREATED EQUAL.

Well, I started my spring cleaning early this year; in my closet that is. It is interesting what I've collected over the years cause I wonder what possessed me to buy half that stuff I've crammed in the back of the closet and never worn. So I've decided to clear it out and replace it with yet more interesting pieces that I can look back and laugh at in the years to come. So I picked up the this months Elle magazine for a little inspiration. My daughter, Toni and I are examining those 20-something outfits that a 40-something parent might look decent in without creating a roar of laughter while out in public. You know, the kind of laugh you hear while someone is gagging on their food as you walk by? My daughter is so cute though. She thinks I'd look lovely in everything they have pictured; even that dress that looks like your carrying around a dead goose.

But for some reason, while were all sporting a major economic nuclear meltdown this season, I am thinking I should be a fashion diva this summer. Somewhere in my head, that renegade brain cell thinks that money will magically fall out of the sky, so I can smear myself in Gucci and Prada. This must be a mid-life crisis I'm going through!

Though, after four kids I am amazed that I can still squeeze this butt in a size six pair of jeans. It's just that extra skin I was blessed with after carrying twins, that I have to roll up and tuck in the front of my pants (eeeewwww, gross!). No, it's not the gym or some amazing diet I'm on, it's just from running after my loveable little buggers for 11 years. They all think they're in training for the 2020 Olympics and they volunteered me to be their trainer! At least it has saved my butt from falling down to my ankles before it's time. But I still want to be able to wear some of that couture-kinda stuff (and I DON'T mean Juicy broadcasted on my rear!). At least before everything on me either starts to droop, fall off, or come apart at the seams (literally), when menopause takes over my body parts and I have to start wearing a "wide load" sign on my ass.

I need some pizzazz - some bling - because I'm less-than-thrilled with what's in my closet, and half archaic stuff is earmarked for my yard sale soon. So I gotta buy something. Last summer it was like "throw on whaateeever, cause I 'm a mom so who really cares what the heck I look like while I'm shopping at Walmart's for pull-ups, milk, and old fart face cream." The only thing that motivated me out of my near-goth look last year was a pair of colorful "Miss Sixty" platform wedges on the Victoria's Secret website. These were some to-die-for shoes, okay! The kind that make you completely stop breathing while trying to figure HOW to make your husband feel guilty for SOMETHING he did, so he'll have to break down and buy them for you. Hmmmmmm..... Damn, I couldn't think of anything.

So I broke down and decided to take matters into my own hands. I was getting ready to do a smack down on that purchase button, when I realized that I was about to send almost $200.00 (because we know shipping cost are almost as much as the shoes) through cyber-somewhere, out of my laughable. so-called bank account for those multi-colored clod hoppers. One could hear my fingers suddenly screech to a blinding halt, like brakes on desert-dry pavement. I whimpered quietly to the fact that I would just have to wait till they went on sale. When they did go down to a reasonable $69 (that IS reasonable for Victoria's Secret), every single size in the color I wanted was sold out. All they had was brown in a size 10. Could I manage a size 8 foot in a size 10 shoe? I think people would notice that stuffing in the toe of the sandle.

So, I'm back to leisurely mullying through the pages of my Elle when suddenly, I saw them. It was a picture of a pair of Louis Vuitton's (pronounced Lou-EE Vi-TAN), heels on page 186. OH - MY - GOD! I had to have these. These were not your ordinary stelletos. These were wild, savage, and primitive, with colors like that of the Serengeti melting over your cost-effective, self-manicured feet. Looking at these were like tapping into that same feeling I get when the kids are raving maniacs and I just want to run down the street - naked, like a crazy, savage person. But if I had these, I would still be running naked, but with style!

Then I took out my magnifying glass to locate the info on the shoes, which is typed in font size -5 because its so small. It says: Python and leather sandal. LOUIS VUITTON. $2,700. Call 866-blah, blah, blah, blah. WHAT! $2,700 for something that resembles nothing short of a Halloween costume for your feet! Who in the hell pays $2,700 for a stinking pair of shoes? Then it hit me - Madonna, that's who. Cause now I remembered she had them on in another magazine with her leg sticking straight up in the air as to say "Naa, naa, naa, naa, naa.... I got em and you don't, you economically-challenged peasant!" My opinion of these shoes almost does a 180 degree turn-around , but then I .... I want them even more! Why is it built into our DNA that we always want what we can't have? And why did God command us "Thou Shalt Not Covet" when he knew we were gonna covet everything we saw anyway!? Was he ever thinking about the shoes?

I give up thinking that Louis will grace my feet this year and begin to turn pages again and then, there IT is! The dress in the middle of the page. Hideous has now replaced ecstasy as my daughter and I gawk at the picture. The top of the page reads "Oh, Pioneers!" to announce that this is a special "Elle Fashion Trend" for the season. They think I should wear THAT! I don't know whether to laugh myself silly or be appalled that some Paxil-popping, fashion victim on 5th Avenue in New York actually thinks I should wear this outfit in public. Even my seven year old daughter is giggling hysterically at the "dress". On top of it, they want me to wear it with a pair of platform "Daisy Mae" wedges! Oh the shame that has come out of designer Marc Jacobs (pronounced IDIOT). Open mouth - insert finger - GAG!

Marc Jacobs, during a brain flagulation, thought it would be tres chic to introduce the "Little House on the Prairie" meets "Green Acres" look that even Zsa Zsa would run screaming from. I say it's the "I wish I could live in a covered wagon" look. He has designed this Holly Hobbie-looking, country-colored striped linen sundress. You know the type; cute black straps at the shoulder with that pleated ruffled hemline that extends from the knees down to the mid-calf that brings back fond memories for your great-great grandmother. And the ONLY reason he's made out of linen is so that he can call it "couture". He then combines THAT dress with a red and grey flannel plaid, "I wanna go plow the backfields", long-sleeve, frayed mandarin collar, button up, piece of shit SHIRT! If you added a pitchfork and a piece of cud hanging from your mouth, you'd have a great Halloween costume for this season!

I won't even get into the picture to the left of it where a catwalking toothpick is wearing my same great-great grandmothers freaking apron under some sort of black plaid, umbrella-looking, tunic. What in Sam's Hill is going on here (I don't know who Sam Hill is either, but my father use to say it a lot after he caught us baking mud pies in the oven)! And will someone please tell me why they think we should wear that deer antler, barn door hanging form of a necklace they've got pictured! If I bent over one time wearing that necklace, I would slash my carotid artery all over that Marc Jacobs, $1,795, piece of pioneer poppycock (I cannot believe I just said that word). And you know what the worst of it is? We're gonna actually SEE that stupid ensemble on some, apparently BLIND celebrity and people will ooh and ahh over it like it's the next best thing since genetically modified corn from Iowa! I think they would look like Laura Ingalls after she sniffed one too many poppy plants.

Needless to say, my quest for up-to-date haute couture has come to an abrupt halt with that one picture, popping my fashionista bubble. I am officially fashionably depressed because I either have to rob a bank to wear what I want or look like I'm backhoeing the lower fields. Maybe the stuff in my closet isn't so bad - after all, they've now become classics.

I just have one question: could anybody loan me $2,700 for the Louis Vuitton's?

A WORLD WITHOUT CHOCOLATE!!!!!

Going through todays DIGG articles today, I found one extremely disturbing to me. The headline said: "A World Without Chocolate?". Needless to say I nearly passed out backwards out of my chair onto our Love Birds cage. That would have been the most excitement they would have seen in weeks. Scientist said that one day (and how soon will THAT be?), that world will be in short supply of this sanity saving, children bribing, substance of female survival. Okay, after the week I've had, this is just enough to send me over the edge. Not only do I have to start stocking rice and flour for the impending food shortage, I had better add semi-sweet morsals to that list as well. Obama needs to add an emergency measure to the new stimulus plan that says that one whole state will be devoted to nothing but growing the cacao tree. This is a national emergency!

What gets me the most is the absolutely perplexing question "What will the world be like without chocolate?" Now either the journalist who reported this story is a complete buffoon, or they've never even tasted chocolate (even the cheap yuckie stuff you get from old relatives at holidays). They wouldn't have even made that completely inept statement if their palate had touched the delicate balance of a chocolate truffle. Hey, I'm just a little Missy poo-poo living in a mock-suburbia with four kids, but I know surely know what it would do to MY life if there was no chocolate - END IT! This is the stuff that heals boo-boos, mends relationship conflicts, gets children to poop in the toilet while training (those M&M's peanuts worked well for me), replaces sex (so the "scientists" say), and gets us through those moments in the day when a Vallium just isn't convenient or available.

When I was a kid, I would listen in horror as my mother told me tales of the depression when chocolate just wasn't available (those soldiers boys were slopping it up left and right!). It was a time of sacrifice (time of death, I remembered thinking). She told me when news spread that a store had some, the kids waited in long, long, lines just to get ahold of one of those black, sweet bars of gold. It wasn't the stories of walking in the snow to school with holes in their shoes that horrified me the most; it was the though of chocolate not being available on demand. Now I know why it was called the "depression". I cannot imagine that happening now with all the genetically modified ways of making food. Can't they clone cacao trees like they do those dogs for deranged people with too much money on their hands?

One day, several years ago, my sister-n-law Deborah and I were talking about food. I was going through a period where I really wasn't eating chocolate, or any sweets for that matter. I know, I know, it wasn't a normal period in my life, but I managed to pull myself out of it. But I remember her telling me that she didn't like chocolate, so she didn't eat much of it. To this day, that statement confuses the absolute heck out of me. Here is this beautiful woman, bright, funny, guy-magnet at 50, athletic; but she doesn't like chocolate. What the hell does she get at Valentine's from her boyfriend of six years?

"Hi Deborah, here's a dozen roses and some lemon meringue pie for Valentine's Day", I cleverly imagine him saying.

NOT!! I finally knew the flaw in this otherwise perfect individual (other than the fact that she married my brother, but THAT'S an entirely different episode on a different channel that I don't subscribe to anymore!). Why in God's name did this woman NOT like chocolate? I never asked because it just didn't make any sense to me that anyone would not like chocolate; especially a female. I just subsided in the fact that maybe she had "Chicken Little Syndrome", because some neurotic dentist said all her teeth would fall out if she ate the stuff. To this day, I have never brought the subject up with her again.

Let's face it; I have four kids I cannot live without chocolate. It is part of those six basic food groups: grains, vegetables, fruits, milk, meat and beans, and..... chocolate! It is a food group all on it's own. All of us mothers know this. The real knowledge of its' power was bestowed upon us the moment we pushed that 9.2 ounce screaming watermelon out of our over stretched uterus. Heck, a pound of the stuff should have been included in every Dr. T. Berry Brazelton parenting book ever published. Even after years of child-rearing and still feeling like the worst parent with a ton of guilt on our shoulders, we would say it was all worth it because of the amount of chocolate that passed between our lips. Feeding them chocolate was the only thing our children would never hold against us. Have you ever heard an adult admit to their therapist, "my parents ruined my life by forcing me to eat chocolate"? Nope - never happened, never will.

There has been a constant bag of bittersweet semi-morsals in my freezer since the day my twins were born 11 1/2 year ago. That will not change until the last child has left. That should be in about 15 more years. So the chocolate supply has got to last until then. After that, I guess I'll have to be prepared to forage for the stuff. But chocolate is a necessity when child rearing. When it comes to toilet training (again, I hate the word potty!), how else do we encourage them to do the big nasty in their cute little, song playing, Sesame Street laden, toilet training chairs? Unless you were one of those who bought that package of cheesy flower petals, or toy cars that changed colors when you pee'd on them, your cabinet was stocked to the max with some sort of chocolate bribe. How are we going to toilet train our kids without those M&M's for God's sake?

What about how we reward our kids for good behavior, or for doing chores at age three? Do you think they want a stinking card for their efforts. Or God forbid, a HUG? NO; they want chocolate. They want big gooey mouthfuls of it like when you make chocolate cake and their little heads accidentally-on-purpose land in the bowl with a giggle. What comes out resembles something like that Black Lagoon character from those old B movies. But it's your child, and THAT is their reward for a job well done helping mommie in the kitchen without dumping all the flour on the floor again! If you took that bowl away and offered a hug instead, what do you think would happen? That Black Lagoon character would suddenly be real, be 3 feet high, and standing in your kitchen growing horns and fangs right before your eyes. If you hadn't thought about running yet, you might wanna think about it now because that kid/monster is about to unleash a wrath that not even God has ever prophesied about. We are talking a MAJOR meltdown is in the near future.

Even my 11 year old daughter knows the importance of chocolate in living an everyday normal life. And this girl is moody as shit! She's like an 11 year old tween going on menopausal, but even she knows what to reach for to snap herself out of it. So, when my personality resembles that same Black Lagoon archetype (and this happens way too often these days), she instantly knows is time to head for the freezer and grab a handful of Ghirardelli's (because Belgian is not in the budget this month). She politely will whirl around and look me dead in the eyes and say "here mom, THIS will make your day better". Boy, she knows me better than I know myself sometimes. The wisdom of a child minus the hot flashes.

If chocolate were to suddenly be rationed, or God forbid, disappear, I predict mass female chaos would ensue. Grocery stores would be ransacked; their flour and rice stockpiles would be there long after the chocolate disappeared. Seemingly innocent children would now be seen fighting like rabid dogs over tiny pieces of chocolate that have fallen from the careless lips of another. Mothers would be attacking pharmacists over anything synthetic that would closely resemble the affects of chocolate in calming their out of control kids (or parents for that matter, I being one of them). Baker's would be sobbing in the streets with their bowls and beaters because no one would be ordering their strawberry or lemon cha-cha cakes instead of white or dark chocolate ones. What is a lemon cha-cha cake in the first place? The "Ace of Cakes" would be taken off the air. Hell, half of Food Network would be taken off the air. That guy from Sugar Rush would have to go back being a lawyer again (sigh).

Don't even think about suggesting a "chocolate substitue" like carob! I'm sorry, but carob, (which is faux chocolate, eeewwww!), is NOT gonna cut it my house. I eat healthy, but I have my boundaries when it comes to "substitutes". Like those idiotic chocolate sprays that some dumb diet company came out with that's suppose to relieve your cravings. I THINK NOT! That's like suggesting that you give a guy a beer flavored substitute and telling him to deal with it! As we know, all of mankind would come to a screeching halt if that happened.

Since this possible chocolate shortage is caused by a huge global demand for the stuff, I say those who don't really need chocolate, - STOP EATING IT! Save it for those of us who use it for a greater purpose than just satisfying our decadent tastebuds. We are in survival mode because we have issues with our children, our husbands, the economy (or lack thereof), and our mundane little lives. It gets us through that time of the month, and it gives our kids another day of happiness when they come home to a plate of much needed homemade brownies with thick ganache' on top.

In fact it is the bowl of leftover Valentine's Hershey dark chocolate squares that are getting me through this blog while all four of my kids are screaming for me at the same time about their Wii game, and my husband is yelling that he has no one to relate to around here! We are on the brink of insanity without this stuff. Chocolate is OUR medicine of necessity. The amount needed depends on the days Homeland Security level - meaning my home! National Security, our hormones, our levels of self-inflicted depression, and the ability for our children to be good while we're behind YOU at the checkout lines of department stores depend on it!

So if your entire life's survival doesn't really depend on chocolate, back off fluffy - it's ours!

On the lighter note: if the thought of a chocolate shortage has now stressed your day out, I'm sure there is a little bit of a half-eaten heart leftover from your child's party at school this past week. One could beg a nibble. But take two because you never know when this will be your last.

I CAN'T MAKE THIS STUFF UP!


Okay, I had to shop frantically today, for my kids Valentine's party for school tomorrow. Well I got started a little late this morning because I got caught up in answering emails and obsessively reloading the JMarco site because all their shoes and clothes are, like, 90% off! I gotta get to the stuff before 2 million other women add it to their own shopping carts! Make that a few 100,000 more women who know about the sale now that I've blabbed all about it. It's a good deal if you check it out. Just stay away from the SHOES!

So around 9:30 I decide I need to change clothes and head out to Wal-Mart's, which is my least favorite store in the world, but because of our ever shrinking budget these days, I can't afford organic food at the health food store right now. Reluctantly, I have to drag myself to the "big yellow smiley-face" store down the road. Going to the gym went out the window today because there is not enough time to kill fat cells since I was so engrossed in shopping for shoes. One does have their priorities.

I'm trying to dress according to my mood this morning. I'm feeling rushed, anxiety-ridden, harried, fearful that Nia is gonna go ape-shit in the store again cause she thinks she too big to sit in the basket anymore. Plus, I'm dreading the thought of spending half my life's savings on Valentine's paraphernalia because the price of EVERYTHING has gone through the roof. But I don't think there's a bank in this land right now that will loan me money to buy freaking chocolate bunnies, so I'm dressing in black!

I'm rummaging through my closet which is filling up with items I've ordered online from JMarco, but I'm also realizing I have more additions for my yard sale. This stuff has gotta go because I can't move my hangers back forth now, so sifting through it is giving me yet even more anxiety. I gotta GO! So I look over and see the jeans I had on yesterday and decide to throw those on to save time and energy here. Grab a black shirt and, and, and..... yeah, my Ed Hardy boots! Those will make me feel a little better. I mean, I live in Florida, so you got a short period of time during the year in which you can wear these things.

I realize when I put them on that the whole purpose of wearing Ed Hardy boots is for the screenprinted tattoo design on the front is to be brazenly broadcasted while you wear them. So why am I putting my jeans over the boots? So that means I gotta tuck the jeans in. Well, it usually helps if you have your pants completely on when you do this. This insures a measure of safety while one is frantically running around trying to get out of the house. I sit down on a "hope" chest (hoping I can get out of the house within the next 10 seconds), and proceed to start stuffing each frayed hem of my jeans into the boots. Well, I stupidly lift my right leg up and over my left as I'm stuffing and completely flip over sideways onto the floor smacking my head into that one little hidden corner of my metal bed frame! You see where THIS day is going.

Hence I am now rolling on the floor, since the common sense to stand up and pull my pants up and try again, has ceased to exist. With a bump on my head, and my bum in the air, I finally succeed in stuffing those stupid pants in my boots. Then I put my pants on as normal. All this because I love my Ed Hardy's! I have officially become a fashion victim.

Thank God Nia has cleverly dressed herself this morning. In fact, we both look kind of the same except she is donned in pink! I rush her out the door to the car and realize that my husband has taken my van and left me with the....... bagel barge. Now don't get me wrong, there's nothing actually wrong with a Lincoln Town Car; it's just NOT for me. I loath driving this thing because it feels like the front end is five miles in front of me! I have to park at the very end of a parking lot because the thought of smacking someone else's car with this maroon steel monstrosity really freaks me out. So, not only do I have to drive it, I gotta walk a mile to the front door of the store with a three year old in my hand, who is very excited over the prospect that I'm going shopping just to buy her bubble gum, chocolate, and lollypops.

I buckle Nia in her car seat, which for once doesn't take me 10 minutes of begging, pleading, bribing, and crying to do so. The feeling of relief starts to settle as I finally feel I'm back on schedule and sliding into the drivers seat. YES, I can do all this shopping, strawberry-making, filling out Valentine's, and decorating desks, ALL IN ONE DAY, yes-sir-eee Ma'am! Insert key into ignition and..... brooooggg, brooooggg, brooooggg, brooo......

SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, SNAP!", I yell because my three year old is in the car and I can't use my word of choice. The battery in the stupid oversized piece of crap of a car is dead! I can't make this stuff up! My head is spinning with all the things I'm suppose to do and now can't get the car to start! I'm feeling the sharp pangs of panic rise from my belly, making my head hurt in the process. What do I do? I start laughing, just laughing hysterically! My husband is out of town with MY van, and I have all this stuff to accomplish - WITHOUT A CAR NOW!

I pick up my iPhone and call my husband because this is so amazingly bazaar, yet funny that I just have to share the stinking moment with him. I let him know what's happened and we both conclude that "somebody" left the door ajar and the lights inside the car stayed on. Grant it, he is the only person that drives this boat unless he takes my van out of town. "Hmmmm... I wonder who it could have BEEN", I tell him. He naturally blames one of the kids because they are, after all, not there to defend themselves. But since my husband is the type of person who can't seem to close a cabinet door to save his life; I'm thinking he's the culprit.

He proceeds to tell me how to open the hood and disconnect the cables from the battery, hook it up to the battery charger, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I'm like "are you kidding!". With the day I'm having, I will not only shock myself into a new dimension (that might be a good thing), but I'll blow up the car as well. We banter back and forth about this until he suddenly blurts, "well why don't you call that roadside assistance thing we have?" Well, now I know where the other half of brain went today; my husband has it! He never comes up with these ideas because these are usually MY ideas. "Great idea!" I squeal.

This problem is now solved. I now have to drag Nia crying back into the house because she thinks we are absolutely not going; therefore, her chances of scoring some major chocolate are all but squashed. I keep reassuring her we are just delaying our errand by a few minutes until the man comes to fix the car. I have to bribe her with Ghirardelli chocolate chips to get her to believe me, and to calm her down. I call the roadside assistance folks and they reassure me that someone will be at my house in about 30 minutes. This man must have telepathically sensed my situation and came flying because he was there in 15 minutes. He was even quicker jump starting the car.

We're now in the car headed for Wal-Mart's while Nia practices being the next "American Idol". She's singing everything, and making up most of it as she goes along. But at least it's not "Hark the Herald Angels Sing", again. Wal-Mart's is relatively quiet this morning, which is good cause it means I don't have to park so far from the front and take a half hour to walk to the door. Their Valentine's section has been extended to two isles crammed packed with every Made-in-China, heart/love related item a corporation's R & D department could conceive. We are stuffing the basket with the $1 and $2 items cause I'm on a budget. Even the strawberries are on sale today for less than 2 bucks! I'm thinking I'm gonna get out of this cheap!

In the middle of deciding between the huge Hershey Kiss or the big red chocolate apple for my other daughter Toni, Nia loudly announces (I'm thinking it's coming from the intercom system over my head), "Mooooom, I gooooootttaaa peeeeee!" It doesn't help that the everyone in the entire store is in the Valentine's section, and they are all staring at my daughter nervously jumping up and down and holding her..... hoo-hoo (well, what else can I call it here???). I convince her to stand on the end of the basket while I fast-walk to the front of the store while trying not to run other mother's and their rugrats over in the process. I do NOT want my daughter peeing in the middle of the floor today!

In the bathroom, I'm kind of rushing her to do this quickly so I assist her. That's when I discover that my daughter has been running, falling, jumping, and climbing in the store with absolutely NO UNDERWEAR ON!!!! Now she's not wearing a skort that can cleverly disguise the fact that she's not wearing any underwear. No! She's as naked as a jaybird under that mini-skirt of hers.

"Where is your underwear NIa?", the words straining as they leave my lips.

"Well, I kinda got hot at home and took them off and then I kinda forgot to put them back on," she says with her head cocked to one side and looking at the ceiling.

All I'm thinking is how fast I can make it to the children's section and how cheap are the underwear, and can I get them on without anyone noticing. She's back on the basket and we're fast-walking again. You know, I'm actually getting that exercise I missed out on at the gym today. So I tighten my butt as we head to the underwear section thinking "I am gonna lose some fat cells over this!". Picking the underwear out almost leads Nia to a meltdown over which Disney princess to choose, but we manage a package of Arial's for $4.98. I literally put her in between two racks of clothes, check the coast out to see if anyone is looking or headed in our direction, then slide those puppies on. "Good!", that crisis is over.

I finally finish this little adventure and I'm loading my "I love my family so much that I went through all this trouble" stuff on the checkout belt. People left and right of me are making comments that I must be getting ready for a party. "You think?" But I know I'm cool cause nothing here is over $3.00; with the exception of the Arial underwear. I'm chatting with the cashier when she suddenly announces, "That'll be $112.85!" I actually laughed at her thinking she was pulling a funny one on me. Until I look over at that little thing that sits on top of the register like a mini marquee, and sure enough it says I owe $112.85.

I just bought $112.85 of $1 to $3.00 items! How the hell did this happen? "Save Money-Live Better", my ass! And I did all this while forgetting to buy the bread that my husband had earlier reminded me to buy. I flash a stupid little smile like "I meant to buy that much chocolate and stupid stuff for Valentine's.". Then I pay and get out before it really hits me what I have just done and return everything, and ruin my kids Valentine's day and go down as the most hated mother in history.

I don't want to think about Valentine's and chocolate anymore. I just want to go home, have lunch, and put Nia down for a nap, and then....... I want to see if there are any new shoes for sale on JMarco.

WILL YOU BE MINE?


Well Valentine's Day is coming up and it's another semi-holiday that has me running around like a pig about to be bbq'd. You know, it's quite unfair to just be getting over Christmas when suddenly we walk into the mega-stores around mid January and freaking cupid is pointing that dumb arrow right at us. And I'm not sure if it's me or the exhaust fumes I've been inhaling while stalled in traffic, but I swear I hear him murmuring "Buuyyy, BUUYYYY!". I am entranced for a moment.

Okay, BACK to reality; I don't know about the rest of the parents, but I still have a hangover from Christmas. So I try to ignore Valentines existence until the last minute when I'm running around trying to buy up what's left of the Valentine cards that corporations say we must buy for our kids or we are terrible parents? I thought about scratching names off of last years Valentine's and recycling them for this year. After all, we are downsizing our finances and materialistic habits, aren't we?

This idea didn't go over too well with the kids. It met with a lot of bugged out eyeballs and mouths hanging down to their tween-sized toes. I guess the mere mentioning of this absurd idea knocked them off their social standings a few pegs, because even their friends wouldn't look at me for a few days. I had been ostracized by tweens - OH GOD! WHAT-everrr! Been there, done that, have the t-shirt - GOT OVER IT!

Then I get a email this morning from my son's "room mother" for his classroom. I have been informed that I need to make chocolate covered strawberries for 21 hyperactive 5th graders who are getting a surprise party for Friday the 13th because they won't be in school on the 14th. Now don't you think that it's a bit ironic celebrating a luuuuv day on the same day that everybody thinks horrible acts of Satan are going to be committed? Anyway, I am told that I need to make enough to feed each kid at least 2 strawberries, plus enough to make their moms crave even more. So, I'm looking at least ........ 60 freaking, hand-dipped, chocolate covered strawberries!! And I have only one day to shop and create.

OH! She also informs me that I am also suppose to arrive at the school on Thursday evening at 6 pm to "decorate" my son's desk for another "surprise" for Valentines! I realize now that not only have to juggle my son's party, I have to find a babysitter at the last minute to watch 4 kids because my husband is going to be out of town for the whole day! Did I mention that we just moved here and I don't KNOW any babysitters yet? I'm feeling the pressure as I whip a email back at her because I have yet another problem.

"Um, can you tell me what they are doing in the other 5th grade class because my son has a twin sister and this whole "surprise" thing is not going to sit well in my house come this weekend. If I do this for my son and then not do the same for her in her class, it's gonna cause some issues. You know what I mean?" I type, hoping that my words are "smiling" at her as she reads them.

She types back: "I don't know that they're doing anything like this because we're doing a surprise party, but I'm sure they're doing something." That's it, end of email. No suggestions, no sympathy, Nada!

So I do the motherly thing in order to maintain peace and tranquility this weekend. I grab my grocery list ant double the amount of strawberries, chocolate, chocolate bunnies, personal Valentines cards, wrapping paper (yes, we are suppose to "wrap" the desk like a damn Christmas present!), 3 heart shaped balloons, 3 sets of crappy, corporate-cartoon Valentines cards, 3 bags of Valentines candy, and 1 bottle of Valium if I can beg the pharmacist to fork it over without asking any questions; IN MY DREAMS!

I have to not only do my son's desk in a Valentine-wrapped bliss complete with all the heart-shaped trimmings, but I'm gonna have to do double duty on Thursday night and do his twins sisters too. That is the responsibility of a mom with multiples; you do double duty. I am just sooo glad I am NOT that woman who just gave girth to 8 right now! I don't know what the hell she's gonna do on Valentines day because that $1.2 million someone quoted it cost to raise those 8 to ages 18, DOES NOT included holiday expenses and "surprise" parties at school!

They call Wednesday hump-day because it's suppose to make the rest of week go easier. But my hump to climb starts tomorrow and I have procrastinated till the last minute yet another year. Last year I was making homemade wooden Valentine boxes for all the kids because they were "required". They had to be designed so that they worked like simple machines. Simple my paa-tooo-tee! Heellooooo! What idiot came up with that idea! I was drilling, screwing, gluing, and cussing until the wee hours of the morning for days on those projects. If it weren't for the parties they all were having, I would have called them all in sick on Valentines. But when I was done and those boxes were all decorated in pretty red and pink paper with little heart and cupid cut-outs on it (and they worked too!), I was a God(dess) to my kids. They were three beautiful boxes for three beautiful kids. They loved me even more, and I had lost half my hair in the process. But they did give me lot's of chocolate for my efforts afterwards.

That's all kinda become a distant memory - until now. Can someone tell me if this much fuss was ever made over Valentines day when we were young? Hell, I was lucky to get a Valentines and one of those stupid candies with "Be Mine" stamped on top of it. Who decided we should start throwing these grand, catered parties for children on Valentines, then let them loose on mom and dad after they've completely annihilated and ingested cupcakes, cookies, mounds of chocolate, punch, juice, those stupid heart candies, lollypops, and of course, my chocolate covered strawberries. THIS is why we stay at moms are such an emotional and psychological wreck! We see this coming AND WE LET IT HAPPEN! WHY!!!!

Because we luuuuuuv them! We went through 24 bloody hours of pain to bring them into this world and they are gonna GET THEIR PARTY!!

So tomorrow I'm gonna get up, go to the gym, then haul my sore butt off to WallyWorld and fill my basket right along with all the other harried moms trying to do the same because THEY procrastinated right along with me. We are a club and we know our members. The downside is that these corporate jerks that we're bailing out financially are gonna get a little bit more money from me again just because my kids have gotta have those crappy Valentines cards or their social lives are over! The upside is that.....
I get to be........
their mom :-)

Happy Valentines Day!

REALTY VS FANTASY

So my energy was at an all time low today because my husband and I decided to sit up way past our bedtimes last night talking everything from the current bank bail-outs (I wish someone would give me free money to pay my bills!), to living in the South and all it's neurosis these days. I am suffering mild hangover since drinking a glass a wine. Boy, your liver is just not what it use to be once you pass that 35 year mark. One glass of Pinot Noir and I got a lampshade on my head, dancing on the patio table. It's really rather embarrassing and.... well, let's just get pass this point.

Now Nia's energy level is usually on par with that of a grey squirrel jacked up on a triple-shot Cafe' Latte. But today she has chosen the perfect time to have a "quiet day". Are our bio-rythms in sync today or what! So I decide to spend the morning sifting through some items to toss in our upcoming annual yard sale. Six people in a family accumulate a lot of crap in one year. But at least it's not as much as last year. With the state of the economy and our finances these days, we not only downsized our material goods, but size of our yard sale as well. Call it that trickle down affect you hear so much about, just middle-class style.

Nia is standing beside me as I rummage through half-torn moving boxes, and is singing to the top of her lungs her favorite Christmas song. We have been blessed with hearing this song for two months now, three, four, five times a day..... over and over and over again.

"Glooo-wo-wo-wo.... wo-wo-wo...wo-wo-wo-reeeah. In excess it's daaay-glo!"

If you haven't recognized it's unique, yet wildly popular chorus yet; it's "Hark the Herald Angels Sing". She does with style. And she does it all-day-long! She's standing on the ottoman now bellowing her lungs out. Where's that parenting book on the art of diversion? I know I bought that book and it's somewhere around here! Well Snap! I guess I'm on my own here.

"Nia - how about a video?" I asked searching through a rather large box filled half-way with children's VCR tapes that have been collecting since the twins were 6 months old. Talk about old! These were actually made before the 21st Century! Oh God - the shame!!! Hey, are there any collectibles in there?

"YEAAAH!" she squeals. "Let me see, let me see, LET ME SEEE!"

She dives pretty much head first into the box and proceeds to head for every squashed Disney VCR case she can grab with her two little pudgy hands.

"This one, this one!" she chants. "I want this one mom!"

And The Winner IS!: Disney's Tarzan, which she hasn't seen in quite a while. "Oh, THIS is a good one sweetie. It has your Uncle Lance in it." I quip. Her Uncle Lance is the actor Lance Henriksen. Think Frank Black on "Millennium", or Bishop the android on the movie "Aliens". But this time he lent his deep voice to the mighty gorilla king known as Kerchak in the movie Tarzan. For once, a movie of his that I can actually show my daughter at her impressionable young age. In others words.... it's rate G, for absolutely acceptable to any parents for any reason. Her singing/screeching is a good reason for me right now.

Since I feeling so absolutely lovely right now (I can feel my head beginning to call for a Motrin), I decide to forgo scavenging for yard sale possibilities and instead, mildew on the sofa for an hour or so with my daughter. It's called quality time, and it does not sustain or condone the use of bon-bon's. We have Cheetos instead! A big honking bag of organic, all-natural Cheetos!

The movie is playing and Nia's eyes are completely fixed and zoned onto our 42", state-of-the-art movie and sound system. Okay, it's just a freaking TV in our living room, but SHE thinks its aaaawesome! That's all that matters at this point; she's happy, and I'm re-cooperating.

The scene comes on with the great Kerchak, shoulders spread broad and fists pounding through the forest, announcing his supreme dominance over the herd (are gorillas called herds????), and his home.

"There's Uncle Lance", I whisper over to Nia, so as not to disturb her glazed-eyed concentration.

"That's Uncle Lance", she whispers in amazement to me.

"Yeeees", I reply.

"Mom, why is he so hairy", she says with a puzzled look on her face.

"Because he's a gorilla Nia", I say back thinking that she could actually be learning something from a glorified animated Disney cartoon.

"Uncle Lance is a gorilla" she zips back with a more intense puzzled look on her face.

"Yep, Uncle Lance is a gorilla." There is somewhat a very long, uncomfortable pause after this reply. I look over at Nia and she is staring far more intensely at the TV screen than before.

"Mom", Nia finally chimes. "Why isn't daddy hairy like Uncle Lance?"

Very long pause from my end. "Well Nia, daddy isn't hairy like Uncle Lance because daddy isn't a gorilla." I just realized that my explanation is not going to make her understand. In fact, it sounded down right stupid; even to a three year old.

"But moooommmeee! Daddy is suppose to be hairy like Uncle Lance cause their brooooothers!" her voice replies while in the beginnings stages of complete confusion.

So the conversation ensues with me trying to explain in words that her brain can relate to at this age. God knows, we can't use those handy-dandy, colorful comparisons and metaphors with a three year old to cleverly whip through this explanation in about 10 seconds flat; that would be just too easy. We have to break it down to a "Sesame Street" level of communication; therefore, I'm gonna be explaining this to her until, let's say...... my brain cells are fried, or either I have none left, whichever comes first!

"Honey, Uncle Lance is not really a gorilla, he just plays one on the movie (this was worded all wrong; try again MOM!). See it's not really him, it's just his voice. So you see, neither Uncle Lance or daddy are really hairy (literally, LOL), or gorillas. They are humans and gorillas are an-i-mals (must emphasize this point). Do you understand now Nia?" Please God let her understand because we're about to get to the point of the movie where Kerchak actually dies and then this WHOLE conversation would have been for nothing. Must get her to understand before her Uncle, I mean Kerchak dies.

"So mom. Uncle Lance sounds like a gorilla?" she quizzes me.

"What do you mean Nia?" I carefully asked as panic starts to fill my gut.

"Daddy doesn't sound like a gorilla; why does Uncle Lance sound like a gorilla?" her voice beginning to tire from the inquisition she has started. But I had to laugh, because she had a good point.

"Well honey, I guess the people at Disney thought Uncle Lance sounded like a good match for the voice of a gorilla. That's why he's doing the voice. Do you understand?" my voice now sounding tired too, but hopeful that there is an end to this.

"No!", she blurts.

"What?", I say.

"No! I don't understand. He looks like a gorilla and he sounds like; then he is one? Why is he a gorilla and daddy isn't." she presses me.

"Uhhhh." I say trying to stumble for some explanation. And then she digs deeper where I really do not want to go right now.

"Did they have the same mommy?" she asks.

"Yes, Uncle Lance and daddy have the same mommy, but they had different daddies", knowing full well I've possible opened a can of worms without meaning to.

"Ohhh. I get it! Uncle Lance's daddy was a gorilla, but daddy had the human one!" she gleefully shouts as if she has just discovered that candy really does grow on trees! Okay, I am really feeling my brain cells popping to their death now.

This is not getting any better and I can't seem to get to some kind of middle ground in this interrogation. She is more focused on the ancestral and biological evolution of her Uncle Lance than she is in his movie! My head is beginning to pound. I excuse myself for a moment to ingest a Motrin and to take a moment to assess the situation from a private, more quieter place; the closet in my bathroom. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then leave the pleasant confines of sanity to go and explain to this budding "Grand Inquisitor".

I walk back into the living room and shut the TV off. "Okay Nia, this is it in a nutshell. Now listen carefully because...... ". I am suddenly cut off before I start.

"Heeeeeeey!" she screeches. "Don't turn my movie off!" she continues. Well, she was paying attention to the movie afterall.

Note to self: NEVER turn TV off on a child until you warn them first. Could be hazardous to one's health and/or eardrums.

I explain to Nia that what I have to say is really important and that we are only going to pause - not turn off - the movie. I reassure her that it will take only a couple of minutes. Her nose is morphing into an ugly wrinkle and veins in her head are beginning to protrude. This is not good; I feel a meltdown coming in about 10 seconds or less. Quickly switch to a compromise: "Nia, let me tell you this and I'll give you more Cheetos". I quickly say to head off the tantrum. The veins subside, but the nose wrinkle stays. I take this as a sign of Nia thinking, "yeah, but be quick about it".

"As I was saying, Uncle Lance is not a gorilla. Nor is his father. Daddy and Uncle Lance have the same mother, and she is human like you and me. But they have different fathers, but their fathers are also human like you and me. Do you understand that", looking for vast reassurance in her eyes; she nods her head up and down. The nose wrinkle is starting to diminish. Good sign.

"Uncle Lance is only the voice of the pretend gorilla on the movie. The movie is not real; it's fan-ta-sy (breaking words into syllables seems to help her focus on the concept here). Therefore, the gorilla is not real; it's fan-ta-sy too. Uncle Lance is a real person like you and me and daddy. If we are not gorillas, then Uncle Lance is not a gorilla", I say real slow so that she can grasp every word I'm trying to push into that little noggin of hers. "Do you still understand Nia?" praying that she says yes. Noticing the perplexed look in her eyes, I run over and grab the picture of Lance and his family.

"See, look Nia. This is Uncle Lance (pointing to his picture), and this Aunt Jane and your cousin Sage. Now does he look like a gorilla in this picture? Do you think Uncle Lance is a gorilla now?" I say feeling pretty damn smart for grabbing this visual aid. Nia finally nods her head no.

YES!! A breakthrough; no more gorilla issues. I walk back over to the TV to return it to play mode. I turn to Nia to tell her I'm going to start our lunch. After all, that worked up an appetite fit for a..... no, I am not going to say it. Another note to self: make sure Tarzan movie makes it into yard sale. No, just hide it for another year until she can tell the difference between fantasy and reality. I reach over and give her a big hug for being so smart and understanding. She's gotta give me a few of those butterfly kisses before she let's go, and then it's back to finishing her movie.

As I am walking back to the kitchen, Nia pops a new question at me:

"Mom." she says.

"Yes Isaboo." I reply

"Why does Uncle Lance live in the forest?"

Okay, it involves a cold, a plumber, and a bathroom full of .......
Well, I'll let you find out for yourself.
(warning: this is not for the weak stomach)


Will some please explain to me why a three year old suddenly stops toilet training (I hate the word potty)? Why is life merrily going along and you think your kids are achieving their milestones with some normalcy when suddenly...... your child is peeing all over the place - sans the toilet? Not just once; "oopsie baby, did you have an aaaaaccident?" Noooooo, you are picking up wet, ammonia-filled clothes all day long. The washing machine is suddenly working overtime cause she has wet everything she owns by noon.

She is now wearing daddy's t-shirts (I deal with him later on this). And now it's time to hit the savings account cause there's a call to Stanley Steamer coming soon. This is one of the reasons I keep telling my husband to pull the stinking carpet (literally, please) off the floor and lay down that hassle-free Perego flooring that Home Depot is always putting on sale. Right now, I want a totally black floor that doesn't show nothing!

Her random peeing everywhere, but her toilet training chair, is causing me to curse ever being born with a reproductive system, and things are not about to get any better for me today.

To make things worse, my daughter has a cold. Not just one that seems to blow in then out (did I just say that). But one that is becoming a Mach 5, with snot running out of her nose like Niagra-freaking Falls; where we're now purchasing stock in Kleenex on ETrade because I'm making my husband buy boxes of tissues by the dozens. Not just any tissue though; it has to be the kind with moisturizing lotion, aloe vera, vicks vapor rub, and echnecia in it. Because you got to cover all the bases when your child is ill. You are a bad mommy if you don't. That's why they made baby wipe warmers. I swear to God, the cure for the common cold is gonna come out in a box of Puff's Plus one day and we mommies will buy it out!

Anyway, she has the cold that has her coughing, accompanied with projectile mucous on every body part of everyone in the house, including the poor cat (as if we're not having enough trouble keeping him in the house these days). The cold that makes her extra cranky and whiny to the point you actually wished someone would run their fingers down a damn chalkboard just so you could have something else to listen to.

The cold that makes her get........... D-I-A-R-R-H-E-A. (Faint hysterical screaming)

Not only is she reverting back to diaperhood, but she has the runs on top of it. It is not the kind you know is coming though. You know, where you can easily smell the huge gas bomb beforehand that leaves me running for every can of room spray I can find in the house. Because the plumber is coming to fix my dishwasher today and my house cannot smell like essence de le ca-ca! I swear to God, the military should bottle this smell up and let it loose all over Afghanistan. Osama would come out crying and begging to give up.

"Please Allah, make the baby poots stooooooop!"

When one of these lets loose, I usually know what's coming. I can prepare, and steer my child for the bathroom in order keep the pending disaster to a minimum. Afterall, I've been through this before with my 3 other kids; I'm a pro by now. I should have won awards for the times I have avoided poo and puke to land on my cream colored carpets. But not this child; she's different; she does things her own way. I learned that she's got her own style in the poo department.

She knows I'm a bit frustrated about her de-evolution in toilet training, so she decides at some point in the day that she's gonna start where she left off, and not tell me about it. It's quiet; it's too quiet. The mother alarms go off because we mother's know that when our children are quiet, something is wrong. I call out for Nia, but there is no answer. I know she was headed toward her bedroom, so that's where I go. And before I get there I stop dead in my tracks, turn my head to left and scream as loud as I can, but not a sound leaves my throat.

I AM MORTIFIED BY WHAT I SEE!!!

There stands Nia in the middle of a 6' x 4' foot bathroom floor. Every freaking inch of the floor is COVERED in diarrhea! I mean COVERED! Not just a little here, and a little there. Nooooo, it's on the baseboards, the entire floor, part of the cabinet, the side of the toilet. It is literally everywhere! The only place that there is not a trace is on her POTTY TRAINING CHAIR!!!!! How the hell is it all over the bathroom, but nothing is on her potty training chair? And there stands Nia right smack in the middle of floor whispering, "mom, I don't think I quite made it".

DUUUUHHHHHH!

The girl hasn't even taken her pull-ups off. She is standing in a sea of shit and her pull-ups and t-shirt are still on. She's covered, the floor is covered. part of the walls are covered. Very sweetly I say (while my brain is screaming every expletive I have ever heard in my life), "sweetie, what happened". "Why didn't you call me Nia?" All she can say to me is that she just didn't make it in time.

I am now feeling that I put way too much pressure on my daughter today over toilet training. I realize that this is one of those Karma moments.

Okay, I cannot even fathom how I'm gonna clean this up. For the first time in my 11 years of mothering, I am clueless as what to do. I am still standing at the doorway of the bathroom paralyzed; looking at my daughter, looking at the floor. "There is nothing in the parenting books about this kind of situation. What do I do?" I know once I put my foot on that floor, I'm gonna be sliding right across some nasty ca-ca like Barry Bonds sliding into home plate; just not as pretty.

So I access my situation and go into combat mode. I strategically stretch my right leg waaaaay over so I can stand up on the potty training chair. Afterall, it's the only clean place. "So far, so good." I turn to pick up Nia, and then I manage to swing her toward the tub without even getting once trace of ca-ca on my clothes, all while maintaining perfect balance in the process. "God, I am good! " I strip her down as I turn on the warm water. Do you know how hard this is to do without getting crap on my hands? I grab the towel from above my head and throw the t-shirt in the middle of it and wrap it up; what's left of the pull-up gets tossed in the trash and will be deposited into the nuclear waste dump as soon as I find one (are there people we can call to do that?). Once I have her rinsed, I drain the tub, then fill it up again and get her started on a bath with lot's of bubbles. Then I turn around and realize that I have a whole floor, wall, and cabinet of disgusting goo to tackle.

Now, I'm trying to deal with this as quickly and efficiently because I'm about to puke! I do not want to be cleaning up goo and puke at the same time. Nia is happily playing in the tub as I carefully balance myself and jump from the potty training chair, back onto the carpeted hallway. I mentally make my list of germ-a-phobe items needed as I run.......... oh God, the doorbell rings; it's the plumber. I run back to Nia and tell "Don't Move! Mommy will be right back!" Run to the front door and try to open it as if NOTHING out of the ordinary is happening. "Come in!", I tell him. Then I leave him there with the door open and run to the laundry room, praying that he won't notice what's gone down. This is my list:

1. 3 rolls of paper towels
2. a mop
3. bleach - 2 bottles just in case
4. disinfectant wipes
5. kids toothbrush (I'll buy a new one tonight cause I need something to clean in between tiles)
6. a scented candle to burn so I don't puke from the smell - which I am about to
7. can of air freshner to spray as I'm running toward the bathroom so the plumber doesn't smell anything.
8. a bucket
9. a cup of coffee - God if I had some stiff Russian vodka to put in it right now, I would!
10. plenty of plastic store bags, and I mean plenty!
11. And.... my iPhone to take a picture. Gotta prove to my husband that, yes, I DID take a half day to clean the bathroom, and THIS is WHY! (But for your consideration, I did not include the picture)

I run back to the bathroom flashing a smile at the plumber as I whiz by him (quickly spraying a little air freshner along the way), and there I am facing the sea of black, but with a happy little girl in a tub at the end of it. I close the door in the hallway as to block the plumbers view of this whole catastrophe. Thank GOD for hall doors!

"Hi-Ya Mooooommmmmy! I'm getting clean!", Nia chirps.

I stand there with a half-frozen, stupid smile on my face and a handful of cleaning supplies topped off with a coffee in my hand. I bet Mr. Clean never used this kind of image in one of his commercials. Hell, Mr. Clean would run like a little girlie-man if he saw what I was faced with here! I take a big swig of strong caffeine and set it on the towel shelf behind me. I unleash an entire roll of paper towels on the hall carpet before me, wad it up, get on my hands and knees, and........ OH GOD, GET THE CANDLE!!!!! LIGHT THE CANDLE, LIGHT THE CANDLE!!!!! I look up at Nia with that same stupid smile and she says "mommy, you don't look so good. Are you okay?".

"Yes baby, mommie's fine, I just gotta clean-this-up.", I say with teeth clenched while frantically trying to light the candle. I have short fingernails, so I end up burning the end of my thumb in the process. I stuff my thumb in my mouth then grab my iPhone and take that picture. My husband is NOT going to believe this!

Back to the paper towels, I'm on my hands and knees trying to push the brown stuff together in a neat little puddle in the middle of the floor. How the hell can one be neat with diarrhea! You push it this way, it goes that way. I swear, Nia must have saved up a week's worth of poop and let it rip on this floor!

"What is the name of that stuff coroners put under their noses while doing autopsies. I need that stuff NOW! "

I am wiping an area clean, then I follow with a wad of disinfectant wipes. I am making progress, but I must be making noises that I'm unaware of because I suddenly hear the plumber:

"Are you okay in there?" he calls.

"I'm fine. We just had a little accident that I'm cleaning up right now. I'll be with you in just a minute." I call back.

"Would you like some help? You're in the bathroom aren't you?" (I hear his footsteps approach).

"NO! (panic level goes from 0-100 in 1 second flat!). No, it's okay, I got it!" (his footsteps retreat; I'm safe).

"Well okie-dokie (people really do say that word?), just let me know if you need any help in there." he calls back.

"Thank you!", I reply in relief.

I continue my Karate Kid technique of "wipe on, wipe off", in that continuous circular motion until I have cleaned up enough to start disinfecting with my friend Ms. Clorox. She's such a pretty bottle (the smell of the crap and the disinfectant wipes is starting to get to me now), she smells like "outdoor fresh". After two rolls of paper towels, one giant bottle of disinfectant wipes, an entire cup of coffee, I decide it's time to mop.

I turn the hot water on. Why does it take so long for hot water to reach the bathroom sink pipes? This is taking way too long; I need hot water now! I put enough bleach in the bucket to kill everything on the bathroom floor, but not enough to plummet my daughter in a fume of chemical induced gas. The bathroom is already in a noxious swirl of poop, vanilla dream candle scent, and disinfectant.

The mopping begins, then I grab the kids toothbrush and meticulously begin to clean in between each and every 4 inch tile. "God, this is gonna take all day long", I think to myself. But you know what, it is amazing how fast you can clean a floor when you think someone is gonna catch you cleaning a weeks worth of poop up!

"Your dishwashers fixed." I hear the plumber say "I'll just leave the bill on the counter for you. Are you sure you don't need any help in there?"

"I'm fine; thank you again." I yell back (please go so I can finish this in peace).

"Call me if anything else goes wrong with the dishwasher."

I hear the door shut after that, and I breath a sign of relief. I can now finish cleaning the bathroom without feeling I'm in training for the Olympics. Would that be the original Olympics, or Special Olympics? I proceed to finish mopping the floor, clean and bleach the walls and cabinets. Hell, I bleached everything! Might as well clean the whole damn bathroom while I'm here. Gets me out of watching my 11 year old daughter roll her eyeballs, and whine about how she has to clean the toilet every week because everyone else uses it more than she does. At least I get one perk out of this whole mess! I wonder what she would have done if I had saved this little chore for her to do. Oh that's good for a few laughs! Then I marvel at how sparklely the bathroom is. You would never know a lethal, brown explosive went off in here today.

So with the bathroom cleaned, my daughter cleaned and dressed in another one of my husbands t-shirts (I decided to go ahead and throw the first one away), life can resume to normal activity. I take Nia into the kitchen and turn on some cartoons for my little girl while I make her some lunch. Me... I'm skipping lunch today. With her happily sitting in her chair at the table and watching the "Backyardagans", I put up all the cleaning supplies and then pop one of her favorite burritos in the microwave.

"Moooommm!"

"Yes Nia."

"Um, I need you."

"What is it Isaboo (my nickname for her)?"

"I had an aaaaaccident!"

"You had a wha...... NIIIIIAAAA!!!"

Now where did I put that bleach?