On Thursday Mr. 7 lost his fourth tooth. A-me and I were rather excited that this dangler was finally gone. The damn tooth had been lose since Christmas and it just would not sit uniform with the rest. Mr. 7 would smile and all you could see was that tooth coming at you like some visual affect from a 3D movie. And Mr. 7 was excited as well, seeing how his bankroll was getting a little low and that 2 dollars would really help him through this stretch of financial drought.

On Friday morning while we were all participating in the zombie shuffle, Mr. 7 came down to inform us that the tooth fairy must have been super busy. So busy she didn't pay him a visit.
Holy shit! We forgot! We suck! We should have that fuckin' fairy's wings ripped off!
Unfortunately Mr. 5 wet his bed at 4 in the morning, so it was rather obvious that while Mr. 5 was battling the Uri-demon he scared off the damn tooth fairy.

Fortunately enough the tooth fairy was able to visit our house while Mr. 7 was at school. I found the winged little wretch dancing around the living room leaving a dollar bill and four quarters sprawled out on the coffee table. That tooth fairy is evil, and I believe she's using drugs.. she just left! Could not even fly her happy pixie ass upstairs to deliver the money. Bitch.

I picked up Mr. 7 at school, he was excited. At first I thought he was excited to see if the tooth fairy had paid him a visit, but he clearly proved me wrong when he showed me an additional aperture in his smile. Both of his k-9's are gone, but at least now he can eat an apple without biting himself in the nose.

We hurried home to discover the tooth fairy had, indeed, left two dollars under his pillow, and the excitement stayed with him all night until he passed out on the living room floor.
Do you think the fucking tooth fairy would have been smart enough to make the switch while Mr. 7 was sleeping on the floor? No, of course not, the bitch tried to forget again! So I had to grab her by her fuzzy little slippers and shake her around a bit. I tossed her around like some cheap, Tinkerbell knockoff and forced her up the stairs. I had to help her dig underneath Mr. 7's pillow. The baggy that should have been close to the edge of his pillow was shuffled back underneath his head. With stealth, sweat, and determination the tooth fairy and I had to lift his head and pull up the pillow in order to retrieve the tooth.

I was relieved once the deed was done. Mr. 7 wouldn't wake up to a disappointment, and I wouldn't have to deal with that doped up fairy for a while.

Monday when I came home from work Mr. 7 proudly showed his toothless smile, and with excitement he pointed out another gap in his acrylics.
Fuck.
So the tooth fairy is comin' around again... any more loose teeth and I'll have to take out a personal loan for this bitch.

This past weekend was "family photo" day for A-me and the boys. After 4 years of watching this little tradition, I never realized just how much preparation is involved for the perfect 8 x 10. Hours, yes... HOURS at Old Navy. Finding matching shirts that were exactly the same, but not.
(Did I just go over your head? If so, that's okay, I'm still not sure if I understand this concept.)
And for a shocking end result, you'll be blown off your rickety little swivel chairs to find that I... yes, I picked the shirts. Polos like I wear, complete with matching "dead stuff" on the front. Mr. 7 wears the blue and brown, Mr. 5 wears the orange and brown, sorry... vermilion, for you fashion trendy fuckers. Scary isn't it? My boys are "just like me" with their ripped up faded jeans and their shirts with "dead stuff." I feel so proud.

Yes, feel so proud until Mr. 5 won't fucking smile to save his soul. Stick his tongue out? YES! Smile? No way. I couldn't have slapped myself with a rubber chicken to make that boy smile "pretty." I've seen him smile more at the doctors office when they pummeled his legs with shots, but this?!?!?!
He smiled like an Easter Island head.

I was a little frustrated. Even more so after the fat, obnoxious photo-taking bitch wouldn't stop asking me if I wanted to be in the photo with them. NO, this is something special, something sacred, and no matter how deep I can possibly infiltrate the camp of Heart A-me, there's some things you just don't fuck with, like a mother's traditions.


oh yeah, and visit my other half. No, not her... HERE.

I read a really funny, funny... well... I read this article this morning and it got me thinking. It reminded me of the second grade. And, before you start asking me why I have correlated the "sex talk" with second grade... eh... never mind.

I became ill with the chickenpox and I felt like dog shit. I had NEVER missed a day of school before, and I loved school, so when the teacher and principal hauled me into their office I began crying. I couldn't understand why they were towering over me and probing me with questions. They tossed out massive words at me like "infirm" and "peaked" oh! and "vomit." Vomit was the tailspin word, I heard those big HUGE words and began to cry, all I could think was mom's gonna be so mad at me.

The principal asked me if I felt like I was going to vomit. She didn't ask if I felt sick, or pukey, or yucky, and she didn't ask if my tummy hurt. I had no fucking idea what THAT word meant! So I said yes. And it was like a fucking bomb went off... in seconds the nurse, principal, and my teacher were scrambling around the office grabbing garbage cans and fumbling with the phone and... this was all very traumatic for me. Sitting there on that little padded bench watching them grab blankets, buckets, and then... then they started feeling around my head. Pressing their hands to my forehead, looking inside my ears, and they spoke in this foreign language of giant words, and holy crap, I just want my mom!

Eventually my mom arrived, and when I spotted her in the doorway I began to cry uncontrollably and profess my plea for lenience. She chuckled lightly and told me I was sick.

...I am?

Mr. 4 turned Mr. 5 over the weekend, and apparently, one of his brand spanking new wonderful gifts to everyone is a shiny new outlook on mornings. On Monday morning his tummy hurt so he couldn't get out of bed, his legs hurts so he couldn't put on his pants, and his socks were bumpy. Mr. 5 cried, whined, and threw himself on the floor like never before. Fantastic. On Tuesday morning he couldn't see anything cause his eyes were broken and the lights were too bright, he couldn't put his pants on because they were itchy, and again... his socks were bumpy. Wonderful. This morning... was quiet. No tantrums, no crying over the lights or legs, things were great... until those fucking socks.

Mr. 7 on the other hand is once again the child I fell in love with. He's sweet, overly affectionate, and slightly obsessive compulsive... just the way I like him. Together we have been learning how to make our own toast in the mornings... sometime we get a little over zealous with the butter, but we can handle that. After leaving Mr. 7 to eat his toast I ventured off to pummel my morning breathe with the toothbrush of doom. With a mouthful of foaming goodness I could hear Mr. 7 calling to me urgently, yet... very very softly. I walked towards him, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, foam about to run down to my socks, and I noticed Mr. 7 wasn't moving. He was motioning to the floor with his eyes, and once around the corner I spotted it.

Happy was out of the cage and standing beside the stove, perched on his tail, and eyeballing every movement I made. I tried to rearrange my massive mouthful of foam and get a firmer grip on my toothbrush... and with stealth I reached around the corner to grab some of the brightly colored tubing they usually run through. I creeped towards the stove and laid the tubing down, and immediately Happy crawled in. I jumped the gun. Gerbils can go just as fast backwards as they can forwards and I didn't let him go far enough into the tube, and now he's onto me, and now it's going to be a fucking mind game to get this little shit back in the cage with his brother.

Happy would dash out from under the stove, wave at me briefly and resume the duck and cover operation. I would shift the tubing, and wait for him to return. He would scurry out, wink at me, and parade around flinging gerbil poop all over the kitchen. I had to do something before I lost an eye, or my toothbrush. So I did. I grabbed Happy by the tail. He wriggled around as if stuck in a hula-hoop. Lifting him to eye level he stared at me as if to say "please sir... "

Okay, okay... so it wasn't really that dramatic... but I had a fucking toothbrush in my face, isn't that enough!?!?!?

The concept of the treasure hunt will captivate children for two or three minutes before they learn how to cheat!

If parents are concerned about the competitive nature some games breed, they can be put to ease with this children's game, unless you have more than one child.

Cariboo plays on a child's inquisitive nature by teaching your child to ask "why?" for hours!

Parents will be glad to know that Cariboo has undergone safety testing, and the treasure balls smell worse than latex!

Kids match letters, numbers, shapes, colors, and learn argument skills as they practice sharing and turn-taking by not wanting to pass the key.

A game that teaches letter and word recognition, great for any preschooler or illegal immigrant!

An award winning game that will bore the brains right out of your child!

The game is geared for the shorter attention span of young children, making it easier to only play once!

Mr. 4 gives it 1 thumb up and says... "I smell balls!"

I am an only child. Powerful as that statement may be, there are days I wish it was not so. My mother and I are lucky to be here; there were several complications during her pregnancy with me. In fact, the left side of my body has some oddities as a result of said complications. I have a pinky finger that is 1/2 an inch shorter than my right, I have had several operations on my left ear canal from lack of development, and I have quite the file on heart complications. My mother was left stranded with no other choice accept undergo a hysterectomy or endure an excruciating life of pain until menopause. She chose the hysterectomy, leaving me an only child.

My mother loves... no, you don't get it... she LOVES children. So for my 18th birthday, as a gag gift, my mother gave me a box of condoms, all with obvious holes poked in them. Clever, and yes, I did get the point. The problem with this...? I don't want children. I really don't even like them. How I'm with someone now that has children is beyond me. There are days that I catch myself arguing with Mr. 4, expecting him to understand the profound concept that I am always right, and he needs to shut the fuck up. NOW!, and I have to force myself to stop arguing with him. I have to forcefully put myself into the position to understand the concept that he just doesn't understand.

I honestly don't know what's worse... putting up with my mom's desire of becoming a natural grandparent, or putting up with Mr. 4's incessant questions of why and what happens. I am so fucking sick of the questions. There is a chanting inside my skull... "shut the fuck up"

Mr. 4: What happens if someone cuts their ice cream and they eated it?
Me: "shut the fuck up" That's a silly question, maybe some people like it that way.

Mr. 4: Whats Mr. 7 dooning?
Me: "shut the fuck up" Mind your own business.

Mr. 4: Whys dat noise making from?
Me: "shut the fuck up" That doesn't even make sense.

Mr. 4: Why you making dat?
Me: "shut the fuck up" If you don't like it, you make dinner then. inconsiderate prick

Mr. 4: Whats dat noise?
Me: "shut the fuck up" What noise? I don't know what you're talking about. Go find something to do.

Mr. 4: Why?
Me: "shut the fuck up" Because if you don't I'm gonna rip your fucking arms off and beat you with them, NOW GET MOVING!

Awesome!! ...and I'm not fucking kidding, that's a conversation I had earlier today. And mommy dearest thinks there's some slim chance of hell freezing over while I step into baby shit and more of these FUCKING QUESTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"shut the fuck up"

Two weeks ago, while staggering dangerously close to the edge of sanity, A-me convinced Mr. 7's doctors to have a pow-wow. The results have been mind altering, and by altering, yeah... I feel like my whole fucking head has just been ran through a shiny new, white sewing machine and I've been stuffed with all sorts of new fluffy information on the subject of "he's only 7."

Unfortunately the doctors agreed to disagree. Just what we needed, more pill pushing idiots trying to shove a second opinion up the pharmacists ass. But I'm proud of A-me, she did her homework and she put her foot down... and now they will be giving medication to help "rule out" one or the other instead of "treat" one or the other.

Two weeks ago Mr. 7 began receiving treatment for Bipolar instead of ADHD, and he went to stay with Grandma for a week. And a juicy morsel of information here, pay attention please, Grandma is bipolar. So we entrusted her with the observations of what she knows about best... how this illness can fuck up your life, and destroy the ones you love.

The medication takes three weeks before becoming fully effective, but there's not a snowball chance in hell I could allow the long wait of three weeks for Mr. 7's return. A-me was a fucking wreck. Other than an occasional weekend stay at grandma's place of cookie cutter spoilage, she has never left one of them behind on the journey home.

One week will have to do... not only for A-me's sanity, but for my own. I can only carry around a box of Kleenex for so long before my needs begin to outweigh the waterworks. (and it's okay, I'm not exactly sensitive, you can call me an asshole.)

Anyways, enough with the history lesson. Today was Mr. 7's return to the 1st grade. At 10 o'clock I received a phone call from A-me. (excuse me while I try to squeeze my newly stuffed head into the paper-shreader) .....She's crying.... (Fuck me! You're kidding, right?)
...and now she's doing a really shitty job of trying to compose herself.

I can barely make out the words... "(sobbing) school called (sobbing) ..."
I think I said "what happened?", but I can't be certain, the flood of not this shit again was unbearably louder than I was.

She finally gained her composure, and relayed to me that she was crying because she was happy.

I'd like to interject something here, a question of feelings. Who cries when they are happy? Yeah, so maybe every once in a while my menstrual sympathy kicks out too many hormones and I get a little choked up when they reveal the fat lady with no arms is getting a new house, but that's completely different. Sobbing, hysterically??? Maybe if I won the world record for penis size? Maybe if I found out Bill Gates made a typo and mailed me a check containing enough to cover the national debt? Then again, these are both under the ...MAYBE category. Obviously because I'm hung like a stud cricket, BUT ANYWAYS!! Not the point! She was crying, uncontrollably... and then she says...


Because Mr. 7 called her to tell her HE was happy, because his teacher told him she was so very proud of him today.

...and at that moment, I answered my own question. I wasn't sobbing, but cheese and fucking rice, was I ever choked up. So much I couldn't clear my own damn throat without reliving puberty.

So... maybe there is hope after all, that Mr. 7 isn't a complete fucking psycho. Not a single outrage, tantrum, or disrespectful jab since he's been home all week, but then again... we've had a stomach bug.

A-me called with news that Mr. 7 has been ejected from school again today. He tore off his t-shirt. Ripped it into shreds like some menacing mini me version of the Hulk. Mr. 7 was escorted to the behavioral specialist who was able to get him calmed enough to return to class, where he casually meandered his way over to the electric pencil sharpener. Apparently to gage the inner diameter of dual razor action with his pinky finger.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Fortunately no injuries were reported. Yesterday he was able to keep his shit together until lunch, afterwards he was only able to attend gym class at the end of the day. Things are just sliding down the shit covered hill slicker than the snot seeping out of Mr. 4's nose.

A-me and I have learned that anti-depressants, like one of the medications Mr. 7 is taking, can cause hellacious mood swings, violent mania, and suicidal tendencies in children diagnosed as bipolar. Isn't that just fan-fucking-tastic?

Mr. 7 is going through the thrills of a medication change. Apparently the rest of us are going through it as well.

I've never noticed how paper thin the walls in my house were until the satanic opera singer evolved. High pitched shrills float through the vents and vibrate my eyeballs inside their sockets like I willfully placed a vibrator in my ear. And if you consider putting a vibrator in your ear excitingly exotic, you're wrong.

Three days ago Mr. 7 had a counseling appointment with a psycho-something or another, he threatened to cut his own tongue off with a set of the child safe scissors. I've never paid much attention to the "lethal weapons" we actually keep in our home. Evidently glue sticks, crayons, and other randomly placed art materials are now objects of mutilation, just like the scissors.

Two days ago Mr. 7 was placed in a basket hold at daycare. He was threatening the lives of the faculty, kicking, punching, etc.. etc...

Yesterday Mr. 7 was sent home from first grade because he mocked a fellow classmate. He screamed at her until she broke down into tears and then proceeded to throw his Popsicle art project at her. He was upset that her project was finished before his, but he was too busy blurting random vowel sounds to work on his project. A-me still has some of her sanity left, even after Mr. 7 screamed "don't let her take me, don't let her take me, she's going to hurt me! She's going to hurt me!"

Holy shit... the drama.

If you purchase a malfunctioning toaster, generally, you can take it back to the store. Unless of course you're some fucking moron that tries to fix shit you know nothing about.

You own a dog and unfortunately it is suddenly stricken with rabies or some other life threatening ailment. You take it in for euthanasia, try your hardest to let them go in peace and in the usual course of things cry your fucking eyes out.

What do you do with a fucked up 7 year old boy? At times your heart aches at the distaste you carry for him. At times you wish you could just tell him to go play in traffic because he won't stop pushing your buttons. You pray, you wish, you hurt... all the while your pride and love slowly begin to deteriorate into a gaping hole of execration.

The night started out just as any other night... I got home from work and met up with the family. We bickered momentarily about who was cooking dinner and what exactly we were having. Discussions were had about shopping at Target, Wal-mart, or some other commonly known retail hell. We finally decided to hit Wal-mart after cooking the boys a couple of those frozen cardboard wafers, commonly known as pizzas, while us adults dined on the fabulous tastings of Quiznos. Bleh.

Dinner went without a hitch, for once. After bathroom visits and the ritual whining about our shoes, we piled into the family mobile. We weaved in and out of traffic frantically while cussing, swearing, and screaming at neighboring drivers. In fact, bitching out other drivers on the road has become one of our favorite family past times. I drive, then call some idiot cutting me off an "ass ramming fuck wad!", and then I wait patiently for one of my three passengers to stammer "Who?" Once we're waiting at a red light for what seems to be an eternity you can hear "Go Orion! Go!" I roll my eyes, debate whether or not I should put the car in park, and continue to wait.

Eventually we did make it to Wal-mart, but apparently someone did not visit the bathroom before she got in the car with the responsible members of the family who did go... so Mr. 7, Mr. 4, and myself perused the Halloween isle while she went to the nearest facility.

We found bleeding skull faces, ordinary witch masks, and something that looked like a melted liver face. Batman, Spider-man, Iron-man, and a million other Marvel super suits were hanging in the isles for wear. We looked at eye make up, silly string, vampire teeth, and light up pumpkins before deciding the Halloween section was not pushing the envelope for creativity.

We were in the process of vacating the drippy rubber section of doom when an audible sneeze could be heard. My instinct immediately rotated my unwilling body to look at Mr. 4, who has the nastiest allergies I've ever seen. I blankly stared at him for a moment as he stood there, paralyzed by the slimy snake of mucous that dangled from his nose. Before the feelings of disgust could run through my non-parent veins I quickly looked around to assess the situation and found nothing to aid us.

I am not a quick thinker, I sat there staring at him in disgust for what seemed to be an eternity. The poor kid is trying his darnedest too keep the 2 foot snot dragon from attacking his clothes and all I can think of is how revolting that shit is.

I am not a natural born parent, I don't think to ask some random stranger for a tissue.
I am not a resourceful person, sure I used to work at a Wal-mart ages ago, sure I knew that there are towel dispensers at the end of certain isles, but no... I don't think about that crap in a time of need. Instead I encourage Mr. 4 to keep his head down as the snake slithers it's way closer to the floor, hoping the damn thing will catch soon and plummet from his nose.

The thing wasn't moving, in fact it stood there and did mucous muscle poses to prove to us it's sticky strength. I had to do something. So, I frantically dug in my pockets for something, anything, but all I had was my wallet and the coveted shopping list. I picked the obvious and tore off the blank part of the shopping list, which gave me a 2 x 3 inch chunk of paper. With surgical precision I scraped off the dangling beast and watched it plop onto the floor. Mr. 7 and I let out a synchronized "ooh" of morbid fascination. The jelly-like blob jiggled on the floor; it looked like a spoonful of tapioca pudding, but the color and consistency of apple jelly. Tasty!

I don't have any children of my own... and thank God for that. I have a feeling if I ever reproduced they would come out looking something like a cross between gollum smeagol and dobby, and if they didn't then I'm sure they'd be as mentally stable as a fucking toaster in a bathtub.



I live with two children, Mr. 7 and Mr. 4... and after 3 and a half long years of tearing my own eyes out in frustration I learned today that Mr. 7 is bi-polar.



excuse me a moment while I wear the cone of silence**



MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A GOD DAMN MISERABLE PIECE OF SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!??!?
...so it's not me after all?

**Watch "Get Smart" ...it fucking rocks.

There’s a certain cord of oddness that is struck in me when I am outdone. I would say it’s more like envy or spite… but that makes me sound so… so… unsportsmanlike.
(I can’t believe that’s even a word… it’s stupid like fork. Seriously, who makes this shit up? I mean toaster is one thing, but fork? Haha, butt-fork.)
Help me, please. I’d like to grow up now!
Back to the growing up thing… when do we get over that feeling of anger when someone has bettered us at what we consider our own game?

I play soccer in the backyard with the boys, it’s usually a pretty fun experience for all of us…
I never taunt them… instead I run circles around them, but allow slight opportunities for them to win. When my competitive spirit takes over, assuming my lungs haven’t collapsed from the irregular exercise, I begin to push and shove my way to glory. A hip check is usually all it takes to liven up the 4-yr-old into a healthy competition, and if 6-yr-old isn’t crying about how “he never wins anything!” he’s rather competitive and fun too.

Now let’s take a look at the options I have when 6-yr-old takes advantage of my winded predicament, slips the ball past to score, and begins the “nee neer nee neer” taunting
Should I…
A. Applaud and cheer approvingly like “mom” is then add eye roll and tongue face when she isn’t looking.
B. Critique on how he cheated and plot to trip him next time around.
C. Bite tongue and kick the ball directly at 6-yr-old’s head.

And if you picked C because you like standing there looking like an asshole for the neighbors while “mom” consoles the little jerk guy, then you’re just like me! Or maybe you just kicked it to hear that funny sound it made on contact… or maybe you picked a completely different answer and I look even more like an asshole. In any case… when do I grow up, and move on from these stages?

If this doesn’t stop I have a feeling I’ll end up in the “raisin ranch” racing nurses in my wheel chair to see who can dump out the bedpan first. Now there’s something to look forward to… “Tuesday night in Timmy’s room we are having the 4^th annual catheter crawl races!” And God only knows what the consequences will be for the cheating bitch poor nurse that beats me.