Crime Log, Muffintopmommy Household, Week of August 6th:

Missing: Rolling pin, measuring spoons, can opener, black flip flop, two throw pillows. And my sanity.

Found: Two throw pillows. Bottom of the hall closet. Scarred, but otherwise unharmed.

Hausfrau reports all other items are missing in action, assumed to have been swallowed somewhere deep into the abyss. (Please pause for a moment of silence.)

Prime suspects: Three boys between the ages of 2 to 6. A brunette and two blondes, from slight to stocky builds. One possibly wearing a stinky diaper. Another with a scar over his eyelid—possibly from a bar fight or a run in with a coffee table. A third most likely with grape jelly smeared on his cheeks. If you see these suspects, proceed with caution. Your ear drums could be ruptured if you approach in a menacing way or mention any of the following code words: McDonald’s, Happy Meal, Mickey D’s, Cars 2, Smurfs, Despicable Me, Caillou, ice cream, bed time or Legos.

THE CULPRITS WILL BE APPREHENDED! HELL YEAH! (PROBABLY NOT.)

Suspects known to engage in the fight or flight method. The little blonde has a mean right hook. The brunette is very fast. The bigger blonde is wildly unpredictable. He may try to say things like, “You’re beautiful. And your shirt is cute.” to throw you off your game. It’s a trick. Do not fall into his trap.

This past week, their mom made a calzone with a toy rolling pin, a dip to bring to someone’s house with no measuring spoons (She “guesstimated”. Wrong.). She purchased new measuring spoons and made other unfortunate footwear plans. She had turkey instead of tuna. She plumped up her pillows and toasted her insanity.

It’s another stinking full moon rising! No need to even look outside……….

MUFFINTOPMOMMY BEFORE A FULL MOON. AWWOOOOO!

Muffintoppers? Beware. Oh? And slainte! Happy weekend, you all!

Oh, I admit it. It feels good to get on my high horse sometimes and judge others — we all do it (don’t EVEN deny it).  My mother always said, “Janet, it’s not nice to judge!” (What she didn’t say? Is that it’s fun!!! Did I say that out loud? Shut up! Don’t judge me!) As a mom, trying to slug it out every day and sometimes a lot of times feeling like I come up short, I understand that statement now more than ever.

I’m doing the best I can like most people.  I’m not perfect. Who’s perfect? I think I maybe might let my kids eat some trans fats. By accident. After we have our vitamins, floss, and eat our flax seeds.

We good now?

Just…all you need to know is everything spiraled downhill one fateful day when we hit the road for McDonald’s.

Before you get all McJudgy on me, I wouldn’t be at the Golden Arches in the first place if I didn’t: A. find myself on the run and not have time to make them a balanced lunch or B. wake up, realize it’s gonna be one of those days, and bribe them with the promise of a Happy Meal to get through the morning. (Also? You gotta throw me a bone because at the very least I know they won’t poison my kids with peanut butter there. We have quite a few allergies in this house, but oh snap! Not to bad fats! Oh what luck!)

I’m an ill prepared mommy at times. I get it. But listen, this is a 365 day a year job with no pay and fringe benies, save a mani and pedi here and there. Don’t even say you don’t fall down on the job sometimes for a lot more compensation and two weeks paid vaca.

Fine. I might have an ulterior motive…. I do enjoy snagging the occasional fry (or twenty) from a Happy Meal. Guilty. Don’t be so smug about it—you don’t have to be mathematician to figure that one out. Fry + beer divided by coffee cream = muffin top. (It’s that new math everyone’s talking about.)

But listen, the Mickey D’s lady does not have to wrong me like she has been lately, even after I say please and thank you and render payment swiftly so as not to hold up the line. What have I done to turn her against me so? She and that Ronald McDonald pansy are clearly out to get me.

The first time, the miserable shrew forgot the toy in ONE, yes ONE, of the two happy meals I ordered for my two older boys. Hey, Ronald, how about some quality control? Fitty percent accuracy—not good. Of course, this sad transgression was not discovered until we almost got home.

“Mommeeeeeee, where’s my toy!!!”

“Oh no you di-inn’t!” I muttered as I rummaged past the fries and nugs to sadly realize one happy meal was sans toy.

I was down but not out. This was a teaching moment.

“I can totally handle this.”

I thought, if my brother the police officer and hostage negotiator can calmly talk hardened criminals who are holding hostages out of life and death situations, clearly I can explain to my four year old that he’d need to share the one Mickey D toy with his little brother. Damn right. I can negotiate with some tough customers, too.

I decided I’d just tell him straight up the Mickey D’s lady made an honest mistake.

“What’s a mistake?”  

“A mistake is when you do something you don’t mean to do.”

“But what mistake did the lady make?”

“The McDonald’s lady was very busy and she forgot to put the toy in your Happy Meal. She didn’t mean it.” Yes, she did. Just kidding. Not really.

“Oh, okay.” He said, seeming to accept it. “Well, who got my toy instead?”

“I don’t know. I guess no one got the toy. She just forgot to give you yours.” She must have been busy looking for her missing tooth.

“Ohhh.”

“So you can just share the one toy with your brother.”

“Yup!”

Oh, I am so good at this! He is getting so mature. He really ‘gets it’!

“But…..but, what was the lady doing when she forgot my toy?”

“Well, she was just so busy helping to feed all the hungry people.” Probably too busy smoking dope behind the dumpster with that goofy bastard Ronald. Yeah. I said it. Anyone who looks and acts like that has to be fracking high.

“But, why are all the people so hungry?” Cuz they have the munchies from smoking dope with that buffoon, Ronald?

“Because it’s lunch time and they haven’t eaten since breakfast, or maybe they didn’t even have any breakfast.”

“But, why their mommy would not make them eat breakfast?” Oy! For the love of good God, is it too late to take my chances with the hostage taker? My bro SO has an easier job than me!

Sonofabitch. He’s gone and pulled a “Caillou” on me…..you know, that whinybag four year old Canadian cartoon pinhead….I want to smack him upside that little bald head with that red and white maple leaf flag he’s embarrassing on behalf of poor Canada…because now my son has morphed into a full on American Caillou with hair. Fifty five questions later, about why you need to eat breakfast, what a good breakfast is, where you can eat breakfast, when you can eat breakfast, who you can eat breakfast with, I was wishing he’d just had a stinking tantrum about the toy, he could have gone to time out, and we could’ve called it a day.

I was THIS CLOSE to calling up Mickey D’s and putting him on the phone with the evil, evil wench who FORGOT OUR STINKING 10 CENT TOY!!!  See how she likes it, all safe in her little window, wreaking four year old havoc and then sending us on our way, with ME, MEto pick up the pieces of her ineptitude. Clearly, this was no accident but a passive aggressive act of a sinister drive thru personality.

The next time, I vowed, she would not be so lucky. This was war, muffin top style.

Fast forward to a snowy Saturday. I’m over 8 months pregnant, husband and kids in the car, doing one last Christmas shopping push. We’re over tired, overdue for lunch, and SO over shopping. We spin (literally, the parking lot wasn’t plowed well AT ALL—the plow guy must have not gotten his toy either) through the drive thru, smugly check both happy meals and, ta da!  Both happy meals have toys.

“Thanks!” I grin to the Mickey D’s lady. No hard feelings. I’m over it. I’m a mature mom, in control. It’s Christmas time. Love, fries and good will toward wo-men. Off we go.

I open up MY lunch, my 8.5 month pregnant Mickey D’s gottahavemygreasenowcuz I’m pregnant, cranky, and low blood sugar-y, lunch, and my cheeseburger was missing. Missing!

“YOU HO!”   I shriek, with all the rage of a person stuck behind a 95 year old going 40 in the fast lane.

“You ho, you ho, you hooooooo!” chirps a little parrot from the back.

Ahh, nothing spells success as a parent like a 20 month old calling the Mickey D’s lady a ho from the safety and security of his five point harness.

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!” I feebly pipe up.

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!”  choruses the back seat.

“YOU” my husband shakes his head, “just got lucky!”

“Man, is it me, or has the definition of getting lucky really changed?”

Pavlov’s got nuthin’ on my boys.

I pick up the phone, and they’re on me like spanx on a muffin top.

Can’t breathe. Send help.

It doesn’t matter who I’m trying to talk to….my mom, a friend, a teacher, the pizza restaurant, a book publisher sister please, I wish, it’s the same sad sitch.

Today it was Lands’ End, and naturally, it had to do with an already unfortunate subject: a swimsuit. The site was being all crankypants and my online order wouldn’t go through due to “technical difficulties”. (My guess? Every fattie in the continental U.S. and Canada was trying to simulaneously order last minute swimsuits and crashed the system. Computer nerds probably forgot to plan for the late June onslaught of desperate muffintoppers. Amateurs.) Either way, I was not going to miss out on the tankini top that had been sold out last week but now magically reappeared, never mind free shipping. Undaunted in my quest for bargain lycra, I had to go all old skool and actually call and talk to someone. (Kudos to Lands’ End for actually having someone to talk to. Who actually provided wonderful customer service. Muffin top fist bump to LE!)

I’m not on the phone with my muffin top guardian angel from LE for ten seconds when 2 year old tears up on me and starts going all Horseshack toward the phone.

EM....'SCUSE ME WHILE I HEAD TO MY PADDED ROOM!

“I wanna talk to YOU! I wanna talk to YOU! I wanna talk to YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! I wanna talk to YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”

Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Louder and prouder. Louder and prouder.

He doesn’t know who YOU is. He doesn’t care who YOU is. But he wants to talk to YOU and he won’t stop until his demands are met. Or until I crawl into fetal position in the corner and start rocking. What? When the men with white coats show up, I’ll stop. I promise. Though white is not my best color, I’m cool with the straight jacket –just gimme a straw for my beer on your way out–thanks, guys.

WOULD IT KILL THEM TO MAKE IT IN A PALE PINK?

“I’m so sorry, my two year old demands to talk to everyone…can you *IWANNATALKTOYOU!* still hear me?”

“Oh yes, don’t worry, *IWANNATALKTOYOU*I have a grandson. I understand.” I understand I ain’t getting paid enough by Lands’ End for this gig. Sweet Jesus, woman. Order your fatsuit and be done with it. 

Just then, a voice from down the hall booms out, “Moooommmmm, done POOPING!!!” Code: come wipe my arse, beatch. And make it snappy. I’ve Legos to contend with.

“Excuse me ma’am—– I’m on the phone, one minute please.”

“DONNNNE. POOOP-ING!”

“One minute!!!!!” I bellow, which 4 year old interprets as, “Yes please, keep screeching about poop! Flex those 4 year old lungs.”

“MOOMMMMMM! DONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPING!”

“I’m so sorry ma’am, can you hold one one quick second?” While I shove a roll of Charmin where the sun doesn’t shine.

Yes, *hangs head in shame* I had to put Denise from Lands’ End on hold while I ran and wiped 4 year old’s tush. This was a calculated decision as his butt wiping skills are rudimentary at best suck ass. Further, he despises undies–I’ve tried them all from Power Ranger tightie whities to boxer briefs to boxer shorts. And yet, I’ve found them stuffed behind the toilet, in the trash, and……(breathe deeply–all together now) in the drawer of the bathroom vanity. So you can understand how vital proper butt wiping is. (I really am Cinderella living the dream. My friends from high school and college have MD’s, Ph.D’s, and second homes. I wipe bums.)

Wanna come over? My house is really neato. And stocked with many bottles of antibacterial soap and cleaning products, for your comfort.

Just email me before you stop by—don’t even bother calling. Oh, and pick me up some more straws if you think of it….

It took me until I already had two boys and one on the way to figure it out:

There comes a point in every parent’s life when they are backed into such a corner, they are rendered speechless.

For me, it happened in the bathroom at Costco.

There I was, all high on the thrill of buying in bulk (753 rolls of toilet paper and a 25 pound ham? Yes, please!), when my son, then all of three and newly potty trained, announces he has to go. Pregnant, I tell my husband, I’ll take him because I have to go, too. (I have the world’s smallest bladder. Look it up on Wikipedia, you’ll see.)

So he goes to the bathroom, and then I go and I’m pretty much squatting because while Costco sells lovely things in funtasticly large packages, mummy doesn’t sit on no public toilet.

TMI alert: Since I’m pregnant it’s more like I’m standing with my butt protruding back, praying I don’t topple over since my center of gravity is off, and tinkle down my leg. This fear is totally justified as I’m the klutziest person ever to roam planet earth. (Smallest bladder. Klutziest. You can admit it:  Right now you’re so wondering what’s up with my husband. I have other fine qualities. I do!) 

I JUST WANT TO TINKLE. IS THAT SO WRONG?

Anyway, my son is standing there, just watching. Suddenly he pipes up:  “Mummy, you stand to pee?”

 “Um, well, I guess so…”

“So you have a peanut?”

 “No, buddy, Mummy doesn’t have a penis.”

  “Well, what do you have then?”

Crickets.

 “Mummy, what DO you have then?”

Oy! Is this the world’s smallest cross examiner or what? I guess I’ll have to save for law school and they’ll be no money left for retirement. Forget the fancy assisted living with the bar and the bus trips to the casino. I’ll be bagging groceries and living in his basement when I’m 90—if I’m lucky. Oh please, marry someone kind and compassionate, son!

 “Mummy doesn’t have a penis, buddy,” I repeat.

 “You have a bum bum…?”

 “Yes, I have a bum bum.”  (Oh yeah, mummy got back!)

Giggles in the next stall, no doubt from a mother of girls. Yeah? I’ll get the last laugh, honey, when your daughter is 13 and wants to pierce her navel. HA!

 “Oh! You go pee pee from your bum bum!”

He’s got me.

But of course,  it didn’t end there. It never does.

A few days later, at home (mercifully!) he broaches the subject again.

 “Mummy, it’s OK you don’t have a peanut.”

Phew. I had been missing that peanut my whole life. How have I come this far in life without one?

 “Yeah, it’s OK, bud.”

 “Hey—I know! We can go get you one at the peanut store!”

Hmmm. Should I be worried that my three year old thinks a penis can be purchased, like a Transformer or bubbles or diapers, at the store? What does that say about our materialistic culture, that he thinks anything can be bought on plastic at the local Target? How in the world (cough) did I give him that impression?

 “Buddy, it’s OK. Really, I don’t need a penis.”

 “Oh…you have something else then?” Lighten up with the cross examination, Gloria Allred! This is above my pay grade!

Crickets.

 “What DO you have mummy?”

 “Hey Honey,” I call to my husband. “Your son has a question for you!”

Back up, that’s what I’ve got, Buddy.
 
 

**A variation of this essay was originally published in Parent: Wise Austin, April 2011. Great mag–check it out!

One fish, two fish, gold fish, dead fish.

This one has a little scar.

This one doesn’t know who you are.

Some look like they hit the bar.

Some don’t seem to swim too far.

Why, this one has a big old head.

Oh shit, that one looks a little dead.

And him! And he! And her! And she! Make four more!

By crickey I’ll get that fracky fish store!

From here to there, and there to here, dead fish, dead fish are everywhere.

And oh dear God, what’s that smell in here???

Once upon a time, there was a family with three boys. They all had assorted allergies. One day, the oldest boy caught the mama in a moment of weakness. She might have been detoxing from cream , dizzy from lunges, or possibly, under the spell of Michelob Ultra Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights. Who really knows?

So she grinned, “Sure, why not? We can get some fish.” It’ll be fun, she thought. It’s probably the one pet none of us are allergic to, she reasoned. They’re cheap, they’re easy (we’re still talking fish here, just everyone forget Charlie Sheen for a minute, for the love of God! ). Most importantly, she figured having fish would teach the boys some responsibility. (That? Was a stretch, considering these are the boys who litter her home with used, dirty socks.)

Truthfully, visions of Nemo swam in her head.

SERIOUSLY? HE'S PRETTY AWESOME.

This is how it all went down.

Crime table:

SATURDAY, NOONISH, EST:  The five fish buyers march off to the the pet store (rhymes with PetHO) to get their fish on! They are told by the fishie authorities (20 year olds in bad PetHo garb who were maybe definitely sniffing glue from the office supply store on their break) they needed a 10 gallon aquarium for five fish, and they would need to fill it up, do what the instructions said, and then bring in a water sample 24 hours later. If  the water passed the stringent PetHo test, they could buy fish the next day. Whining and boos ensue from the peanut gallery, until hubs tells wifey to lighten up. After getting over the shock of  dropping $85.94 on the aquarium, black rock, mini sculpture, rock garden, Spongebob pineapple (husband!),  and three bags of HOT RAINBOW (we are the world) rocks, they depart!  $86 smackers, no fishies. Hmph.

Wifey flees to the grocery store while hubs misses watching riveting golf on tv, while he painstakingly rinses three bags of tiny rainbow rocks per instructions, washes, and fills fish tank aka aquarium in the name of dadhood. Older boys take turns flicking the tank light on and off while 2 year old squeals, “Fizz! Fizz!” (Fish!) even though, there are no fish in the newly tricked out Fish Ritz.

NOT TOO SHABBY? P.S. IT WAS NOT ON ITS SIDE IN REAL LIFE. ALSO? DON'T JUDGE ME FOR THE BLUE DRESSER AND GREEN WALLS....THIS ROOM IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING CHANGES!

THIS IS THE $9.99 JOBBIE I THOUGHT WE'D BE GETTING, NOT SOME TRICKED OUT FISHED OUT PINEAPPLE PALACE!

SUNDAY, 4 PM EST:

After a raging snowstorm dies out, the family trudge to PetHo to claim their charges, h20 sample in hand. After a brief water test and consultation with the esteemed “Fishcare for Dummies” book (could I even make that up?) it was determined by PetHo the water was a little hard, but would be okay. (Side note: Does anyone else find it ironic you need to prove you have a decent home for fish to glue sniffers at PetHo, when dummies who don’t know to come in from the rain bring babies home from nurseries with no cred every single day? My head hurts.) Anyhoo, with much fanfare, the fam each chooses a fish and quickly heads home with: Mario, Sonic, Fizz, Bubba, and Lady Gaga. (She kind of had a poker face and was translucent like a funky egg. What can I say?)

Damage: $27.13

For a few short hours, the family enjoys watching the fab five swimming happily, munching on fish flakes. The dad even remarks it’s soothing to watch them. The kids wave goodnight to the fish and blow kisses. Aww.

LADY GAGA---FULL OF AWESOME. SNIFF.

MONDAY, 6 AM, EST:

The family runs in to check on the fish. Lady Gaga is slumped against the filter. Daddy tells mummy Lady G. must be sleeping. Mummy wonders if she just had a rough night, like her namesake.

8 AM EST:

Mummy peeks in. Lady G. is still motionless, and oh look, now Mario has joined her by the pole. Something seems fishy.

9 AM EST:

Sonic is partying on the pole with Lady G and Mario. Duh, duh, duh. Another one bites the dust. It’s obvious…these fish…were swimming with the fishes…wait, what? I mean, NOT swimming with the fishes, but “swimming with the fishes”. Okay, they were dead.

12 PM EST: Back from picking up oldest at school and quick errand. Run in to check whilst holding breath. “Mommy, all the fishies but Bubba are sleeping. They must be nocturnal!” That’s right, son. You are a smart boy. RIP, Fizz. *Cries inside—I’ll get you, you glue sniffing rat bastards!*

You know where this is going because you don’t sniff glue, yes? By 4PM, EST, Monday, all of the fab five are gone. GONE!

Despite their best efforts to provide a lovely ecosytem, the mom questions if she led the fish into a death trap–a veritable fish fry. Or were these PetHo fish doomed from the start? The dad wonders what they’ll say. Ultimately they decide it’s too cruel to tell the boys all their fish died when they only enjoyed them a few short hours, so the dad tells them the fish are obviously sick since they’ve been lying around all day, and said he’d bring them back to the fish store and leave them with the fish doctor for a few days.

And now, they wait….the tank has been largely replenished with spring water, new drops, and is cycling for a few days, whereupon, the fam will get new fishies….at…rhymes with Pet-Tart.

God save the queen fishes!

      Disclaimer: I need to be upfront. The hubs is a wonderful person and a fantastic father (and….. a good sport…after all, he doesn’t routinely write about me and *cough* put it on the world wide web!). He’s loving, caring, he can cook like a fiend (sorry about your luck, muffin top) and most of all, he puts up with MEEE. (The whys are not important—he just does.)

      Despite the fab aforementioned qualities, my husband lies. I really don’t think he means to. See, he actually believes the lies. So does that make it a lie? I guess that’s debatable but the fact remains, I get bad intel from him.

DON'T EVEN BE GOING ALL PINOCCHIO ON ME, HUBS!!

      Every single time he has to do something around the house or wants to embark on some project, he tells me two lies. He claims it won’t take long (LIE) and that it won’t cost much (BIGGER LIE). Lies upon lies upon lies. I honestly don’t know who is worse though…him for perpetuating the lies or me for believing him every single time? He’s not the handiest guy but he’s a hell of a salesman—he makes the finished project sounds so enticing, so Better Homes and Gardens, so HGTV special, that I get sucked into the tempest of the storm of fairy tales.

      I know. Candice Olsen really isn’t coming (Or Chico. Or Paul for that matter.) 

CANDICE! CAWL ME, GIRL! DON'T YOU NEED SOME CHARITY WORK?

      See, these tales are not malicious but rather stem from the age old problem of being utterly unrealistic and wanting to do more than resources will permit; AKA, we want to make improvements to our house, but we’re A. too po’ to hire professionals to do everything we want and B. too inept to really be attempting said projects ourselves and C. too short on time between him working well over 50 hours a week and us chasing three little boys (who would surely love power tools laying around–safety first!). Let me be honest,  after being home all week for twelve hour days, the last thing I want to do is fly solo all weekend while my husband attempts the latest DIY project with the Home Depot bible in his lap. Can you say H- E -DOUBLE L -NOOOO?

      But my husband being the dreamer and project starter he is, gets wild ideas about how much he can get done, for a bargain price and an unrealistic timeline. And he sweeps me into the belly of the beast. Every. bloody.time.

      I have stacks of “bargain” tile in my basement that we had to hurry and get from Lowe’s before they ran out, that should be on our bathroom floors, purchased twelve months ago (And since discounted even more. Go us! Is now a bad time to mention that I’m not sure I even like it anymore?) because I fell for this one: “Janet, seriously, all I have to do is go to one of those free classes at Home Depot one Saturday morning and I know I can bang it out in like one weekend—the cuts don’t look like they’d be that hard at all!”

      Sure Carter Oosterhouse. And isn’t it a little McMeanie to buy Lowe’s tile and then use Home Cheapo for the tile tutorial? (Not really….because it never hap-pened.)

      The grandiose visions are why the dry wall that was hung on my basement walls was not mudded and taped four whole months later.

      “I’m totally doing it myself to save money. How hard could it really be to mud and tape?” he casually asked me.

        “Ummm…..How should I know? Do I look like Bob Vila?” Um, Regis, I’d like to phone a friend please.

         “I bet we can do it after the kids go to bed one week and it’ll be done in no time! The kids will be so proud knowing we helped build their playroom.” 

      Yeah. I’m relatively sure the kids could have cared less if mummy, daddy or Captain Crunch built the playroom as long as it had on demand cable and a a wii! But once daddy actually consulted real people versus the voices in his head and found out, whoops, mudding and taping really ISN’T like scotch taping a package and sanding a piece of wood, the room remained a sad shell til we got a quote from a guy who actually hung drywall for a living. Budget, what budget? Oh you can just forget about me getting you that fancy Fiber One cereal from now on buster! Hello, purveyor of lies, enjoy your generic Wheaties, mummy gotta make up for your budget shortfall!

      The fibs are why I had a partially stained deck for two entire years (klassy!) and while I still have sample splotches of paint on my bedroom wall after I played the budding artiste. I’ve changed my bedding twice since the splotches made their appearance so I guess if there’s a bright side, at least I didn’t have to almost change the paint twice because neither splotch matched either bedding set.

      What? Does that even make sense?

     Even I’m confused. This is the warped reality in which I live.

      My husband means well. But he’s unrealistic. Or smoking crack. I’m hoping just unrealistic (We really can’t afford to support a nasty crack habit with all these home improvement overages.) Either way, his grandiose visions don’t mesh with reality…thus, the lies.

      I suppose I could hand all the kids over to him and become a weekend warrior and learn how to stain decks, lay tile and hang drywall, and I’m all for girl power, but let’s be honest. I can barely follow instructions for baking a box mix cake (Sorry Betty Crocker, you tried, I know, both in English AND Espanol…what more can you do?) so put your hands in the air if you think I’d end up cementing tile to my hand or screwing something in the metal family into a live wire? What’s the over under on me piercing a water line or splashing paint on my nice cherry bedroom set (Purchased like the few nice things I have: pre offspring).

ROAR ON GIRL POWER! SEE, I LIKE IT....FOR HER. NOT ME. I WOULD WIND UP ON A STRETCHER. FO SHO!

      We have a wonderful home. It’s full of light and love and banged up baseboards and little nicks in the wall. The bathroom flooring is not what I would have chosen and the paint on my bedroom walls is a lovely Easter egg “postpartum” yellow (now with sizable swaths of tan and green). It’s not perfect but it’s time to face reality. Imperfect should be our modus operandi, because with three kids a perfect house doesn’t exist. And if it did? I’m kinda afraid of what would have to go down for that to happen!

      P.S. But Candice Olsen, you’re still welcome anytime. I know this isn’t Canada, but in the interest in repairing U.S./Canadian relations due to any damage whinybag Caillou may have caused, I am totally ready to be your ambassador of good neighborly will!

Muffintopmommy note: Waving the white flag of surrender!!!!!!!!!!!!! Have not had time to come up for air and write a new blog post. The details are bor-ing and probably why we’re all flat out right now—I’m no different. Holiday madness on top of….what was it called? Oh yeah. Life! Busy, busy, yada, yada. Anyhoo, rather than post NADA (bor-ing), I am digging up some stuff I wrote a few years ago, before I even knew what a blog was. Feels like a lifetime ago. Here’s one I wrote while about to burst with boy #3. Repeat after me: Don’t judge me!!!!!

Joy to the World,

Muffintopmommy  XOX

******************************************************************************************************************************************

CAN SOMEONE UNTIE ME SO I CAN RETRIEVE MY ADULT BEVERAGE?

Oh, I admit it. It feels good to get on my high horse sometimes and judge others — we all do it (don’t EVEN deny it).  My mother always said, “Janet, it’s not nice to judge!” (What she didn’t say? Is that it’s fun!!! Did I say that out loud? Shut up! Don’t judge me!) As a mom, trying to slug it out every day and sometimes a lot of times feeling like I come up short, I understand that statement now more than ever.

I’m doing the best I can like most people.  I’m not perfect. Who’s perfect? I think I maybe might let my kids eat some trans fats. By accident. After we have our vitamins, floss, and eat our flax seeds.

We good now?

Just…all you need to know is everything spiraled downhill one fateful day when we hit the road for McDonald’s.

Before you get all McJudgy on me, I wouldn’t be at the Golden Arches in the first place if I didn’t: A. find myself on the run and not have time to make them a balanced lunch or B. wake up, realize it’s gonna be one of those days, and bribe them with the promise of a Happy Meal to get through the morning. (Also? You gotta throw me a bone because at the very least I know they won’t poison my kids with peanut butter there. We have quite a few allergies in this house, but oh snap! Not to bad fats! Oh what luck!)

I’m an ill prepared mommy at times. I get it. But listen, this is a 365 day a year job with no pay and fringe benies, save a mani and pedi here and there. Don’t even say you don’t fall down on the job sometimes for a lot more compensation and two weeks paid vaca.

Fine. I might have an ulterior motive…. I do enjoy snagging the occasional fry (or twenty) from a Happy Meal. Guilty. Don’t be so smug about it—you don’t have to be mathematician to figure that one out. Fry + beer divided by coffee cream = muffin top. (It’s that new math everyone’s talking about.)

But listen, the Mickey D’s lady does not have to wrong me like she has been lately, even after I say please and thank you and render payment swiftly so as not to hold up the line. What have I done to turn her against me so? She and that Ronald McDonald pansy are clearly out to get me.

WHAT A MCDOUCHE.

The first time, the miserable shrew forgot the toy in ONE, yes ONE, of the two happy meals I ordered for my two older boys. Hey, Ronald, how about some quality control? Fitty percent accuracy—not good. Of course, this sad transgression was not discovered until we almost got home.

“Mommeeeeeee, where’s my toy!!!”

“Oh no you di-inn’t!” I muttered as I rummaged past the fries and nugs to sadly realize one happy meal was sans toy.

I was down but not out. This was a teaching moment.

“I can totally handle this.”

I thought, if my brother the police officer and hostage negotiator can calmly talk hardened criminals who are holding hostages out of life and death situations, clearly I can explain to my four year old that he’d need to share the one Mickey D toy with his little brother. Damn right. I can negotiate with some tough customers, too.

I decided I’d just tell him straight up the Mickey D’s lady made an honest mistake.

“What’s a mistake?”  

“A mistake is when you do something you don’t mean to do.”

“But what mistake did the lady make?”

“The McDonald’s lady was very busy and she forgot to put the toy in your Happy Meal. She didn’t mean it.” Yes, she did. Just kidding. Not really.

“Oh, okay.” He said, seeming to accept it. “Well, who got my toy instead?”

“I don’t know. I guess no one got the toy. She just forgot to give you yours.” She must have been busy looking for her missing tooth.

“Ohhh.”

“So you can just share the one toy with your brother.”

“Yup!”

Oh, I am so good at this! He is getting so mature. He really ‘gets it’!

“But…..but, what was the lady doing when she forgot my toy?”

“Well, she was just so busy helping to feed all the hungry people.” Probably too busy smoking dope behind the dumpster with that goofy bastard Ronald. Yeah. I said it. Anyone who looks and acts like that has to be fracking high.

“But, why are all the people so hungry?” Cuz they have the munchies from smoking dope with that buffoon, Ronald?

“Because it’s lunch time and they haven’t eaten since breakfast, or maybe they didn’t even have any breakfast.”

“But, why their mommy would not make them eat breakfast?” Oy! For the love of good God, is it too late to take my chances with the hostage taker? My bro SO has an easier job than me!

Sonofabitch. He’s gone and pulled a “Caillou” on me…..you know, that whinybag four year old Canadian cartoon pinhead….I want to smack him upside that little bald head with that red and white maple leaf flag he’s embarrassing on behalf of poor Canada…because now my son has morphed into a full on American Caillou with hair. Fifty five questions later, about why you need to eat breakfast, what a good breakfast is, where you can eat breakfast, when you can eat breakfast, who you can eat breakfast with, I was wishing he’d just had a stinking tantrum about the toy, he could have gone to time out, and we could’ve called it a day.

I was THIS CLOSE to calling up Mickey D’s and putting him on the phone with the evil, evil wench who FORGOT OUR STINKING 10 CENT TOY!!!  See how she likes it, all safe in her little window, wreaking four year old havoc and then sending us on our way, with ME, MEto pick up the pieces of her ineptitude. Clearly, this was no accident but a passive aggressive act of a sinister drive thru personality.

The next time, I vowed, she would not be so lucky. This was war, muffin top style.

Fast forward to a snowy Saturday. I’m over 8 months pregnant, husband and kids in the car, doing one last Christmas shopping push. We’re over tired, overdue for lunch, and SO over shopping. We spin (literally, the parking lot wasn’t plowed well AT ALL—the plow guy must have not gotten his toy either) through the drive thru, smugly check both happy meals and, ta da!  Both happy meals have toys.

“Thanks!” I grin to the Mickey D’s lady. No hard feelings. I’m over it. I’m a mature mom, in control. It’s Christmas time. Love, fries and good will toward wo-men. Off we go.

I open up MY lunch, my 8.5 month pregnant Mickey D’s gottahavemygreasenowcuz I’m pregnant, cranky, and low blood sugar-y, lunch, and my cheeseburger was missing. Missing!

“YOU HO!”   I shriek, with all the rage of a person stuck behind a 95 year old going 40 in the fast lane.

“You ho, you ho, you hooooooo!” chirps a little parrot from the back.

Ahh, nothing spells success as a parent like a 20 month old calling the Mickey D’s lady a ho from the safety and security of his five point harness.

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!” I feebly pipe up.

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!”  choruses the back seat.

“YOU” my husband shakes his head, “just got lucky!”

“Man, is it me, or has the definition of getting lucky really changed?”