A few weeks ago,  my friend, Lisa (from previous muffintopmommy guest post fame), was gracious crazy enough to agree to watch all three of my boys for a day on short notice. A few days later I received a curious email addressed to myself and some other mutual friends with an attachment I’ll share with you below. I haven’t seen her since, but rumor has it she’s in a dark corner of her house in fetal position, sucking her thumb. We might need to call the guys in the white coats. The only good news? Vindication is mine, people, vindication is MINE.

p.s. My comments are in caps.

The email:

As you all were a huge help in my overwhelming endeavor to play muffintopmommy for a day, I thought you might enjoy a synopsis of my experience.

Janet – your boys are pure joy. Aside from their endless affection – they kept me laughing and taught me a ton. DID THEY TEACH YOU TO USE THE ASSORTMENT OF CLICKERS? IF SO WILL YOU SHOW ME?

My top 21 lessons are attached. Hats off to you for being such a good Mom. DEFINE GOOD?

The attachment:

Top 21 things I learned in Muffintop land this week

Janet – I really appreciate the opportunity to spend time with your boys this week. They are so welcoming, sweet, loving and full of energy (READ: THEY NEVER STOP. NEVER.) – not to mention so damned cute (I’LL GIVE YOU CUTE.)! It was such a different perspective to step into your shoes for just a day, taking me back to the terrific 2′s and the endless interrogation tactics of a 4 year old, not to mention the savvy 6’s – that will try to persuade anyone into thinking it was all ‘their idea’. (ADMIT IT: YOU ARE THANKING GOD RIGHT NOW YOU HAVE TWO SWEET GIRLS. SAY IT. SAAAAY IT!) My entire day was spent playing, all while laughing at their antics, trying to keep track of everyone and simply avoiding a trip to the ER! (THAT SOUNDS ABOUT RIGHT.) I couldn’t imagine doing that all day everyday while trying to get kiddos off to school, run errands, cook, clean, do laundry and just live everyday life. (YUP. THIS IS WHY MY HOUSE LOOKS LIKE A COMPLETE SHITSHOW LATELY. BUT HEY, SOCIAL SERVICES HASN’T CALLED SO YAY ME! SUCCESS!)

Thank you for providing me with the (birth control) experience. (YOU OWE ME A HEFTY CO-PAY.)I learned many lessons in that short day – the top 21 (ONLY 21?) are listed below. I’m sure you can relate to a few. Cheers!

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. LOOK HOW SWEET AND INNOCENT THEY ARE??????!!

1. If they want it – they will climb.

Dining room chairs can get you to the top of the table.

Stools can get you to the top of the counter.

The lazy susan gets you to the top of the stove.

Scaling the changing table is just plain fun.

The shelves in the pantry are like stairs for god’s sake!

And yes, you can scale the inside of a refrigerator.

Given the site of the dresser lying on it’s side in the spare bedroom –I’m guessing that this has happened before.

ROOKIE!

2. If you climb up – you must jump down.

Regardless of who/what could be at the bottom.

3. If they have something they shouldn’t – don’t try to chase them.

They will win. Every. Time. And what a fun game chase is – so if you actually retrieve what they shouldn’t have, like your car keys, don’t let them see you put them down again. The game of chase is endless — and exhausting.

4. The fireplace mantle is not high enough to hide things on.

If they can see it – they can find a way to get to it (see #1 above).

Even if it involves standing on the top of an armchair (yes the top of the back – not the seat, silly!)

5. If you hide too many things – you will start to forget where you put them.

After hiding all of the phones, remotes and DVDs within sight – I started to lose track of the hiding spots. When someone set my car alarm off for the 3rd time, I learned not to hide anything within reach. And I also began stuffing my pockets with anything that I deemed important – like my keys, phone, the epi-pen and the kids’ insurance card.

PHEW. IT’S NOT JUST ME. HERE I THOUGHT EARLY ALZHEIMER’S WAS SETTING IN.

6. I suck at hide-and-seek.

Off to a poor start  (okay – a panic attack) because I didn’t realize that a game had begun, I was impressed that the hiding spots extended far beyond the typical ‘underneath the dining room table’. (MY KIDS ARE WICKED SMAHT.) My favorite spots included – inside a basket full of laundry at the bottom of a closet, wedged in between the glass exterior front door and interior wooden door (yes, where you can barely close it if a shoe gets stuck), in the clothes dryer and in the drawer underneath the stove. Clever.

7. Coloring is boring.

If trying to keep boys away from climbing, jumping or hiding – find something slightly more exciting than coloring. I felt like the annoying junior-high art & crafts teacher.

8. Washable is a relative term.

We love all things Crayola in our house – but somehow the purple crayon doesn’t seem to wash off of the tan wall, white woodwork or glass window  – nor does the green marker come off of the wood table. Hmmmmm.

9. Moon dough is an outside toy.

It may last longer than playdough – but it also doesn’t stick together. There will be remnants of that stuff in every corner of the house for the next 6 months.

10. Pieces of dough sand look surprisingly like fish food.

It’s even available in the tropical colors fish love!

11. Fish don’t like to eat moon sand.

Less invasive than the matchbox cars and legos that made their way into the tank, the fish still didn’t seem overly enthusiastic about it.

12. No is also a relative term.

Learning that the phrase ‘not now’ doesn’t buy you anything but aggravation – I quickly (like in the first 10 minutes) changed my answer to no. As in, no you cannot stand on the counter and use your mother’s iPad.

HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU GUYS THIS ISN'T MY KID???!

13. Answering the phone is code for ‘we can do whatever we want now’.

So in the minute it takes you to answer the phone that you have stashed in your pocket along with your car keys, the epi pen and insurance card – a 4-year old can scale a stool, stand on the counter, launch an iPad and start playing Monkey-tales. My bad – I didn’t realize that I had previously used the relative term ‘no’.

14. If you don’t answer the phone by the 3rd ring – someone else will.

Figuring it was safe to let the out-of-state call go to voicemail, I decided not to answer it. Imagine my surprise when I was handed a different phone by a toddler stating ‘Mommy won’t talk to me anymore.’ Apologies to the caller in the 914 area code. I assure you that these children were not home alone, they’re just far more technologically savvy than I am.

15. Toddlers do appreciate artwork.

After a bed jumping incident that sent a 3 foot box canvas flying off of the wall, we had an art appreciation moment. The painting was closely examined (manhandled) and I was serenaded with a boisterious version of the ABC’s for the next 20 minutes.

16. Desparation may allow you to let them play in the rain.

Somehow outside seemed more controllable than inside – regardless of the freezing rain/hail. Heck this is New England – they need to learn how to weather the elements. And now I have everything I could possibly need right in my pocket anyway.

17. Wet bark mulch can be molded into an awesome jump.

Even more awesome when placed at the end of a sloped, wet, slippery driveway and tested with every ride-on toy in the garage. Thankfully the cute, white, picket fence can be used as a crash pad.

18. If one wants to go inside – you all have to go.

Given #’s 1-17 above – no further explanation is necessary.

19. ‘I need privacy’ is code for – you will be cleaning up a big mess later on.

This one involved an entire roll of toilet paper and a plunger. My apologies for being naive – but I’m actually thankful that the door was kicked in to reveal one sitting bare arsed on the bathroom rug unraveling a second roll of toilet paper to ‘finish business’. I hope I remembered to tell you to wash that rug.

20. An electric toothbrush makes a great scalp massager.

Added bonus – fill it with strawberry gel toothpaste and it will leave these cool red streaks in your beautiful blonde hair!

21. Not all chicken fingers are created equal.

Trying to pass off homemade cutlets as chicken fingers will go over like a lead balloon. The response I received from my little food critic – ‘they taste funny AND they’re not shaped like dinosaurs’!  This polite observation was delivered with a side of ‘and you call your self a mother’ sprinkled with a dash of ‘you dumb broad’.

WHAT CAN I SAY? MY KIDS HAVE A DISCERNING PALATE LIKE THEIR MOM.

Kudos to you Janet for doing this all day, every day. And Muffin top be damned – that Bud Light saves your sanity! (IT’S CHEAPER THAN THERAPY.) And I’ll be happy to share one with you in the driveway anytime. (JUST ONE? HOW WILL THAT HELP?)

I LOVE MY KIDS TO PIECES BUT ON SOME LEVEL IT’S GOOD TO KNOW THEY GAVE MY MOST UNFLAPPABLE FRIEND A RUN FOR IT! NOW WHO WANTS TO BABYSIT NEXT? STEP ON UP!

My family room....at witching hour....

***Repeat alert! This post originally ran three months ago. Due to circumstances beyond my control, the above picture and the blog post below, pretty much sum up the past several days…which means I’ve not had time to write a new post. Did I mention the five hour power outage tonight? (Which truthfully was not half bad. If you like grilling scallops by the light of a pumpkin spice candle washed down with sorta kinda cold beer, then CARPE DIEM, yo!) If you read this post already, then maybe there’s a new Real Housewives of Jersey episode that will inspire you. (“You put the ‘cont’ in contradiction, beatch!” COME ON. What is better than THAT??) And, OH! Don’t forget to come back and visit for STFU Friday!

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

I mean it. I want to live in a catalog. Just for a day, I want to escape to the land o’ catalogs. Where the sun always shines. The kids never cry. The mom twirls in the kitchen in her $150 khakis. And the dad hangs the flag with junior on the wide, front porch with the perfectly coordinated wicker furniture and plantings.

The people in catalogs just look so…. happy. It’s not that I’m not happy. As I said before, minus my husband having an aversion to replacing the toilet paper roll (Please click here if you missed it!) and realizing I live in a frat house, I’m beyond fortunate.

But the catalog people? Oh yeah, they’ve really got it going on. They’re always flashing day glow toothy smiles about something—like they have some fun inside joke the rest of us aren’t privy to. They always have on stylish clothes that fit just right, not a hair out of place. You don’t see any of those catalog moms rocking the muffin top with spit up on their shoes.  Nobody has on a baseball hat with fringe sticking out because the kids started cockadoodledooing at 5 a.m. If they have a hat on it’s not a baseball hat and it’s on purpose—it’s strategically placed with just the right amount of styled—but not too styled—hair peeking out. And roots? Come on. Junk in the trunk? Um, no. Hello! Pick up a catalog lately? Do yourself a favor—don’t!

The catalog kids frolic in playrooms furnished more beautifully than my house, and none of the toys are strewn about like a stage five hurricane ripped through (please refer to photo above). All the kids color on paper—not on the walls. Nobody crawls into the pull out drawer under the stove and throws all the cookie sheets on the kitchen floor and then clangs them together the minute an adult conversation is attempted. Nobody unravels the toilet paper down the hall, squirts toothpaste in the toilet or boots up their dinner.

Nobody is screaming. Or crying. Or screaming crying.

“Is everything okay over there?” asks your kid’s doctor when she calls.

“Oh fine, just fine! Yup. Totally. ” Can you write prescriptions for grown ups? What’s it gonna take? $25 smackers? An even fitty? A c-note? Do you take plastic? What can you get me? And when?

“Oh, because it sounds like you’re having work done in your house. Are you having work done?” Because if not? I’m pretty sure you’re running an illegal daycare or are living in a McDonald’s play land. Where’d I put that number for social services again….

Sigh.

“No. Heh. Just the boys engaging in some spirited play! And that little one? Well, he sure has found his voice!” **Grits teeth.** These rugrats kick it up on command I tell you. They see the phone and they go all Pavlov on my ass—automatically screeching like hyenas in the outback. Or tweens at a Jonas Brothers concert. Or cougars at a Twilight movie. What-ever!

That would so never happen in a catalog. Never. Ever.

The catalog families never have a dated kitchen or a shingle loose. Emerald lawns are as perfectly groomed as their owners. Adorable puppies snuggle by fires on doggie beds that are nicer and cost more than my duvet cover! The catalogers throw parties outside on impeccable brick patios, where coordinating linens, glassware, and dinnerware adorn fancy pants tables made of exotic woods. They play lawn games like croquet. They sail on ginormous yachts (with those adorable puppies and angelic kids again). But..rest assured it’s never too windy to muss up their hair!

You know what though? On second thought, I don’t want to live in a catalog. Not even for a day. The catalog people look way too perfect to be any fun. Smug even. Superior.

And if that’s superior, then I’m fine with inferior.

Yes I am!

I can hear you. I can. You’re sneering….jealous much?

NO! Who me? I am not. Oh no I’m not!

Yeah, they look good. They probably don’t shout. Or swear. Or shout swears. Or drink out of a red plastic cup on their Target chair on their hastily stained deck. They definitely don’t know how to score a bargain or belly up to a bar. They probably fold all their clothes right when they come out of the dryer. I’m sure they never mix whites and darks. They’d never eat a row of Thin Mints. Or three. They never screech stuff like, “Where the HELL did the bread tie just go? I JUST HAD IT RIGHT HERE!” I bet their socks never get eaten by the dryer either.

They’re…. “the beautiful people”.

Rat bastards.

They’re the croquet to my wiffle ball. The caviar to my hummus. The Banana Republic to my Merona. The Ketel One to my Bud Light. The…the…scone to my muffin. Top.

Pfft. Who needs ‘em? I might like to visit their world for an hour or two. But I ain’t staying. It’s just doesn’t seem that fun. I’m just keeping it real.

Care to join?

I mean it. I want to live in a catalog. Just for a day, I want to escape to the land o’ catalogs. Where the sun always shines. The kids never cry. The mom twirls in the kitchen in her $150 khakis. And the dad hangs the flag with junior on the wide, front porch with the perfectly coordinated wicker furniture and plantings.

The people in catalogs just look so…. happy. It’s not that I’m not happy. As I said before, minus my husband having an aversion to replacing the toilet paper roll (Please refer to, “Seriously? This is my life?”) and realizing I live in a frat house (Ditto for, “Oh no! I think I live in a frat house!”) I’m beyond fortunate.

But the catalog people? Oh yeah, they’ve really got it going on. They’re always flashing day glow toothy smiles about something—like they have some fun inside joke the rest of us aren’t privy to. They always have on stylish clothes that fit just right, not a hair out of place. You don’t see any of those catalog moms rocking the muffin top with spit up on their shoes.  Nobody has on a baseball hat with fringe sticking out because the kids started cockadoodledooing at 5 a.m. If they have a hat on it’s not a baseball hat and it’s on purpose—it’s strategically placed with just the right amount of styled—but not too styled—hair peeking out. And roots? Come on. Junk in the trunk? Um, no. Hello! Pick up a catalog lately? Do yourself a favor—don’t!

The catalog kids frolic in playrooms furnished more beautifully than my house, and none of the toys are strewn about like a stage five hurricane ripped through (please refer to photo above). All the kids color on paper—not on the walls. Nobody crawls into the pull out drawer under the stove and throws all the cookie sheets on the kitchen floor and then clangs them together the minute an adult conversation is attempted. Nobody unravels the toilet paper down the hall, squirts toothpaste in the toilet or boots up their dinner.

Nobody is screaming. Or crying. Or screaming crying.

“Is everything okay over there?” asks your kid’s doctor.

“Oh fine, just fine! Yup. Totally. ” Can you write prescriptions for grown ups? What’s it gonna take? $25 smackers? An even fitty? A c-note? Do you take plastic? What can you get me? And when?

“Oh, because it sounds like you’re having work done in your house. Are you having work done?” Because if not? I’m pretty sure you’re running an illegal daycare or are living in a McDonald’s play land. Where’d I put that number for social services again….

Sigh.

“No. Heh. Just the boys engaging in some spirited play! And that little one? Well, he sure has found his voice!” **Grits teeth.** These rugrats kick it up on command I tell you. They see the phone and they go all Pavlov on my ass—automatically screeching like hyenas in the outback. Or tweens at a Jonas Brothers concert. Or cougars at a Twilight movie. What-ever!

That would so never happen in a catalog. Never. Ever.

The catalog families never have a dated kitchen or a shingle loose. Emerald lawns are as perfectly groomed as their owners. Adorable puppies snuggle by fires on doggie beds that are nicer and cost more than my duvet cover! The catalogers throw parties outside on impeccable brick patios, where coordinating linens, glassware, and dinnerware adorn fancy pants tables made of exotic woods. They play lawn games like croquet. They sail on ginormous yachts (with those adorable puppies and angelic kids again)! But..rest assured it’s never too windy to muss up their hair!

You know what though? On second thought, I don’t want to live in a catalog. Not even for a day. The catalog people look way too perfect to be any fun. Smug even. Superior.

And if that’s superior, then I’m fine with inferior.

Yes I am!

I can hear you. I can. You’re sneering….jealous much?

NO! Who me? I am not. Oh no I’m not!

Yeah, they look good. They probably don’t shout. Or swear. Or shout swears. Or drink out of a red plastic cup on their Target chair on their hastily stained deck. They definitely don’t know how to score a bargain or belly up to a bar. They probably fold all their clothes right when they come out of the dryer. I’m sure they never mix whites and darks. They’d never eat a row of Thin Mints. Or three. They never screech stuff like, “Where the HELL did the bread tie just go? I JUST HAD IT RIGHT HERE!” I bet their socks never get eaten by the dryer either.

They’re…. “the beautiful people”.

Rat bastards.

They’re the croquet to my wiffle ball. The caviar to my hummus. The Banana Republic to my Merona. The Ketel One to my Bud Light. The…the…scone to my muffin. Top.

Pfft. Who needs ‘em? I might like to visit their world for an hour or two. But I ain’t staying. It’s just doesn’t seem that fun. I’m just keeping it real.

Care to join?