Step-and-fetch-it.

Bonus, being the independent 5 year old he is, decided that last weekend, he would ride back to Tennessee with Granddaddy and spend the week there.

I hid my excitement warned him that he would miss us and have to stay all week until Dork Fish finished working so we could come and pick him up.

He hid his excitement insisted that he would miss me, but would be just fine.

He hasn't called once.

He hung up on me because he was, "Watching a English comedy" with my grandmother.

His brother has only asked about him twice and didn't seem too upset about the whole thing.

As I type this, no one is hanging on my shoulder, asking what each word is on the screen and insisting that I STOP TYPING RIGHT NOW AND GET HIM SOME MILK/FIX HIM ANOTHER WAFFLE/CHANGE HIS BROTHER'S DIAPER BECAUSE HE SMELLS LIKE THE DOG'S BUTT.

I guess you could say that it's been a bit peaceful.

But right now, Dora the Explorer is in stereo on both TV's while Deuce runs from room-to-room...

 

I think I'd rather be Bonus's bitch.

And to think, I gave him two kids.

I had a dream last night that Dork Fish and I were divorced but still LIVING like we were married *ahem*. The problem was that he decided he was going to marry some cute chick and apparently, this meant we could no longer LIVE LIKE WE WERE MARRIED *ahem*.

So I woke up and punched him.

He then woke up to admit that he had a dream that some ugly girl was climbing all over him and I came in as he was trying to get her off him.

What a jerk.

I'm going to be mad at him all day now. If you see him, punch him for me too.

Asshat.

Finally, the BIG! NEWS! -but it's more like a 'Old Yeller' or 'Marley & Me' kind of ending.

To give you the back story, last October, Deuce woke up one morning and couldn't walk. He cried that his knee hurt and wouldn't put any weight on it. I took him to the doctor and they said he had inflammation in his hip which was probably caused by a virus. But not to worry, although rare, this does happen and there isn't any lasting damage.

Two months later, it happened again. This time, I freaked the hell out. We went to the Children's Hospital, did blood work, took x-rays, the works. It all came back fine and after a dose of Motrin, the kid was up running and playing.

Here's the part of the story that you need to know; in the waiting room, my husband and I were watching a mom trying her best to coral three boys while nursing a little girl. She was fighting not only the combined will power of three young boys, but also the only terrycloth-lined piece of privacy she had left.

My mind was torn between pitying her and envying her because while she was having a tough time keeping it all together, she was managing to do it and seemed to be unphased by the whole ordeal.

Dork-fish's mind was also taking it all in, but in a different manner. "So, if we have met our deductible, I really need to go get snipped before the end of the year," he says just as casually as if he was suggesting grabbing a cup of coffee.

Surprising not only him, but myself as well, I blurt out, "I'MNOTSUREI'MDONEYET!"

To this day, I don't know which of us was more shocked. It was as if someone else had said it. However, the look on his face confirmed that it had indeed come out of my mouth. (Like so many other pearls of wisdom that I never see coming.)

"Wha?! Are you serious?!" my loving husband retorts, barely able to blink and with all the disbelief of a toddler learning that mommy just used the last drop of milk for her coffee. (Heh.)

"Um, yeah, I think I just said that..." I barely squeaked out.

For the next few months, we discussed it over and over but never quite 'sealed the deal', if you get my drift. Finally, last month we decided that if we were going to do this, we needed to get on it. After all, one of us isn't getting any younger. *cough - I married an old(er) dude - cough*

We have always been SCARY fertile. Bonus was on of those little 'blessings' that come from your husband deciding he learned all about the female reproductive system in paramedic school and therefore simply had to mark a calendar and we'd be FIIIIINE.

I was pregnant three days later.

Deuce, on the other hand, was a 'we're going to Costa Rica to make a baby on our anniversary' kind of deals; and it worked.

Needless to say, when I came up late and my (never have hurt in my entire life unless I'm pregnant) boobs started aching, I knew.

Here's the other part of my blessed system. I don't have a lot of HcG hormone in my system. The good part of that is that I don't ever get nauseous, but the other side of that coin is that HcG is the hormone that all pregnancy tests use to work. Mine don't work. I was 8 weeks pregnant with Bonus before I got a positive test and even THEN the doctor didn't believe I was that far along until he did an ultrasound.

So this time around, I was late and had three negative pee tests before I finally went to the doctor.

"Okay, you're telling me that you're pregnant EVEN THOUGH all your tests and the one we just did in the office was negative?" the doctor asks accusingly.

"Um, yes. Yes, I am. I'm here because I told you that back in Tennessee, this happened and you told me to come in as soon as I thought I was pregnant. So here I am." I retort, a bit sarcastically. "And now you're making me feel like a dumbass."

"The only way you would be a dumbass is if you...well, never mind. You're not a dumbass." the doctor quips back confirming my assumption that he too was skilled in the fine art of smartassness. It's an acquired skill that must be honed by years of quick-whitted come-backs.

I haz it.

And apparently, so does he.

We did a blood test. (Incidentally, this was the same time I did the, "BIG! NEWS!" post that I have been getting so many "you're a damn tease" emails over.) But you see, until that test came back positive and I could prove him and that bitch, Google, wrong, I was not posting about it.

The test? It was negative.

Yeah, I was shocked too. I still had every single symptom of pregnancy and was now 9 DAYS LATE. (I am never, ever late.)

So we waited.

And I tortured all of you again.

And waited some more.

Finally, out of nowhere, Aunt Flow* stopped by; which not only shocked the hell out of me, but also my husband who had no idea that I knew that he secretly never believed I was pregnant and thus was on my Super Terrific Hate List which is generally only reserved for those who do really horrible things, like eat the last of my Mother's Day cookies with out bothering to think that maybe I had only had one of the damn things in the first place because he put them on the shelf where the boys could reach them kick kittens.

I have since forgiven him for his disbelief, but the cookie incident is going to take some serious groveling (and two more bags, in case your actually  reading this, Dorkfish.)

To FINALLY tie up what is quite possibly the longest post EVAH, I have now decided to not have another child after all.

I know, I know, you read the entire damn thing expecting some miraculous ending and all you got was a glimpse into my mind for the past two weeks.

(Please do not disturb the cob webs while you're there.)

I guess that as it turns out, I know that we are complete. If another one (okay, boy, another boy...who are we kidding here) came along, we'd be fine with that too. But for the mean time, I think I'm going to enjoy what it's like to be the mother of two incredible boys.

Maybe, just maybe, we'll be out of diapers before Deuce starts kindergarten...maybe.

 

*If you are trying to come up with a much more whitty term for 'that special time' please don't go to the Urban Dictionary. Just trust me on that one...

It's kind of like own a pit bull, but without the ability to tie them in the yard.

I know, you're back for the BIG! NEWS!

Here's the thing...the BIG! NEWS! STORY! isn't just my story to tell, so until I know the ending...well, you'll just have to wait.

But don't feel bad, I'M HAVING TO WAIT TOO!!!!

*****

Bonus has always been the 'big boy' in all our circles. As a toddler, he was the one who would toddle up and knock the hell out of another kid to get the prized toy. It was completely embarrassing and I had no clue how to handle it. After all, he was my first child and my only bully.

As he's aged (to the ripe old age of five), he's gotten much better at it. Like an old wine, he's starting to mellow.

Also like an old wine he will knock you on your ass when you least expect it. So maybe we haven't turned that corner just yet.

Yesterday, we were at the park playing with some friends. It was a gorgeous day, the kids were running off an ice cream high and Jessica and I were chatting with another neighbor.

All at once, Jessica's son, PJ, comes running up to us, holding his head and screaming. Without even looking up, I knew the cause. Bonus comes casually strolling up, swinging a plastic shovel. I swear, if he could whistle, he would have been doing that as well.

PJ: "HE HIT ME IN THE HEAD WITH A SHOVEL!"

I grabbed the shovel from Bonus and threatened him bodily harm if he didn't get in his room this very instant calmly told him to go inside the house.

We still aren't sure exactly what happened. Both parties are claiming the other one is at fault. Fortunately, PJ does not have a concussion but is convinced Bonus is a bully. Bonus, on the other hand, is not speaking without his attorney present.

I am pretty much at my wits-end with this behavior and have no idea what to do or say to remedy it. He is a very sweet child, but just not with other kids; which, you know, is kind of a problem when you're five.

There is a reason that dog was only $40 and a six pack.

I know, I know...I've neglected all you faithful readers.

I suck.

There. Feel better? Yeah...me too.

So, we've got some BIG! NEWS! here at the Davis house.

But the BIG! NEWS! will have to wait because I have some super important stuff to tell you first. (The story doesn't have an ending yet and cliff-hangers aren't really my thing...sorry, you'll have to wait.)

*****

So, the other day I was out front with the two boys. A neighbor that I hadn't met yet walked by with her dog. Molly, our porch hound, started going nuts inside the house. I have noticed that she does this mostly when another dog gets near 'her boys'.

The neighbor, who was a bit startled by the bellowing from inside the house, took a couple of steps back and inquired about my ghetto alarm system. I explained that she is a 10 year old hound dog and pretty much only barks when the wind blows, or someone decides to walk past her field of vision, or when you yell "SQUIRREL!" Although lately, she seems to get much more upset now by other dogs getting too close to her children.

About that same time, I remembered an email that was sent to me recently about dog training. For some reason, diarrhea of the mouth kicked in and I decided to tell this complete stranger that in the email it said that if your dog is protective of your kids, it means that the dog thinks you are doing a bad job of protecting them. As those last few words resonated in my ears, I realized the impact of what I was saying to a. perfect. stranger.

Because I needed parenting advice from my dog...

...maybe we can help each other keep our fat mouths closed.

But next year, I want money.

*Thank you to all who made wonderful comments, emails and phone calls regarding my previous post. Each message truly moved me.*

I woke up Sunday morning and kicked myself in the pansy ass. I have two beautiful, healthy sons that need me right now more than anything. Especially more than my dead mom...

Deuce was the first one up. Since he's still sleeping in a crib AT THREE YEARS OLD, I snuck in there to get him up. As I laid him down to CHANGE HIS DIAPER BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO POTTY TRAIN, he whispered to me, "Momma, we made a card for you and it's under Beaux's bed! Daddy told us...not...to...tell...you."

His realization of spilling the beans as the words were coming out of his mouth had me in tears.

"It's okay, baby. I won't tell daddy that you told me."

As we snuggled on the couch, Bonus came hippity-hopping into the living room, grabbed Deuce by the arm and drug him back into his room. Within minutes, they emerged with a bag from Starbucks and a gift card. The bag had a slice of blueberry cake in it (which I am still shocked they hadn't eaten). Dorkfish had already told me that if he ever caught me paying that much for a cup of coffee again, he'd break my arms...so the gift card was obviously a difficult purchase for him. Romantic, we are...

Insistent that we were going to have fun dammittohell, I forced us all in the car and we headed to the store that I can't spend less than $100 in, Target. We perused every single isle and chanted "What's the best day in the world?!" "MUDDERS DAY!" We had the other shoppers in tears. It was awesome.

Oh, and the guilt trips...they were aplenty.

Me: "Bonus, please be nice to your brother. You don't want to make mommy cry on the ONLY DAY SHE GETS TO HERSELF, do you?"

Heh.

Afterward, they took me out to lunch for burgers and fries. We all three sat on one side of the booth to end the I-WANNA-SIT-BY-MOMMA-ON-HER-SPECIAL-DAY argument. I have to admit, the sympathy I received from the wait staff was pretty amazing. Especially since my sons left their money at home and I ended up having to pay for lunch.

They will be living in my basement forever...

All-in-all, it was a pretty awesome day. They acted better than they ever have, we played more than we usually do, I bought them toys to play with and diapers to poo in...it was nice.

I might start to like this damn Hallmark Holiday after all...

Maybe.

The post where I come clean - Mother's Day SUCKS. Yes, I said it.

Generally, I try to keep this space light and funny. I pride myself on sharing little tidbits of our life that induce involuntary giggling.

Today, ain't that day.

In fact, today is a vent...and tomorrow may be too. (Should I have the energy to open my laptop, which is doubtful.)

Going through my reader this morning, I found a post by one of my favorite bloggers admitting that she hates Mother's Day. Go ahead and gasp, I'll wait.

Good?

Good.

Here's the thing...I DO TOO. In fact, this year I've hated every single holiday. EVERY ONE.

To be fair, I blame hating my birthday, Christmas and Valentine's day on my husband's lack of getting me a gift and making smart ass comments about 'getting me a new house' for those holidays. Not funny, dear. Not funny at all.

I'm going to save the five-paragraph explanation of why he's actually a wonderful man, yadda yadda yadda and just say that he's forgiven, for now, but I reserve the right to throw it back up in his face when needed.

Ahem.

So, this whole Hallmark Holiday Horseshit that everyone else calls "Mother's Day" only reminds me of how much I miss mine. (Even though she was a huge screw up.)

Today marks the 7-month anniversary of her death. You can read about that here. I'm not repeating it. But, if you want to know how I'm dealing with it all, well, that post is here.

And dammittohell, I really miss her. I guess I miss the lost opportunities more than anything.

So here I am, hiding from the boys because I don't want them to see me crying and yes, I'm crying. I am six hours from all my friends and family who understand me, those who were there with me, and those who miss her as bad as I do. Not to mention my husband is working 12-hour shifts for 6 days a week for the past 3 weeks because apparently a nuclear reactor needs to be refueled.

PFFFFT.

So, I will be crying in private today. I will be hiding on the porch, behind sunglasses, repotting plants. I will explain, if asked by my sons, that it is okay to cry. It is okay to miss someone. But I will be doing anything and everything I can to keep this private.

But in this space; I will be honest.

Since you're on the edge of your seat waiting...

Yes, he is in diapers.

I cannot take it any longer. We went through 4 pairs of underwear in a matter of hours WITH ME REMINDING HIM EVERY 30 MINUTES.

So, I quit. Done.

He will be wearing diapers until Pampers no longer makes them that big.

Then he will be wearing granny diapers.

BECAUSE I AM OVER IT.

Aside: They have been fighting for 2 days straight over a Fisher Price pocket knife. I am not kidding here. Between the accidents and the fighting, somebody's gonna be locked in a closet.

Don't worry, I'll take my laptop with me.

To get my mind off ALL the batman underwear I've had to wash in the past 3 hours despite the fact I've reminded him EVERY 30 MINUTES to GO POTTY...

Today is much more than Cinco De Mayo (although with the above title, you KNOW how I will be celebrating this holiday)...

Today, my favorite author's fourth book has hit the shelves!



If you've been following me for a while, you'll remember the time I got to meet her; and subsequently embarrass myself.

Ahem.


In fact, you might have read some jealous tweets about another dear friend receiving a surprise in the mail...

But I'm totally over that.

Well, I was until I saw this picture on her facebook page this morning:



Now I'm a bit jealous again.

But as soon as I can leave the house without worrying about someone else's bladder...I'm buying my book, dammit.

Honestly, all three of her previous books have made me laugh so hard I had to lay them down to compose myself.

Hell, I check her blog more than I do my own voice mail! I am not exaggerating here people. Forget about the silly vampire stories, GO! BUY! JEN! (And buy me some gin while you're at it...)

MIA....or "I'm in potty training HELL, so check back later.

No, I haven't left you all. Last week, I took Deuce to the doctor for his three-year check up and her only concern was that he is still in diapers.

I assure you, just as I did her, it has nothing to do with his ability, but rather my lack of patience with that sort of thing.

When I trained Bonus, okay, actually, he trained himself. I kid you not. The little 28-month-old walked into the living room and said, "I no wear diapers." I said, "You can't pee in your pants then." He never did. He never had an accident during the day or at night. We went with the naked-kid route for a week where he peed in the potty if inside and 'watered the plants' when outside. But that was it. No worries.

The littliest one here is a bit different. He doesn't like being naked; which may or may not have something to do with his brother pointing at his pee-pee every single time. (It's honestly the only reason I get dressed around here too, so I can relate.)

So I decided that today is the day. Come hell or yellow-colored water, we will be done with diapers this week.

There will be tears, there will be a shortage on the East Coast of paper towels, and I may be out of wine in two days...but dammit here we go!

Ug.

I hate potty training.