Dambit, I say...

About a month ago, Dorkfish sent me an email and in it, he spelled 'damn' as 'damb'. Being the astute journalist I am, (snort) I picked up on it immediately but decided it was because the 'bad word' filter at work was too stringent. (Yes, I completely made up this scenario to put my mind at ease over his typo.)

Then he did it again.

And again.

Finally, after the third 'damb' I asked him over dinner why he was spelling it that way. He put his fork down, looked at me with a perplexed expression, and said, "Because that's how you spell it."

*blink, blink*

Oh yes, my friends. My husband who is one of the smartest people I know had decided that 'damn' was actually 'DAMB'...

So of course I decided to let that one go. I certainly would never tell all of our mutual friends, make jokes on facebook, or use 'damb' in a sentence so frequently that it has become part of my vocabulary.

Never.

*snicker*

So now, almost every mutual friend is saying, "Damb" or "Dambit" on a daily basis. But what I wasn't prepared for was the reaction from our own two 'filters' at home.

Driving home from dinner last week, Bonus says, "It's already bed time?! Dambit." After I choked on my gum, I said, "Shhhhh, we don't say that word!" to which my very astute six year old says, "But I put a B in it."

Yes, I may have peed a little.

But yesterday is when it all came to a head. While being forced to clean their room, Deuce mumbled something under his breath. I turned the corner just as Bonus was preparing his speech to throw his brother under the bus, "MOMMA!!! Deuce just said a bad word!" Expecting another 'dambit', I sighed and said, "Okay, Bonus, what did he say?" Bonus looks at me with excitement knowing he gets a free shot at repeating it and says, "Fuck." Stumbling back, I glared at Deuce and said, "We don't use that kind of language, young man!" That's when my sweet, little, doe-eyed four year old looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, "But I put a B in it..."

Clip-ons Are for Wimps

It would seem that I have a complete mental block on most school-related urgencies in regard to my children. (You may remember a few months ago, we had the where-in-the-hell-does-all-your-lunch-money-go epiphany.) Yes, I thought you might...

Well now Deuce has started preschool and it would seem that my complete lack of regard for all things date related applies to his preschool as well.

On Friday, we were walking out the door when I finally noticed how homeless the child looked. His 'Harleyson David' (Harley Davidson for the grammatically correct reader) t-shirt that his grandfather has graciously supplied him with for the past two years, was apparently one of the first he received. All that kid needed was a pack of candy cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve to complete the look. But the t-shirt was only part of the story, sadly. The hair, which I choose to keep long because he has an awesome 'surfer guy' look, was in desperate need of a brushing. There was a cowlick in the front and an 'Alfafa' in the back. But naturally, we were running late so I assured myself that the teachers had seen him looking cute before, so we could pull it off just this once.

That's when it always happens, right moms?!...

We walk in the classroom and apparently every other mom remembered it was picture day.

(Ofcoursetheydid.)

All the little girls have bows in their hair and dresses on; the boys are sporting gel in their unmanageable hair. Hell, I didn't even recognize most of these kids! Then Deuce immediately spies some asshole wearing a tie and begins to pout.

Me: "Baby, what's wrong?!"

Deuce: "He's wearing a tie, mom. I wanna tie!"

Me: "But honey, you don't own a tie....and that's a clip-on anyway. No one likes clip-ons... How about we go home and I iron you a nice shirt for you?!"

Deuce: "No. I want a tie. Can I wear one of Daddy's ties?"

Me: "Baby, if daddy hadn't given away all of his old ties, I would go home and put one on you! But we don't have a tie. So how about the Harleyson David shirt?! It looks much tougher..."

Deuce: "Yeah, I guess the tie looks dumb on him anyway."

*WINNER!*

I've never been happier to hear my child chastise the clothing options of another.

Yet I don't think the teacher believed me when I lied and said he chose that outfit for picture day...

My Neighbor Called It 'Darwinism'

This morning's pee was interrupted by the sound of blood-curdling screams coming from the driveway. Barely getting my pants back up and not bothering with the button, I sprinted out back to exactly what I expected to find. Deuce had gotten in the fire ant nest for the THIRD DAY IN A ROW and had already received four bites.

Coming to the rescue was Bonus...with a water hose.

Because apparently soaking your brother whose shoes are still covered in ants will solve the problem.

Or make mom's head spin in circles.

Either way, I give up.

Two...sometimes it is the loneliest number.

I woke up yesterday morning and my first thought, which is generally, "What was that thud?!" was instead, "Two years ago today was the last time I spoke to you." I have to admit, that might be the worst wake-up I've ever experienced. I guess I had assumed that the first year without you would be the hardest, but it would appear that this two-year anniversary of ours is proving to be the most difficult.

Words cannot express the emptiness I feel when the memories grab me. The pain is almost as fresh as the day I found you. Although in truth, this pain must be greater, as I have now grasped the realization that you are gone. I fight to keep these memories with me, but sometimes they hurt too much. Some days, like today, I want to forget, if only for a moment, so I can enjoy watching Deuce try and ride his bike without training wheels. (I hope you watched that hot mess from heaven. I know you would have laughed if you had been here.)

I do cherish these fleeting memories that sneak in when least expected. This morning, I suddenly remembered the picnic we shared at Norris Lake, sitting on a red and white table cloth. I believe I was about six. If I close my eyes tightly, I can still see you pulling the fried chicken out of the antique picnic basket you had gotten from your grandmother; a leg for each of us. I can feel the warmth of the sun; see the yellow marks on our hands from pressing the dandelions into our palms. I cannot remember the conversation we shared, but I'm sure it was hilarious. We always had a well-matched wit.

I think that is what I have missed the most these past two years. I miss our laughter. I miss our inside jokes that would anger Mams to the point of calling us "Assheads"...and the giggles that we shared for years over that. I miss being able to tell you the profanity that my sons were spouting and admitting that I told everyone they learned it from you. But I can still hear you say, "Dammit, Amy. Now I can never go to grandparents day!"

On my last trip to Knoxville, I stopped by your grave. I laid a rose there since I always brought you flowers.



The boys watched from a distance as I spoke softly to a piece of granite of how I miss you. They danced around the headstones, as kids do, to give us space. When I had said my peace, with tears streaming, Deuce came over and sat on my knee.



"Momma," he said in the softest voice a four year old can muster, "Do you miss Nana?" Looking him in the eyes, I said, "Yes, baby. I do miss her so very much." He looked down at the rose and said, "Momma, I wish I could bring Nana back." "Deuce, I would love to have her back, but she is in a much better place," I told him with my voice cracking. He put his soft little hand on my cheek, brushed a tear away and said, "Momma, I miss Nana more than you." Smiling, I asked, "Baby, do you remember Nana?" Deuce grinned and said, "Nope." Then ran off to play.

It was at that moment I realized, thankfully, that Deuce has our sense of humor.

I love you, forever.

Send your donations for the basement fund now...

Setting: The kitchen. I'm cutting an apple as Deuce aka "Coopy" starts his 20-questions routine for the evening.

Deuce: "Momma, how does a hot air balloon go the direction you want it to go?"

Me: "Do you know what altitude means?"

Deuce: "No."

Me: "At different heights, or altitudes, the winds go in different directions. When you're flying the balloon, you can sometimes ascend, or go up, and go in one direction or you can descend, or go down, and go in a different direction. But you can't really control your direction, only your altitude or height. Does that make sense?"

Deuce: "No."

Me: "Okay...what part didn't you understand?"

Deuce: "What does 'sense' mean?"

Me: *sigh*

Deuce: "Momma, did you know that two plus two equals seven?"

Me: "Yes, Deuce. That does make sense."

Coopy the Turtle

A few months ago, Deuce "officially" changed his name to "Coopy". No, he doesn't play with any kids named Cooper or saw it on TV. He chose to name himself "Coopy the turtle" because that is what he wanted to do and when a four year old sets his mind to something...well, you know the drift.

At first it was kind of funny. We'd all joke and laugh about "Coopy" doing this funny little thing or he'd be curled up in a ball and say he was in his "Coopy shell". Surprisingly, it took a few weeks before any children bellowed that Coopy rhymes with poopy, even though Cameron pointed it out immediately. (And I am thankful for his immediate grasp of the childhood taunts as this saves me from explaining my own behavior...) Heh.

Recently, "Coopy" has turned into "Coopster" or just simply "Coop". It has become so common that he responds to it now and we interchange it with his real name at will. However, we hadn't taken it publicly (IE: outside of our circle of friends and family) until last week. I took the boys to karate and this lesson was on confidence and respect. When the children came up to introduce themselves with the adults, Deuce was introducing himself as "Coopy". I paused, and looked at him and said, "Dude. You're name isn't Coopy."

Deuce: "Yes it is, mom. My name is Coopy."

Me: "No, that's your nickname."

Deuce: "No, mom. *sigh* My name is COOPY."

Bonus: "No, mom. His name is COOPY."

At this point, I was tempted to whisper, loudly enough for the other adults to hear me, "No, boys, remember what the policeman said? Your OLD name was Coopy," and then rush them out the door before the confusion wore off. But realizing that I had spent too much on this sport to never return, I sheepishly smiled at both of my sons, shrugged my shoulders at the confused adults and silently vowed to spend the next class waiting for them at the brewery next door.

On a positive note, Bonus told Dorkfish last week that he likes it when we call Deuce "Coopy". When Dorkfish asked why, Bonus said, "Because it's cute and makes me want to hit him less."

Yeah...I know.

Yes, I'm writing, but thought you might like this intermission...

The past two weeks have been crazy busy with two trips to Tennessee, a wedding in Maine, several dog fights between the boys (and some neighbors) and a few hilarious one-liners from my famous-only-on-my-blog-that-she-doesn't-know-about-because-she-doesn't-get-the-internet(s) grandmother. (Yes, it's plural to her. Hush.)

However, while I'm writing all that up and adding PHOTOS!, I thought I would share with you all the moment I just had in the bathroom....

Setting: Master bathroom, me on the toilet:

Me: "Hey, dorkfish. (Yes, I do in fact call him that at home.) I'll give you one guess as to what I forgot to tell you what to pick up at the store!"

Dorkfish: "Bread."

Me: *blink, blink* "Let's just hope you keep your looks."



And now, back to my writing...after a half a bottle of wine to wash that moment out of my mind. Hey, one positive is that now all of you know he can NEVER say Deuce isn't his son!

Sigh.