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the other night at dinner, my preggers friend tara told us girls what her husband’s giving her when she pops out her baby: a fabulous earring/necklace combo with pink stones—cuz it’s a girl. i know, awww. it made me wanna punch something.
i’ve birthed two freakin’ babies, and guess what puddn’s given me as push presents? you guessed it: bupkiss.
oh noooo, mr. stick-in-the-mud doesn’t believe in push presents—he says they’re made-up, hallmark-y gifts for hotsy-totsy moms on the east and west coasts. apparently, he’s asked everyone he knows in the midwest (he’s from iowa), and no husband would ever do something as stupid as give his wife a present for carrying and birthing his child.
what an idiot.
i shouldn’t be surprised by this…i mean, it’s puddn. but still, i just don’t get it. yah, he’s a toolbag ‘n’ all, but to be honest, he’s definitely not cheap. if anyone’s a cheapskate, it’s me. so what does he have against push presents? i mean, this is the same guy who wants a congratulatory high-five every time he successfully pushes out a hard poop.
so i’d like to poll all the moms out there. after you agonized for hours (or days) in labor, then pushed a melon-sized human being from your stretched and probably torn/shredded vajeen—or after your abdomen was sliced open, your insides pulled out, a baby yanked out and then your insides shoved back in, and then been sewn and stapled shut—did your husband buy you a stinkin’ present for your troubles?
like i said, i have two kids—one via vajayjay birth and one c-section. and i have gory videos of both births to prove ‘em. so the way i see it, i’m due a coupla presies. am i right or am i right? they don’t need to be expensive; they just need to be thoughtful. like botox.
okay, i’ve said my piece. moms and dads, lemme know your thoughts on this, that is, unless you’re on puddn’s side. if so, then shaddap.
last weekend i partied like it was 1994. in other words, i was a complete idiot.
i flew to virginia to go to my 20-year college reunion (please don’t do the math on that), and after the weekend i had, it’s obvious i gotta get out more.
um, i went nuts. in my defense, i was away from puddn and the kids for like the first time ever (actually, the first time i went on a girls weekend, puddn made me take a $200 cab home in the middle of the night because budge was crying. but that’s a story for another time.)—for 3 booze-filled nights and 4 magnificent days.
i partied ‘til 4:30 am for three nights in a row…waking up at 8:30 am every morning. dude, the biebs couldn’t have kept up. i mean, when was the last time you got a total of 12 hours of sleep over three nights? apparently i was a sophomore in college again. or an animal who chewed out of her cage.
of course i blame my girlfriends. i freaking love them, but why do those beyotches have the power to make me such a crazy-ass? okay, maaaybe the booze played a teensy-weensy role, too. after knocking back a few too many dixie cups of pinot grigio, i cougared (and definitely frightened) some freshman boys, smoked a hundred cigarettes (i mean, who am i?), invited a million people back to our house for an after-party, and danced like i was miley cyrus. yah, not so cute at 34 years old (okay, 36…fine, 38…oh, just shaddap). and then i streaked the campus. oops.
i had no responsibilities, and it was glorious. it was like i was really back in college—sharing a house with 8 of my bffs and only worrying if our jeans made our butts look cute (duh) and if we had enough booze (never).
no one screamed ‘til i turned on “mickey mouse clubhouse.” i didn’t need to cook (please tell me i’m not the only one who hates making dinner). puddn wasn’t there (suck it, puddn!). i didn’t hear any “frozen” songs. no one snored. i didn’t wipe a butt that wasn’t mine. and most importantly, my hair looked great. seriously, it did.
but then something horrible happened to kill my buzz: i remembered i had to pump my boobs…at 4:30 am. #FML
other than that, it was the best weekend ever—we 40-something gals showed we’ve still got it, but thank god that stinkin’ reunion is only once every five years. oh, and i was kidding about the streaking.
a friend of mine asked the other day when i’m gonna start potty training the budge. i said he can shit his pants ‘til he’s 10 for all i care.
lu’s been using the potty for about a year now. it was a cinch; we bribed her with stickers on a potty chart, and she peed and pooped like a champ.
but eventually we had to leave the house and expose our sweet baby to the horror of public restrooms. puddn calls me a germophobe, but whatever…this is coming from a guy who hasn’t washed his hands in 3 weeks. anyway, have you seen the stalls at bed, bath and beyond? i’d rather crap my pants than sit my bare butt on those seats.
so a couple of weeks ago, stinks had to “go poop real, real bad” while i was shopping for a new wardrobe at target. we sprinted to the john, i chose the stall with the least amount of visible human excrement, wiped a stranger’s pee off the seat, then tried to cover it with one of those tissue thingies. i like to pretend that a thin piece of tissue paper is a real barrier to germs.
“hurry, mama, i gotta poo poo real bad.” i was also dangling the 28-pound budge in a sling in front of me. he was screaming, pulling my hair, and touching/trying to lick everything in sight. i was drenched in sweat.
after the third tissue cover fell in, i layered toilet paper all over the seat. lu pulled her skirt and undies down (why on earth she can’t ever pull the damn skirt up is beyond me), and they hit the floor, soaking up urine and stds. i almost chucked them, but damnit, it’s a janie & jack skirt and i’m a cheapass. oh, and i didn’t bring her a change of clothes.
when i plopped her down on the now-quilted seat, she grabbed both sides of the bowl to steady herself, which were, of course, wet with liquid filth. “mom, I go’ed poop!” she said, putting her hands in her mouth.
now if a bathroom is especially repulsive, like the ones at CVS, i hold her little butt above the toilet (still holding the budge in my sling). “mama, look! i sprayed pee pee all over your jeans.”
but wait, there’s more. sometimes she’s gotta use it when we’re in the car. so i bought a cute, plastic, portable potty called the “potette.” it folds up small enough to fit in my purse. yes, i carry a toilet in my purse. shaddap.
when lu’s gotta go, i pull over and she squats on the potette on the side of the road. then i fold up the seat, stick it in a bag, and shove it back in my purse. don’t ask how many times i’ve washed it. or why most of my shoes have stains.
recently i’d just strapped both kids in the car after spending about a thousand dollars at whole foods, and stinks announced she had to go. there was no way I was trekking back in there to use that digusting bathroom (btw, don’t you think whole foods can afford to have a decent restroom? jesus). so i whipped out the potette, made sure no one was looking, and made my sweet baby girl take a dump between two cars. you try living with that guilt.
here’s the deal: just don’t do it. potty training is totally overrated. just let your kids stay blissfully in diapers, peeing and pooping wherever and whenever they please. trust me, it’ll make everyone’s life easier. and you’ll never have flashbacks to your kid crapping in a bag in the whole foods parking lot.
This year I’m leaving broccoli for Santa instead of cookies. Why? Cuz he’s fat and eats too many cookies.
If you really think about it, Santa’s totes creepy. First of all, the seeing-you-when-you’re-sleeping-and-knowing-when-you’re-awake thing is totally skeevy. And why is it that he really only sees you when you’re being a little shit? If I share Minnie and Mickey with my little brother, eat all my veggies and go to sleep on time, Santa’s nowhere to be found—probably stuffing his fat face with cookies. But the second I give Wilson a teensy-weensy shove, suddenly Santa’s all over me—throwing my ass on the naughty list.
I swear my mom threatens me with “Santa’s watching” starting in the summer. So lemme get this straight…there’s an invisible set of eyes constantly monitoring me like Big Brother, and if I’m bad, I’m only gonna get coal and sticks for Christmas? Well that doesn’t sound like a very nice guy to me. That sounds a lot more like an a-hole. Am I right or am I right?
And what kinda creep shimmies down the chimney and sneaks into houses while people are sleeping? Where I’m from that’s called an intruder.
And let’s talk about his elves. First of all, I thought the politically correct term these days was “little people.” I bet you anything Santa doesn’t even pay those helpers minimum wage. This year he hired one to to sit on a shelf and watch me. Then at night, Cowgirl (that’s her name) flies back to the North Pole and tells her boss all the bad stuff I did all day. Hold up, I always thought being a tattletale wasn’t a good thing. That elf is nothing but a miniature snitch.
And don’t even get me started his outfit. I may only be three years old, but even I know an entirely red fuzzy suit with a matching hat is some really bad fashion. And the white fur…is that fox or mink? I can’t believe PETA’s never dumped blood all that get-up.
Okay, back to the cookies. My mom always tells me to eat sweets in moderation. So what up with this overweight dude who exists on cookies alone? Ever heard of heart disease, big guy? And you might wanna think about stepping on a treadmill. You’re not a spring chicken anymore.
And finally, the smoking! You know Santa smokes, right? What kind of example is sucking on a pipe for us kids? Ugh, what a chooch.
In closing, Santa kinda stinks in my opinion. But if you see him, tell him I want a baby doll with real hair in a blue dress and a toy bathtub for Christmas.
this time last year i was in the hospital on bed rest. oh man, it sucked. i cried, i whined, i complained, and i pretty much threatened the nurses and docs. like seriously. i was a caged animal. or a prisoner in solitary. but lemme tell ya, right about now, i’d do anything to have my ass right back there.
for the most part, bed rest really does blow butt. the days seem endless, and the weeks go by soooo freaking slowly. and sorry, cedars sinai, but the food is repulsive. you’d think a stinkin’ hospital of all places would serve healthy grub. but nope. it was just cheap stuff, full of chemicals, preservatives and crap i’d never touch on the outside—exactly what you wanna eat when you’re pregnant, right? ugh.
it’s kinda like prison, well, at least what i know about it from netflix. ‘cept in some ways i think it’s worse. fine, there are no maternity ward gangs or crazy bitches stabbing you or trying to eff you in the shower. but in prison, you can at least hang with your peeps. in the hospital, you’re stuck all alone in your hideous, depressing room (the wallpaper is even grey…what is that?) and it’s boring as shit, especially on the days you don’t have any visitors. let’s be honest, there are only so many hours of bravo you can watch ‘til you go a lil nuts.
ok, so you get the idea. but in hindsight, i also didn’t appreciate the time i had. yes, the glorious time. i was too busy missing my stinks and pissed at the damn parasite-baby inside me causing me so much trouble. and don’t even get me started on my placenta and its stupid previa-ness. good lord, i was a mess.
but a year later, i wanna get knocked up just so i can go back again. why? cuz bed rest kinda rocks, too:
you can catch up sleep. i swear, my skin hasn’t looked that good in years, and i hadn’t even had botox.
you remember it’s the little things in life that matter…like bathroom privileges. cuz using a bed pan isn’t as fun as you might think. or having a nurse wipe for you. on another note, those nurses don’t make nearly enough money.
you learn to love the great outdoors. if you’re lucky, you get wheelchair privileges, so visitors can wheel your ass to the courtyard for 1 hour a day. and you appreciate every damn minute.
the nurses are awesome. some will come by just to chat, watch “bachelorette” with you (when she’s still on the clock, oops), and make your day by saying you’re her favorite inmate, i mean patient. i’m still friends with a couple of them on facebook (hi jen!).
you can join online support groups and “meet” some pretty cool gals. they’ll also make you feel like an a-hole cuz they’ve been in the hospital slammer for 3 months longer than you have.
you can watch an entire season of “breaking bad” in one day and no one gives a shit. the same goes for reading “US weekly,” facebook-ing, pinterest-ing, words-with-friends-ing or any other time suck.
you don’t have to go to any kids’ birthday parties. or anywhere else for that matter.
after 3 days off your feet, your new varicose veins will miraculously and thankfully disappear.
there are no tantrums. well, ‘cept for maybe your own.
you’re waited on hand and foot. need water? boom. or a pillow? you got it. or a giant blood clot removed from your hoo-ha? done. and all with a smile.
you can ask your friends to bring you dark chocolate with truffles, carryout from cafe gratitude, mango with chili pepper, your favorite lip balm or anything your little heart desires, and they’ll do it. with flowers on top.
the baby screaming in the next room isn’t yours.
you don’t need to make dinner. or scrounge around to find something halfway decent to pack in your kid’s lunch.
your husband’s dipshit friends will surprisingly visit you solo and yap for 3 hours about girlfriend troubles. you’ll love ‘em forever for it.
you can be a lazy piece of shit. you obviously have the perfect excuse to not work out. hell, you can’t even get outta bed to poop.
there’s no annoying husband snoring next to you every night. there’s no annoying husband, period.
you can order gluten-free pizza every night and not feel too guilty about it.
2 words: mesh panties. maybe i’m crazy, but i love ‘em.
you don’t give a rat’s ass if you have a bad hair day. i’m pretty sure i went 13 days without washing mine.
and the best part is you can get a freaking amazing baby at the end of it. or you can get a lil a-hole like mine. juuuust kidding. omg, it was so worth it and then some, but i think for our next baby (pleeeeeease, puddn?!?!), i’m gonna try to keep my dumb placenta outta the hospital. but no matter what, i’ll still wear the mesh panties.
i’m not a miley cyrus fan. let’s get that straight.
but dear god, i’m so sick of hearing about how horrible her stupid twerk performance was the other night. seriously, people, who cares? it was a genius PR stunt. is there anyone you know who wasn’t (or still isn’t) talking about it?
here’s the thing i don’t get. miley was blasted for wearing a nude ‘kini and wiggling her butt on stage. but doesn’t anyone realize she was just mimicking robyn thicke’s “blurred lines” video? have people not seen it? if you haven’t, google it right now. like right this instant.
i’ve especially heard (or read) so many dads totally trash miley for being crude and corrupting society and our daughters…blah blah blah. funny, i don’t see any of those dads judging thicke for hiring NAKED girls to dance around him (while he’s fully clothed, natch…hello, sexist) in the video, and i certainly haven’t heard anyone berating the naked girls (oh sorry, they’re actually wearing nude thongs and white sneakers). oh wait, that’s cuz every guy on earth—especially dads—thinks it’s the greatest video ever made. hmmm…hypocritical much?
i keep hearing peeps yappin’ about “poor billy ray cyrus.” well poor ol’ billy ray is probably laughing with his baby girl, twerking their asses all the way to the bank. hell, if someone offered me a shit-ton of cash to wear that outfit and shake my bohungus at the VMAs, i’d do a few butt crunches and start practicing my technique.
okay, maybe miley was dissing her disney days. so what? britney did the same stinkin’ thing. this isn’t anything new. like it or not, the gal’s gotta grow up. didn’t you rebel when you were young? cuz i sure did. my dad used to say i looked like i was “advertising” myself in my skimpy bodysuits and micro minis. the difference is the world is watching miley’s every move. she’s obviously an attention whore, but then again, so was i…and what other young starlet isn’t? she nailed (no pun intended) a genius PR stunt. no matter what you think of her, you gotta admit that.
another thing is everyone’s calling miley names. she’s a slut, a skank, a whore. but wait a second, isn’t she engaged? or maybe she’s not anymore; i have no idea. the point is, hasn’t she been with liam what’s-his-face for like, over 4 years? um, how is that slutty? i think that’s longer than i’ve been with puddn.
the way i see it, the stage is like the theater, and performers do just that…they perform. do you think lady gaga wears a raw meat dress while she’s sitting around at home watching “orange is the new black?” hell, maybe she does…what do i know? my point is that it’s acting. if some young actress had twerked her buns all over a dude in a movie, we wouldn’t bat an eye.
but i digress. look, the more parents complain about miley, the more the kids are gonna love her. that’s a fact. and guess who she cares about pleasing? sorry to break it to you, but it’s not you. miley probably wants you to hate her. cuz that means your daughter—and all her friends—are gonna love her. get it?
and twerking? come on, everyone loves a good booty shake. hell, my 3-year-old, lulu, twerks. that’s cuz it’s fun. i thought people loved it ‘til miley’s twerk heard ‘round the world. i bet the peeps who hate it probably just can’t do it.
to me, the most disgusting parts of miley’s stunt were her stupid hair and that dumb tongue-wagging. ew, what was that? now that was offensive.
anyway, i say let’s just move on…’til the next disney star decides to booty shake her innocence off.
i’m still not a miley fan. not at all. but damn it, “i can’t stop. and i won’t stop.”
after lu’s ginormous second birthday party last year, puddn and i pinky-swore we’d never do it again. soooo of course, i threw her a bigger, better one this year…
jeez, i’m sorry if i wanna celebrate my one-and-only baby girl’s day of birth with a nice party. so sue me. puddn the killjoy wanted to invite 3 of her friends for a little playdate and call it a party. well frrrrrt on that.
so i told him to shut the f*ck up and i’d do it solo. i didn’t need him “helping” by buying red solo cups for a purple party anyway. so away i went.
since i love to punish myself, i decided the party was gonna be at our house—cuz hosting 30 kids is how i like to spend most sunday afternoons.
first, lu and i picked the most important thing: the theme. it was between a mermaid party and a purple party…and i figured buying a bunch of purple sh*t would be easier. dumbass.
step 2: driving myself to the brink of insanity. everything had to be frigging purple, duh: the decorations, the plates, napkins and cups, the food, the drinks and the favors, of course. i won’t even tell you how many hours (and how much freaking money) i spent. and don’t even get me started on the favors. i swear to you, i came this close to losing my mind because i refused to buy a bunch of plastic, made-in-china junk. it’s not easy to find eco-friendly stuff when you’re a cheapskate. plus, did i mention i had to buy 30?
then stinks started blabbing to the whole world that she was having a purple party: first her grandparents, then her teachers, then tim at the whole foods deli counter, then random strangers in the bathroom at target. she was so super-excited…so come on, i couldn’t just throw her a half-assed party, right?
so i hired, i mean i invited, sofia the first, the new cartoon princess on the disney junior channel. she’s like 8 years old max on the show, so i was a kinda worried about a 20-something chick in a purple gown claiming to be the pint-sized princess.
lu’s no dumbass; she took one look at adult sofia and was like, “umm, you’re a lot bigger than on TV.” good thing i’d prepped the purple princess; she told stinks she’d grown up a little (or a lot) since the show. hook, line and sinker. lu was up her butt the whole time rshe was there.
stinkers also totally believed when i pretended to call sofia and cancel the night before the party. god, i’m so mean. i’d been playing the sofia card for weeks like she was santa—“she’ll only come to the party if you’re good.”
well when stinks was being a raging a-hole, i left a message for my friend annie pretending like she was the princess: “i’m so sorry to cancel at the last minute, sofia, but lulu won’t go to bed. i hope you understand.” lemme tell ya, that kid was snoring about 3 minutes later. it was the best $200 an hour i’ve ever spent.
anyhoops, the party was awesome, and of course puddn whined and complained leading up to it…’til the dipsh*ts showed up and they started chugging beers. idiots.
i’m pretty sure everyone had fun, ‘cept for one older kid who got pissed at his mom for bringing him to a “stupid princess party.” it shut down early (10 pm) for one of our parties and this time, there were no skivvies left strewn in our yard. i guess i gotta throw parties on sunday from now on.
the most important thing was lu loved it and wanted to call sofia’s mama the next day to thank her for letting her come to the party. i mean, how sweet is this kid?
i’m already thinking about next year: a pool party with mermaids. hey, puddn, looks like we’re building a pool!
last sunday was one of the best days of my life. no, puddn didn’t get laser hair removal. it was lulu’s first ballet recital…
i swear to gawd it was the cutest damn thing i’ve ever seen. though it was a total blur of tutus through all the tears. as puddn the dick kept reminding me, i was an overly emotional crazy-ass mess. but come on, can you blame me?
stinks has been taking ballet for a while now (she just started hip hop dance classes, too, but that’s a whooole other amazing story), and let’s be honest, for a long time, the kid sucked. like big time. while the rest of the class was dancing, i paid $25 every week for that lil sh*t to run back and forth, staring at herself in the mirror for 45 minutes.
but now you should see my lil ballerina in action…plie-ing, tondue-ing, chasse-ing and air-guitaring all over the damn place. yep, air guitar. how else are you gonna dance to “we built this city” (it was an ’80s recital, duh) without some strummin’?
so anyway, like everything else, i made a huge stinkin’ deal about her big show. the way i was acting, i’m pretty sure she thought she’d gotten the lead in “swan lake.” i invited the whole family…and believe it or not, the dipsh*t brothers actually showed up. hungover, yes, but they actually made it at 9 am. i know, what kinda dance recital starts at 9 am?
oy, i was a nervous wreck. i was so scared my lil marinks would get on stage in front of all those people and lose her sh*t—or worse yet, pee her tutu. i just wanted her to jump up there with no stage fright and have fun, ya know?
like the dope i am, i sucked down more starbucks than should be legal. so then i had the caffeine shakes and sweats. and about about 2 minutes before stinks went on stage, my shaky, sweaty, pudgy hands dropped my camera, and it smashed on the floor. then i started bawling. i swear, it would only happen to me. of course puddn laughed.
when they called lu’s class—all 4 kids—she ran up there with no fear. and she totally rocked it. maybe she didn’t nail every step (um, she stopped dancing about halfway through the song, and then scratched her knee for about 20 seconds), but man, she had a ball. and that’s really all that matters, right? that, and how hard we laughed (at her).
but i’m pretty sure i created a monster. stinks took her ribbon (“of dancing excellence”) to show off at school, and now she keeps asking when she’s gonna get to dance onstage again. pour this kid some go-go juice, cuz here comes honey lulu! dear lord, just keep her off the pole.
this is the first father’s day without my dad, and i gotta say it sucks. so i feel like yip-yapping a little about him and reminiscing about the good ‘ol days…
his name was manny, short for manuel. which is why i changed the baby’s name to wilson manuel. and yes, i know i’m crazy, but more on that in a later post.
anyway, my dad was born in 1929, and grew up super-duper poor in a teensy-weensy town in pennsylvania. his home life totally bit the big one, and as a kid, he had to work his ass off in coal mines to make money for his family, which had 12 kids. on another note, dear lord, can you imagine my grandmother’s va-jay-jay?
at 15 years old, he was too young to join the army, but that didn’t stop him. he changed the date on his birth certificate, ran away from home, and never looked back. when he got to the army, he was handed his first toothbrush—and had no clue what it was. he’d never, ever brushed his teeth…but you know what, i bet puddn’s breath after a night of partying is still worse.
he became a total perfectionist. years ago, my mom wanted new wallpaper in our kitchen, so he surprised her one day and hung it while she was out. he meticulously lined up the latticework and flowers exactly, and when he got home, he proudly showed off his handiwork. it was perfect alright, just upside down…with all the stems going up. which is how it stayed for the next 10 years.
he always wanted us kids to do well. before computers (jesus, did i just write that?), he’d type all my high school papers on the typewriter—even if he had to stay up all night to do it (man, i was a brat), and every year i had a rockin’ science fair project—cuz manny always took over.
then he taught me to drive drill-sergeant-style. he made me learn stick by taking me to a giant hill, and refused to go home ’til i got us up it (i cried). before my driving test, he made me practice parallel parking in a car with no power steering with cones about 6 feet closer than they should’ve been. after that, he claimed he turned me into “a pretty good driver—for a female.”
he was a great coach, too. all the girls always wanted to be on mr. manny’s softball team cuz he and my friend hope’s dad took us to baskin robbins after every game, whether we won or lost. btw, he had a raging sweet tooth—which i totally got from him. and so did lulu.
he loooved to dance. when we threw him an 80th birthday luncheon, he wanted a DJ.
he was super-organized (now why couldn’t i have inherited that?), and had a special drawer full of important papers, like his huge folder of dirty internet jokes.
he loved to play games, and his favorite nights were when we’d all sit around the table and play cards or board games…and he’d laugh watching weezie and i try to cheat.
he was stubborn as sh*t. for years his docs kept saying he was a goner, and somehow he’d always will himself to get better. i used to joke that he could just tell me to visit…he didn’t have to pretend to kick the bucket every time.
one of those times was when i got married. we didn’t know how much longer he’d be around, so i planned a wedding in 2 weeks, so he could walk me down the aisle. now i think he faked it just so i’d get hitched.
he was a total jokester. a few weeks before he died, he had major surgery. when he woke up, it was a tense moment when the docs asked him his name, where he was, the date and who the president is…all questions to make sure his brain was back in action. when they asked if he knew who my mom was, he looked at her and said in all seriousness, “i’ve never seen that woman before in my life.” then he started giggling.
he never complained. ever. like ever. even though the guy was in so much pain for years and years, he’d never let you know it. if you asked how he was, he’d just say, “well, i’m still here!”
he wasn’t afraid to be silly, and all kids adored him. it was weird how much kiddies loved him. and he was an awesome pop pop. stinks was his “lulubelle,” and she looooved him. god, i hope she’ll always remember the special bond those 2 had. (note to self: make one of those shutterfly books.)
he used to tell us that as a kid, he swore one day when he grew up, he’d give his own family the life he never had. and he sure did. my dad gave us everything—he was an honest, hardworking, easy-going, loving, generous, all-around great guy. and he was so proud of his family, his “pride and joy.” man, i’d get so embarrassed when he’d brag about us to someone when we were standing right there.
i miss my dad, and i wish he was still around to see my kids grow up. my biggest regret in life is not letting him meet our little manny sooner than the night before he died. i guess better late than never, right? (sigh.) but i will say it’s crazy how much the little guy looks just like his pop pop, right down to the sparkle in his eyes.
if your dad is still alive ‘n’ kickin’, please don’t forget to call him today. or better yet, go visit him.
the other day some girlfriends and i were yapping about embarrassing things kids blurt out in public. well last week, lulu yelled out something so bad i almost pooped my pants…
you know the comments i’m talking about. like when my friend’s toddler pointed at a lady and asked about the baby in her tummy. cute, but the prego wasn’t knocked up…oops. and we’ve all heard about kids asking a stranger the horrifying, “are you a lady or a man?” whoopsie.
so here’s the story about stinky’s shout-out:
we all flew to kansas city for our friends’ wedding. (side note: it was an epic, crazy, stupid, awesomely fun time…see pics below. i now wanna move to kc even more than ever.) after flying home, we were lined up butts to nuts waiting to exit the plane. lulu was standing in front of puddn, but when she turned around to face him—and i swear to god it was dead silent in that plane—she suddenly screamed out in that high-pitched kid-voice of hers:
“HEY, DADDY! I’M GONNA GRAB YOUR PEEENIS!”
the whole plane gasped and busted out laughing, i sh*t my pants a little, and among all “oh my god”s and “what did she say?”s, some lady hollered from the back of the plane, “out of the mouths of babes!”
it was clearly so wrong on so many obvious levels—yet somehow innocently adorable and hilarious. jesus, this kid is too much.
anyway, puddn brushed it off like no big thing (no pun intended), but i could tell he was totally cringing. for once i almost felt kinda sorry for the dipsh*t. but i did what any self-respecting mom would do in that situation: pretended like i didn’t know those 2 dopes. and then i laughed at them right along with all the rest of southwest flight #238.
i can’t wait to tell all stinky’s friends when she’s a teenager.