Things that amuse me, Vol. 13

Though nasty she may frequently be these days, as she adjusts to waking up early for kindergarten, my 5-year-old daughter M- apparently still manages to be amusing enough to dominate the quote lists as well as this, the latest list of Things That Have Been Amusing Me recently:

1. When trying to find the words to describe the chaos that results from trying to simultaneously treat (and bathe!) eight 2-month-old kittens for fleas in the same evening, this is what she came up with: "It's like a KITTEN NURSERY in here! ...Except a kitten nursery run by drunk people who have no idea what they're doing!" It was an inspiring vote of confidence.

2. When trying to clarify what she saw when retelling part of a Tintin cartoon she'd watched, M- asked, "Wait, do 'bombs' have little, like, tails coming out of them?"

3. Kids love to keep you guessing... as I watched my 1-year-old son E- cruising around the school one morning, eating a tiny banana for breakfast and loving the independence, I figured I'd need to be on the lookout for the moment he would be struck with the unoriginal inspiration to rub it all over the disgusting hallway floor before taking another bite.

Instead, he decided to throw me a curveball by waiting till I blinked to subtly pick up some kind of mysteriously blackened bark chip off that floor and then stick it directly INTO the banana, for absolutely no reason at all. It's not as if he could say, "Oh, my mistake-- I thought it was that OTHER kind of thing we commonly shove into our bananas!" Even after 8 years of this, I was just not prepared for that move.

Super fun vacation time for old ladies

Well, after a few years of working from home while watching the kids (easier with all-day school, for sure!), and thus splitting responsibilities a lot more with my wife J- than I had been, I'm now ankle-deep in a taste of juggling everything by myself again for a week and a half: J- is taking a vacation with my sister and her friend to hang around a beach house and reflect on turning 30 and 25, respectively.

I shouldn't complain, since I took a similar trip with my brother last year* when I turned 30, but who would I be if I didn't? I mean, you may not realize it, given my laughably outdated banner up there, but I'm dealing with an 8-year-old, a 5-year-old, a 19-month-old, a basement full of fleas, and a garage full of 9 cats**, whereas J- only had to deal with a 7-year-old, a 4-year-old, a 7-month-old, a kitchen being drywalled, and a very welcome mother cat and three kittens*** who'd recently shown up on our doorstep out here in Cat Country.

So, clearly, the difference is night and day.

J- dealt with the stress last year by buying them off with a promise to have candy for dinner, and then following through in legendary form.

Problem for me is, not only do they now have their bars set somewhere just above, "There is such a thing as candy for dinner", but they've already spent most of this summer being spoiled by one set of grandparents or another, to the point that the older two wouldn't bat an eyelash at being handed the keys to their own set of his-and-hers hovercrafts.

So what am I supposed to do?

All I've come up with so far is to go totally the other way and just put them to work as much as possible, to make them really appreciate heading back to school soon, as a break in their strict schedule of Cleaning Up After Myself, plus Other Light Chores****. It seems to be working pretty well, knock on wood... for me, at least.

I think they'll be happy to see Momma walk through the door.

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* Of course I didn't take the opportunity to get back into writing real blog posts at the time, because that would make too much sense.

** Now that we found a home for one of the 8 kittens born in two litters within two days back in May...

*** The surviving kitten of which just had her first litter (of 5) in our garage at almost exactly 1 year old.

**** The latter of which generally gets bumped off the schedule, due to the first show running long...

A conversation with M-: Count me out

After more than eight years of parenting, my wife J- and I consider ourselves pretty skilled at manipulating each of our three kids like puppets, using whatever tools fit each kid at a given moment.

Sometimes, though, they show flashes of the similarly wonderful parents they may become themselves, someday:

J- (wanting a favor from our 5-year-old daughter M-, spinning it with a reliable phrase): So M-, can I count on you?

M- (not in the mood to help, and looking for a loophole): Ummmm... well, no, not today. (walking out of the room) I don't want anyone counting on me today.

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You may enjoy my previous M- conversations, J- conversations, and (8YO son) D- conversations.

A conversation between M- and D-: Bill Cosby, eat your heart out

My 8-year-old son D- and 5-year-old daughter M- are apparently taking some interesting lessons to heart about the fundamentals of good parenting, as evidenced by their recent conversation in the back of our parked van, regarding their 1-year-old brother E-:

D- (possibly sarcastic, after M- had been speaking through rage-clenched teeth at E-): Boy, you'd make a real good parent, always grabbing and pulling on his (inaudible)...

Me (thinking she had been grabbing his face): Pulling his what?!

D- (quickly polishing an explanation, likely due to a favor he owed his sister): I said, she'd make a real good parent, because she always gets real serious with him. And he listens to her...

M- (eagerly): Yeah!

D- (aside): Oh, by the way, your pants are on backwards.

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You may enjoy my previous D- conversations, M- conversations, and (wife) J- conversations.

A conversation with M-: A teachable moment...

Despite two years served under the patient ears of The Tattling Turtle at school, my 5-year-old daughter M- still tattles like nobody's business*, and her 8-year-old brother D- has long ago earned his Veteran Kid status, which entitles him to get away with all kinds of secrets and sneakiness under our noses, as this frustratingly inconclusive conversation demonstrates:

M- (the "eager" version of The Tattling Voice): Last night, I was trying to sleep, and D- was keeping me up by saying a bad word. One that means "horse poop"?

Me (mild curiosity officially piqued): ...Oh? Which word was that?

M- (wishing she could help, realizing she's out of ammo): Ummmm... I don't remember. You should ask him.

Me (recklessly pressing the point while the iron is hot): You won't get in trouble for saying what it was. Was it something like "cr... cr... cr..."

M- (blank stare): Uhhhh...

Me (scrambling, hoping she doesn't start asking followups, to add to her extensive vocabulary, but now confident I've nailed it down at Level 2): Was it something with "sh... sh... shhh..."

M- (another blank stare, then resignation, which is apparently what you get when you seem to take tattles seriously): Umm, well, I don't really remember what the word is, but I know it's bad, and I know it means "horse poop".

So, it seems that D- is either cataloging new slang words that don't spring to my mind, or he may have invented a hilarious new game of 1) declaring secret, scandalous meanings to made-up words; or 2) assigning new meanings to existing, innocuous words; with the primary or secondary intention of getting his sister to cash in all her tattling chips on unenforceable violations. Both of the latter options are genius, and make me pretty perversely proud.

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* If anything, this stuffed turtle just allows her to practice new techniques. She talked about him all the time in the beginning, but the very first time I made reference to him myself, she made a point of assuring me, with an expression and tone that suggested I might be an idiot, that he is "not real". Thus, he is powerless to act on any of her solid intel.

A conversation with M-: Ready to leave the nest

The following conversation took place when my wife J- was fixing up my 4-year-old daughter M-'s hair one night before bed, as she and M- both complained about how tangled it was:

Me (pointlessly defending myself): We were running late, and I forgot to bring a hairbrush with me this morning, so her hair looked like a rat's nest... I had to just comb through it with my fingers and pull it back into a ponytail.

J- (about to share a story of mild mortification under the firing-squad gaze of Other Mothers of Daughters, after she'd had an "all-ready-to-go" daughter in a tutu packed into the car by her husband): Yeah, I could tell, at dance class...

M- (cutting in, as she realized we were talking about her): Don't call it a rat's nest!

Me (realizing it didn't sound very nice, after she'd uncharacteristically decided to pay attention when adults speak): That just means how it looks-- it wasn't your fault.

M- (not comforted at all): Don't CALL it that.

Me: Would it be better if I called it a (dementedly happy voice) "squirrel's nest!"?

M- (probably more frustrated): Don't call it a nest at ALLLLL!

Note: I made no promises. I calls 'em like I sees 'em.

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You may enjoy my previous M- conversations, J- conversations, and (7YO son) D- conversations.

Potential book titles, Vol. 3

Here are a few more titles of fiction and nonfiction books I might write, if I ever manage to finish something* that takes more than 10 minutes at a time:

Leftover Birthday Cake: Why Parents Have Been Having Children Since Ancient Times

Why Would I Even Have To Forewarn You To Not Put That In Your Mouth??

Enter Title Here: Sometimes I Put Things Off A Bit Too Long

Put That Down: When I Said I Wouldn't Tell You Again, I Meant After This Time

I'm Starting To Understand Why People Demolish And Rebuild, Waste Be Damned: A Home Remodeling Story

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* Such as writing a decent blog post of substance.

Amusing searches, Vol. 12

Here are more of the most amusing searches that brought people here recently, this time all dealing with parenting concerns.

(All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered, and the search text links to the post at which the visitor arrived.)

• 10 yr old daughter likes to be naked (Toledo, OH) - You're in for a long couple of years, my friend. Good luck.

• I keep losing my patience with my 3 year old (Milton, Ontario) - That's because they're infuriating little bastards, just like you were when you were three. It's a charming part of our core to which we all return whenever we're feeling cranky, even in our golden years. You'll have your revenge!

• baby onesies that say my daddy is an obsessive bastard (Bradford, PA) - Hey... that hurts.

• help for the stay at home dad with the ungrateful wife (Palm Desert, CA) - I only wish I had some way of helping you, sir, but I've never been able to solve this particular problem for myself. Don't worry, though (face held dramatically in hand) I'll get along, somehow...

• I am at home and not busy (Kerava, Finland) - I am quite jealous and borderline homicidal.

• personal hygiene for kids (New Delhi, India) - I think it says it all that when you searched this term, it took you to a post about orangutans.

Classic quotes, Vol. 26 - M- edition

Here are some recent quotes, this time just from my 3-year-old daughter M-:

M- (in response to helpful advice from her 6-year-old brother D- during a game with dolls): I know-- I'm careful with babies. ...But sometimes I bop them.

M- (shouting at D-, on more than one occasion): I'm NOT going to MARRY you anyMORE!

M- (apropos of nothing, while playing outside): My kids, when I have them, will have to work all day.

M- (using the The Tattling Voice): D- is tattling on me!

M- (having just walked up to me, using a conversational tone): I threw my baby in the dungeon, because at the rate she was going? She was going to JAIL. At the rate she was going...

M- (informing us of a little bit of obscure trivia): You know what chicken is made from? ... It's chickens!

Amusing searches, Vol. 7

Here are more of the most amusing searches that brought people here recently, this time with the very simple theme of "complaining about your children." This could really be the first of several in a healthy sub-series of posts.

Note: All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered, and in this case, all searchers arrived at my 10 reasons my 3-year-old son may be homosexual post, which is apparently the only post on the Internet whose title features a child identified by a hyphenated label including his age. Or else it's just the strongest and most fascinating.

• why does my 5 yr son old piss around the house (Bloomington, IL) - 1) Because it's easier; 2) because he can; and 3) because he owns the property but isn't responsible for cleaning it. Also, I'd bet he somehow understands he won't be able to get away with it for long, so he's living it up while he can. Ahhh, to be that young again, never in search of the nearest bathroom...

• 3 year olds hands do the same thing (Davenport, FL) - This is a very slippery slope. "Same thing" meaning what? Picking his nose? Playing with his food? Poking his sister? Playing with himself? Stabbing at his dad's eyes whenever he looks away from him? Based on my thankfully fuzzy recollections of that age, you have to be much more specific.

• 9-year-old son lazy barefoot (Sandusky, OH) - Are you looking for a role model for the boy? If so, just let me know, and I'll try to see about getting around to offering him some pearls of wisdom. Better yet, just send him out my way, and he can lay at my bare feet just watching the master at work. Well, maybe "work" is too strong a word.

• my 3 year old son always has to be first - Correction: Your 3-year-old son always WANTS to be first. My 3-year-old daughter is the one who actually must be first. I do not recommend denying her this, or at least not without adequate protection.

• 10 yr old son likes to be naked (Surprise, AZ) - Who doesn't? Especially out there in the deserts of Surprise, Arizona. (Yes, that's really the name.) Let me warn you, though, if you say too much to him about it, you'll find him naked 24 hours a day for the next ten years, powered solely by spite. And nobody likes to see an angry naked guy. So do us all a favor and lay off, lady.

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A nice deal for those with babies: 10% off essential items like diapers, wipes and formula at Amazon

Amusing searches, Vol. 6

Here are more of the most amusing searches that brought people here during these past few months that have been so devoid of new posts.

(All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered, and the search text links to the post at which the visitor arrived.)

• is it ok that daughter buys annivarsary card on behalf of husband - Is it okay for you that they do this? Of course. Is it okay for the two of them? ...Ask her. Seems kinda sad to me, but man, Hallmark must love her commitment to their products even to the point of this nonsense. (Also, for my own future reference, does she get a good deal on these "annivarsary" cards from the Irregular bin at the dollar store?)

• curing a belligerent horse (Jonesboro, AR) - Poetic concerns aside as to whether a supposedly belligerent horse needs "curing", I'll say that while I appreciate the particular struggles of horse trainers, I'm not sure why one in search of an answer to a professional question would stop to click on a search result titled "Screw curing cancer, we've got robot ladies now!"

• do not babysit (Virginia Beach, VA) - Okay, okay, I can take the hint... Clearly you've just perused my selection of bad parenting, lack of shame, screaming, self-righteousness, and sarcasm posts.

• literaldan.blogspot.com screw-curing-cancer-weve-got-robot - Since this (and many, many other searches, for some reason) came from Mountain View, California, I think it's fair to assume that the top brass of Google is intensely interested in how exactly I've managed to take over the Internet without actually making any money or getting on TV yet. That, or they're thinking of offering me a job in their vaunted Nitpicking, Irreverence, or Procrastination departments.

• barefoot inebriated woman (Warren, OH) - If that's what you're looking for, then allow me to point you, happily, over to your fellow Ohioan. You won't be sorry!

• amusing a 3 year old (Bristol, VT) - I'll give you a hint-- it must involve rhyming wordplay and, more importantly, bodily functions in some way. Preferably graphically so. Just picture the humor of a 30-year-old man, and then aim a little higher brow.

If you first smash it beyond recognition, there is ME in team

Though my daughter M- is still only 2, her communication abilities are far enough advanced that we're able to get an even better idea than genetics has given us of her future temperament and predispositions.

Chief among the latter is most certainly not, it seems, willing cooperation with her peers, any more than those peers will be likely to enjoy the credit they're due for their contributions to groups including Miss M-.

This is a girl who, some time after hearing me idly singing, "We're following the leader, the leader, the leader..." one day, began marching about the house very seriously chanting, "Be. The. LEA-der! / Be. The. LEA-der!"

I haven't yet had any of my patented Extra-Boring Heart-to-Heart Talks with her about this theme in her life, but just in the past couple of weeks, she's crafted gems like these, the only ones I happened to write down before I forgot:

M- (after putting on her own shoe): I did teamwork!!

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Me (to a now-smiling D- and M-, after they had been loudly fighting over who would lay where at story time): So, did you guys find a way to cooperate?

M- (proudly singing it out over her brother's more subdued response): I did!!
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Can't wait till 5-and-under softball! Though maybe football is more her speed... her teammates can either crush the selfishness out of her until she's just cautiously individualistic, or strategically piss her off each game before handing her the ball and getting out of the way.

Based on our experiences already, this plan shouldn't be too hard to execute, and it would be devastatingly effective.

How else can one harness convulsive rage and a steadfast maverick streak to unleash his or her full potential? Politics? Ultimate Fighting? Competitive eating? I'm not sure which is the least undignified, but then there's very little dignity in the contorted faces she wears while trying to inflict pain on those who displease her, in her smiling-monkey-faced footie pajamas.

She can transition easily from that into cramming the faces of her enemies, as carved into pie crusts, down her food chute at rates never before seen, thanks to that dash of OCD I contributed to her mother's genetic material.

Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket... she'll miraculously stay as lean and mean as her Japanese opponents, and with her Threats and Intimidation skills, she'll win such an assortment of global endorsement/protection deals that she'll be able to support her father in the luxurious lifestyle to which he only wishes he could become accustomed.

I can't quite reconcile what's best for her with what's best for me... either way, I'm prepared for quite a lot of notes to be sent home from kindergarten.

Not goodbye, just see you later

I figure I should let you all know that tomorrow, I'll be checking out of this northwest-Chicago-suburban popsicle stand for a few weeks to drive all the way out to Northern Maine to visit my wife's family and some old friends from the mean streets of Caribou and Presque Isle.

During this time, I should have posts popping up on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays as usual, but my e-mail responses to comments will be spotty at best, or nonexistent at likeliest.

So while I'm off today desperately packing for our long, long, long 1400-mile drive in a Camry with a 5-year-old and 2-year-old, I'll give you something to discuss amongst yourselves.

As I began last night to assess the unbelievable volume of little bits of crap my wife has let pile up in the car over the past school year, I found a notable scrap of paper I'd dropped* a few weeks ago.

On it I'd recorded an amusing conversation opener from the lady herself while we were driving somewhere, after she'd had yet another in a chain of is-it-summer-yet long/violent days with the generally lovable 7th-8th grade Special Ed. students/gang members she teaches:

"I have a feeling quite a few of my students are going to get the s*** beat out of them [at home] tonight, and to be honest, I don't feel too sorry about it."

Negative-three days till summer break! Am I right?

When I get back, we'll all be more than two weeks closer to me pathetically hanging around downtown trying to meet random BlogHer attendees. If you'll be one of them, let me know!

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* To be fair to me, it is HER paper and I had picked it up off the floor of the car to start with. So, in essence, I was subconsciously putting it back where I found it, 'cause that's the kind of person I am. I put things away and take care of my immediate area so I never HAVE to formally Clean The House/Car.

So now thanks to this footnote, we'll have something fun to discuss in the car tomorrow. Wish me luck!!!

I am not responsible for this behavior

While a lot of people like to point to certain events, character traits, or incidental behavior as indicative of a child's similarity to or even destiny to become exactly like one or more of his parents, I prefer to promote the idea that this is complete nonsense, except in the rare case in which doing so might make me look good.

For an example of the former, let me share that my now-5-year-old son D- recently hit his leg on the coffee table entirely out of his own carelessness, which, if you ask me as his loving parent, causes him pain and discomfort far too infrequently to really teach him anything of use.

His response to this assault was to immediately engulf himself in soaring flames of impotent rage and begin letting loose the following diatribe:

"OW!! We should move to a different house that doesn't have this stuff in it!"

He then dramatically threw himself upon the couch, before just as quickly standing back up to add some other points he just thought of:

"See?? (pointing at the TV) We've got all this stuff everywhere to walk into and we should just go somewhere else where we don't have any stuff in the way on the floors!"

In rereading this before publication, I realize that it sounds at best partially fabricated, but let me assure you with the three fingers of my Boy Scout salute held high in the air that since I was sitting at the computer at the time, I transcribed this rant word for word.

I have no further comment.

Confessions, Vol. 1

1. If only they made giant diapers that still fit snugly on a toddler, I would gladly slap one of those on M- each night and sleep like a med student through the morning, while she fed and entertained herself with the many things I'd generously leave in her crib.

2. I referred to a cartoon chipmunk in a children's television show as "kind of an a**hole" with as much forethought and seriousness as I would the friend of a friend.

3. It's hard to write amusing "confessions" after somberly reading through PostSecret for more than an hour.

4. I find it oddly freeing to stop this list at four items on a day such as this, the fifth day of the week and month.*

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* And yet, look at the time stamp.

A conversation with D-: Stuck in a jam

The following is a not-atypical conversation I had with my 4-year-old son D- the other day on our way to the library:

D-: Why are we going to the liberry?

Me (brushing the turnip leaves off my sleeve): The lie-berry? What's that?? Is it like a blueberry or a strawberry?

D-: No!

Me: Should I go look for a lie-berry bush so I can pick me some lie-berries for a delicious lie-berry pie?

D- (scolding): You know what I mean! The LIE... b... (pause) ...erry.

Me: Mmmm, sounds yummy!

D- (giving me a well-practiced blank look as if I'm a hopeless idiot*): It's not.

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* May or may not be accurate.

Revenge of the Leafs

Since I've been so lax in responding to comments (and visiting people's blogs) in the past few weeks (and possibly indefinitely), I thought that instead of adding a bunch of responses now that no one would see, I'd write a separate post acknowledging your comments on this recent post showcasing M-'s language development through the lens of a leaf assault.

First off, I'd appreciate it if you guys would keep the violence of this neglect-ridden incident hush-hush. That is, unless Child Protective Services would be willing to work out some kind of time-sharing arrangement in which they would take the kids away from us only on Friday or Saturday nights, and maybe a day or so during the week as needed.

As for M-'s seemingly accelerated development in certain areas, I have nothing to offer in the way of tips or tricks, as requested, except to say that you should apparently try to spend as much time on the computer as legally allowed; never plan anything voluntarily or arrive anywhere on time; only feed your children random, disturbing combinations of food ALWAYS outside of whatever society tells you should be a Meal Time; and be ready to fend off many, many hard plastic finger puppets, because my friends, There Will Be Poinkings.

A conversation with D-: Balbo Drive isn't far off the mark

The following is a surreal conversation I recently had, apropos of nothing, with my 4-year-old son D- while driving through our suburb:

D-: Do you know why they call it "downtown"?

Me: Downtown Chicago?

D-: No, the word downtown.*

M- (because she loves to be involved): Why?

D- (adopting his Teacher Voice): Because a long time ago, there was a guy called Down. (very casually) He was that guy who shot his own self after that big war, where he killed so many people.**

Me: You mean Hitler?!?

D-: Yeah, Hitler. That was his name, but then his last name was... Down. So... (clearly realizing he's lost whatever was his original idea in a sea of rambling 4-year-old bulls***) they had a town, and they named it for him: Downtown.

Me: Oh. ... Wow.


Editor's Note: For anyone interested in this post title, here is a great article written on the subject by my former history teacher, and here's the good-old Wikipedia page on the namesake of this Chicago street.

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* I have no idea where he could have learned the concept of breaking down words for the meanings and origins of their components...

** You might assume that, at best, I let The History Channel babysit him all day, but actually, the kid just asks a lot of probing questions, and sometimes I can't help myself in answering them. We walk by a Holocaust memorial at least three times a week on the way to the library.

Momma's lieutenant

You know, I could pad this out by going on and on, beating around the bush by saying the same thing several different ways and not taking the time to edit at least half of them out before clicking Publish, as I am wont to do, but I think one paragraph* is really all that's needed:

I've decided that it says something important about my current lifestyle that at only 19 months old, M- has already been pressed to develop the ability to say something as complex as, "Eyem hun-gree! ... Wanna eat somethin', Daddy. ... Ged-dup, Daddy... please! Ged-dup and get food for [M-], please. Ged-DUP!" as she tugs on my hand when I'm just trying to blog in peace.


* Hi there! Welcome to my little hideout-- everyone knows footnotes don't count as part of the body, so I can say whatever I want without regard to my previous statements, common courtesy, or international treaties. I just wanted to note that in true hyper-little-kid form, she said this like so many other things lately almost in one breath, as if time somehow moves more quickly for her than for everyone else, and she'd finally given up asking nicely after 400 human milliseconds.

It's a good thing kids can only starve at the same rate as real people, or my "Dan-minutes"** and I would have gotten me in pretty big trouble long ago.

** I don't think I need to explain how this term came about, but I'll just say that many of my friends, family, and casual acquaintances have bonded deeply while discussing it.

Clutteropolis

You know you need to start shaping up in the housecleaning department when a 4-year-old who's as oblivious and messy as any other comes into the kitchen, where you've just loaded the dishwasher before clearing and wiping the counter (and everything!), and he suspiciously asks, "Why's it so clean in here??!"

Let me clarify that his threatened tone seemed to indicate this was somehow a well-established sign that we would be dropping him off at the orphanage later that afternoon.

You might be thinking, "But Dan, I thought you rode the OCD dragon, and thus would have a spotlessly clean house for us to be jealous of?" Well, I assure you that my current roommates douse themselves in dragon repellent daily, so I am easily outmatched versus the controlled amount of the Demon Power I allow to seep through the pressure valve. This is not a force to be easily unleashed and recaged, before you suggest that I let it out to play for a week or so and then go back onto a strict maintenance system.

When living alone or otherwise having complete control over a space, I just keep things in balance by reminding myself frequently that perfection is not possible-- my ideal living area would look pretty unremarkably normal to the untrained eye. I don't like to Clean with a capital C because things can get out of hand for me easily, so I prefer to just live neatly so I don't really ever have to clean.

Moving is not helpful for this, and neither is living with people who just aren't wired this way. Not only do we have stacks of junk and half-filled boxes distributed throughout our house, dating back to just over a year ago when we moved here, but we've actually moved backwards by adding to the collection.

When school ended in June, we were blessed with the arrival of everything that would normally fill a classroom serving 15 special-needs pre-teenagers and the two adults teaching them, plus all the many assorted things that had been disappearing from our house over the course of 9 months.

And the blindsiding left hook to go along with that uppercut is the puppy that followed the other stuff home-- crap from retiring teachers desperate to lighten their own loads* at the expense of anyone naive** enough to do it for them.

A minor sample of the kind of thing we're left with, in addition to the usual boxes of unnecessary toys, old magazines, and if-I-knew-what-was-in-them-I'd-be-obligated-to-put-it-all-away, is as follows:

• Boxes with 20 copies of the same questionably-useful books.
• An assortment of 30-year-old Tupperware bowls with no lids.
• Bags of old coffee mugs/potted plants (mold is a plant, right?).
• Milk crates filled with three-hole punches and other desk junk, inexplicably including four (yes, four) staplers of various shapes and sizes (always advisable with a toddler in the house).
• Half a box of "ladies" shaving cream samples, for the hairier children in school.
• A bunch of stupid signs and posters with cartoon characters trying to teach me things I already know.

All I can say is at least as far as this goes, I'm glad school has started again, because I've finally gotten most of this stuff out of the house now. However, the resulting empty boxes combined with our usual piles still blew the phone repairman's mind yesterday when I insisted to him that we had been living in this very same apartment with a working phone for over a year, give or take a couple of his company's screwups.

All I can say, upon reflection, is that somebody really needs to straighten things up around here. Whatever happened to my live-in maid service?


* Don't think for a second that I blame them for this, nor that J- won't be doing the same thing someday.

** Whenever the universe calls for naivete, you must know that we will be there. You can sleep soundly tonight and all nights hence, knowing that we will always answer this call and stumble foolishly into harm's way.