About Me

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Very Small Town. No really. Don't even try to look., Alberta, Canada
I am a stay at home mother of 2 boys. I try to keep total and complete command of this kingdom. I reign tall! But they are very are skilled little ninjas waiting to take me out at any available opportunity. You would think I would learn my lesson. I don't. Every day, I return. Everyday they kick ass.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

The dead eyes in the kitchen

This has nothing to do with my children and is ALL about my husband. Who I am going to kill. Because he sucks.

He went ice fishing last night. It was not unusual for him to do so but as the season has been slow he hasn't been catching anything. I was all snug in my bed with my laptop and Season 9 of FRIENDS when he came home.

He comes home and gets into bed. Talks about this and that. We snuggle and watch an episode of Two and a Half Men. He falls into a blissful sleep while I am still awake due to my brain not knowing WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP. It's a long haul but I finally doze off.

Cue Small Fry. *wah!* *wah wah wah WAHHH!!!*

The cry that wakes me from my slumber. I stumble into his room to find his bottle is empty and he is showing his displeasure by systematically throwing things out of the crib. I retrieve the bottle, duck a flying Eeyore, and head to the kitchen.

I go to the sink to rinse the bottle. I reach to turn on the water and I look down.


Swear to doG you have never seen someone move so fast. I scream bloody murder that would rival Jamie Lee in any horror movie and back away from the sink. In my hurry to get AWAY from the glowing dead eyes that are in my sink I step on a plastic Thomas and part of his track. I yelp in pain for now I have dead eyes staring at me and a small plastic piece of Thomas lodged in the bottom of my foot.

Hopping into the living room I sit down. I survey the situation. Glancing back into the kitchen I notice there are still eyes staring at me from the kitchen sink and I swear Thomas is smirking at me. Small Fry has begun plotting his escape and is rattling the crib bars.

Hobbling down the hall, (really fast past the kitchen because the dead eyes are freaking me out) I sorta toss the bottle into the crib with a quick "Night son!" and haul ass as fast as I humanly can to the bedroom. Panting slightly I get into bed when my darling husband (and I'm using the term darling really light here) rolls over and says...

"Oh before I forget there is a fish in the sink. Don't worry it's frozen."

Fucker. I should have put it in bed with him.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The Temperment of Small Fry

Small Fry has a temper.

He kind of turns into the Incredible (Little) Hulk I've noticed.

The scene: Home

Small Fry: Has a lethal death grip on the telephone.

Mom's objective: To retrieve the phone

I walk over and plunk the phone from his grasps.

*transformation begins*
What starts as an innocent looking baby suddenly looks like this:

I know. Scary right? His face goes red. Really red. The bottom lip sticks out. The hands clutch into tiny fists of furry.

After transformation and he is fully HULK he then begins the HULK SMASH! I get slightly cold and slightly scared watching my child meta morph into a 19 month that could probably kick my ass in a fight. I'm serious.

He then proceeds to the couch where it stands no chance. He beats it with his tiny fists of fury--willing it to BEND TO HIS EVERY WANT! AND HE WANTS THE GOD DAMN PHONE!

I sputter. I offer toys only to have them hurled towards my head with lightening speed. I offer to rock him only to have the teeth show and he starts to resemble one of these:

So now I have a Hulkaraptor. What the hell do I do now? The most obvious answer is to flee. But where? It's going to take me at least 20 minutes to McGuyver my way around the baby gate. He's rounding the corner of the kitchen. Beads of sweat are forming around my hairline. He's armed with a set of play keys, a string of Marde Gra beads, and a plastic cup. I need to think quick. I'm running out of time. He's coming at me teeth gleaming, his fists ready to Hulk Smash! And I am his next victim...

So how do I combate this? How do I turn him back into Small Fry? His kryptonite. His Dragon's Bane.

That's right. There ain't nothing that food can't fix for this child.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Revenge is a dish best served cold

Like about 12 years. I'm tired. SO.FUCKING.TIRED.

Not tired of anything. Just tired. My children do not sleep at night. Period. It's 9:15. Large Fry is squeaking to high heaven that Fuzz has insulted him thus keeping up Small Fry who is just shaking his crib in hopes of it collapsing and gaining freedom.

It's like this all night. When they finally, finally fall asleep I can stagger into my bed. It's a sight. My hair is frizzed out. The bags under my eyes could be considered extra baggage on airlines. I'd have to pay an extra $50 just to load with these bags. My bra? I have no idea where it is. Hell, I have no idea where anything is half the time.

Don't be fooled. Quiet doesn't mean sleeping. It's usually declared by me to be "resting". My children don't sleep. BWHA! Such notions you have. they rest. Only to wake up howling for some injustice that has befallen them. Such as

Small Fry: WAH! My bottle is empty! WAH! HOW DARE THIS OCCUR! WAH!

Large Fry: OMFG! Thje bathroom light is off! WHY? You promised it would STAY ON FOREVER!!

Small Fry: Hey! Hey Ma! I've thus taken a shit. It's..what? 2:24 A.M. That's good timing right? RIGHT? Come! Relief my bottom from this rank smell.

Large Fry: MOOMMY! My FUZZY! He's..He's..3 inches on the ground! HELP!!

Small Fry: Help! I'm being oppressed by this blanket! No, seriously! Help! It's trying to get me! WAH!

Large Fry: MOMMMY!!! I want a SHOW!!! It's only 4:30 A.M! PLEASE?! SHOW! NOW! What? No show? I'm gonna throw my water bottle then. *thud*

Finally..all does go quiet. It's somewhere in the 5 am-6 am range. And the alarm goes off at 7. Motherfucker.

So I have a plan. It's a beautiful plan. It involves me, teenagers, and their precious sleep.

The Plan
**12 years in the future**
Get Teenager and Pre-Teenager to stay awake. This is key to my plan. They must stay up late on a school night. Perhaps I will entice them with a video game or a movie.

Watch Teen and Pre-teen stumble to their room(s) for a night of slumber.

Retire to my room

Have a alarm clock handy and in timed intervals start screaming and banging pots and pans randomly. Run in and spray water in their faces. Run out. Set alarms to go off in their room(s) hidden to the untrained eye. Shine a spotlight in the room. And various other acts of no good ALL.NIGHT.LONG.

Wake children up at 7 am. Tell them it's time to get ready to go to school. Escort children to school. Come home. Sleep all day.


Revenge. It's best served cold.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Hell's Kitchen

You know the show? I'm there. That scary guy in the chef's hat barking orders at the shaking would-be-chefs-in-training? That's Large Fry. The one quaking in the corner--that's me.

I'll confess I haven't been on my A game for cooking lately. I've been rocked by horrid lazyitis that I can't shake and I haven't felt like cooking "Frou dela Frou" for them.

Tonight's menu: Chicken nuggets, white gravy (That I get smuggled in from Nana Fry), and veggies.

Large Fry: WHAT is that?
Me: Dinner
Large Fry: It doesn't look right.
Me: It's right. It's chicken nuggets. One of your favorites
Me: WHY NOT?! *insert panick and heart palapitations*

*commercial break* aka Large Fry takes this chance to dance to a Justin Beiber song

Large Fry: They just don't. They don't look like chicken nuggets.
Me: What do they look like?
(Now this might have been my mistake...this was a can of worms I should have left closed. but I'm not so swift at times)

Large Fry: Looks like Fry dog ate them mom. Then stepped on them. They are too nuggetty.
Me: HOW can they be too NUGGETTY? THEY ARE NUGGETS?!
Large Fry: They don't have any leaves...

Just fire me already...

Sunday, March 6, 2011

My letter to Laundry

Dear Laundry,

I think it's time we had a talk. Just me and you. I think we both knew this was coming, so let's just get to the point. I don't like you and you don't like me. Period. Every day I try to avoid you and every day you rear your ugly head into my houes (and brain) demanding I give you some sort of attention.

I will admit you have a purpose. But god damn, EVERY.SINGLE.DAY? Every day, there you are. Waiting, crying out "Wash me!" "Fold me!"

I can't take it anymore. Is one day of peace not acceptable to you? Ever? CAN YOU JUST BE CLEAN FOR ONE DAY?

We can't break up. You have me by the hypothetical balls. I have to deal with you, but I want you to know I don't like it. Not one fucking bit. I'm also concerned you might be waging some sort of attack plan. So here is my plan:

Today I'm ignoring you. Completely. You can sit in the basement and fester for all I care. I'm pretty sure you already multiply when I'm not looking. Discuss it among yourselves. I think the pants probably run this show. They know I'm completely fucked with no pants...

Anyways, back to my plan. You have today to take me over. I'm ignoring you. Tomorrow, though, I plan to go down there and kick your ass.