My Son is a F-U-a-Bomber

I picked up my 4-year-old from preschool last week, and his teacher and the school director met me at the door. And that can only mean one thing.

Uh oh. What did he do this time?  Stick Lincoln Logs up his nose? Painted stuff with paste? Tried to stink Lincoln Logs up his nose after he painted them with paste?

"Drew has been saying bad words today."

So I asked for details. One, because that's the good mother thing to do. Two, because that's as close as I'll get to a PG-13 movie in the near future. I don't even bother watching the Oscars, because if it's not an animated picture, I don't have a freaking clue what they're talking about.

Life of Pi? Yummy! I love pie! Do you have any key lime?
Argo? Don't you mean we go? Gah.
Beasts of the Southern Wild? Hey, are y'all talkin' 'bout opossums? Them critters is mean!
Lincoln? Ahhh!  Lincoln Logs!  Finally, one I understand.

She said that Drew was watching a little girl play computer games and shouted, "Sh*t! You lost!"

The teacher thought he said the word that rhymessssssss..hit, but discounted it with "There's no way Amanda's son would say that word" philosophy. Whew! Dodged a bullet there.

And that bought me some time until later when she took the kids to the playground to play tag. Drew shouted, "WHAT THE F**K?! Come back here!"

Awesome. And I didn't think it could get any worse.

This didn't actually happen, by the way (as far as you know).

Everybody knows that there's a scale for cuss words. If Ross said it on Friends, then it's lower-ranking, and certainly not okay, but probably won't get me a call from DFCS. But if it can only be said on HBO after midnight, and it's the mothertrucker of all cuss words, then I'm probably going to have to explain myself. (DFCS, call me.)

When Drew shouted that obscenity on the playground, all twenty pairs of 4-year-old ears heard it, along with several pairs of adult ears who decided that the delinquent kid's mother needed a good talkin' to.

Goodbye good girl rep! It was nice knowin' ya!

You know when a teacher talks to you about your toddler's potty mouth (No? Just me?), and suddenly, you feel the need to defend yourself, to prove that you're not throwing around four-letter words every other breath.

"Sh*t, why did he say that?"

I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Because, seriously, I do not say any bad words in front of my children, especially the impressionable little one who tends to stick paste-covered toys up his nose.  But it was hard to prove that after Drew used both cuss words correctly and in context. Ahem.

I was so embarrassed!

So just like our parents did with movies like Stand By Me and Goonies, I blamed the media for my son's less-than-stellar verbiage.

"Oh, you know what it is? It's those YouTube videos he watches. He loves to watch videos of teenagers playing Super Mario Bros, and occasionally, I'll hear them a bad word, so I'll tell Drew to find another video that is appropriate."

She was really nice not to point out that maybe I should look into better parental controls on YouTube and/or not allow my son to watch homemade videos of kids talking about Mario Bros while trying to look really cool.  Or, you know, 48-year-old gamers living in their mother's basement, whatever.  So then I felt the need to defend why I let him watch those videos, too.

I swear to you, there was more defensive strategy going on than in the NFL. But I kept fumbling the ball or some other really impressive football analogy that I would make if I knew a darn thing about football.

Hey, notice the use of the word "darn"?  See, it's totally not my fault.

Speaking of, on the way home, I forgot to turn into the grocery store, and I said, "Dang it!"  Drew said, "Mama! Dat's a bad word! I'm sworry, but you gonna hava go to time out."

When Drew talks to me in that sweet, little Toddlish language, I usually get lost in his cuteness. But I had to focus and seize the opportunity to talk to him about words that are okay/ not okay to say.

And what I learned was that Drew had a firm grip on almost every cuss word out there, not just the two that he brought to preschool that day for show-and-tell. It's like his superpower.

So there's no more homemade Mario Bros YouTube videos until he's at least 45.  And I'm putting his iPod Touch on the mantle, out of reach... right beside my Mother of the Year Award.





Join the Facebook fun!
Click here while supplies last.   

Drew caused a stink at Bailey's tryout

The middle school softball tryouts were last week. Sixth, seventh and eighth graders were invited to show up and show off their skills.

I never tried out for a competitive sport when I was a kid. And that was pretty obvious when I kept referring to Bailey's tryout as an audition.  Listen, if it doesn't require stage make-up or jazz hands, then I just don't get it.

Bailey has been playing softball since she was in Kindergarten. Translation: If I had a nickel for every hour that I've spent at the ballpark, I wouldn't have a "Louis Vuitton" that I bought in New York at the corner of Imposter and You're-a-Poser. It would be a real Louis Vuitton without the quotation marks.

Bailey asked me if she should try out for the middle school softball team. Well, of course she should try out! And that's exactly what I told her. Why? Because it's the good parent thing to do.

Nevermind that on the inside, I was rocking back-and-forth in the fetal position and crying, "Please let her make it, please let her make it, please let her make it..."

See, Bailey's never actually tried out for anything. We've just signed her up for various teams, clubs, and organizations. Big difference.

So I wanted to prepare her for the worst.

I reminded her she was the youngest girl trying out for the team, and if she made it, she would be playing with girls almost 3-years older.  But this tryout would be a great opportunity to meet the coaches and discover what skills needed improvement.  Then I followed it up with some overused cliche like, if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

How's that for a pep talk?

So if you need a motivational speaker for your next convention, expo, or business luncheon, just email me. I'm pretty available.

We pulled into the parking lot, and suddenly, the butterflies in my stomach turned into fire-breathing dragons. I was sweating like I ate an entire jar of jalapeno peppers on a dare. My heart was pounding like the cast of True Blood just invited me to join them in the hot tub.

I looked over at Bailey, but she was doing fine. (It's nice to see that somebody can keep her cool under pressure. Signed, Somebody's Mama.)

All the girls lined up for drills. And bless her heart! Bailey looked so little out there!

And that's exactly how I saw it, too, with all those imaginary height markers and everything.

I was so nervous. I thought I might puke on my shoes, which was bad because 1) Bailey would have been sooooo embarrassed and 2) I was wearing really cute shoes.

They started the tryout, and Bailey was doing great! I was so proud of her for trying her best.  Everything was going to be okay. Because make it or not, Bailey will be proud of her effort. Good job, baby!

That's when Drew said, "I gotta go potty, Mama."

No problem! See, here's the awesome thing about boys: they can pee anywhere. In fact, boys love to pee outside, so this was Drew's lucky day.

We walked over to the side of the field, to the most out-of-plain-view-but-still-grassy-spot I could find.  I said, "Okay, go ahead and pee."

Drew said, "But I have to poop, Mama."

Uhmm, come again?  You have to what? Wait, uh, here? Right beside the softball field during your sister's first ever tryout?

But what was I supposed to do?  He's only three, so when he's gotta go, he's gotta go.

So I held Drew in a squatting position and let him drop a nugget right there at Bailey's softball tryout.  Then I wiped his butt with his Cars underwear and threw them in the trashcan.

Bailey looked over at us. I saw her facial expression change from "Hey, what are Mom and Drew doing over there?" to "Huh?" to "No.Freakin.Way!" to "OMG, I'll never be able to show my face here again!"

It was a moment.

This is a dramatic reenactment. 

Sorry, but I couldn't bring myself to take an actual pic of Drew's poop because that's just gross, y'all.  I don't care how little he is, dude poop is still dude poop. And the last thing I wanted to do was bring more attention to this event by shouting, "Whoa!  WHAT DID YOU EAT? This one's goin' in the scrapbook!" I thought Bailey had already been through enough.

I did snap this photo, though. I call it, "Drew After Poo: Free Ballin' at Tryouts."

I didn't think anybody noticed until I saw this sign the next day. I'm not sure if I should take it personally, BUTT it seems to be directed at Drew, don't you think?

But guess what? Bailey made the team! Yay! Congratulations, Bailey!

When we were leaving, I looked in the backseat and saw Bailey bawling her little eyes out.

"Why are you crying, baby?"
"Because now I'm on a new team with older girls that I don't know.  I won't be playing with my friends anymore."
"I'm so sorry, honey.  I know it's hard.  But we'll make plans to do things with your friends."
"I'm going to miss them so much!  I only tried out because you said I wouldn't make it!"

Oh.

See, I'm a better motivational speaker than you thought.

(Call me.)

One click = One vote.  Please click the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog.  Thank you!  

  

Embarrassment + Chinese Torture = Relaxation

I had a day to myself WITHOUT CHILDREN.

Did the all caps text indicate my excitement?  No?  Well, how about this?  WITHOUT CHILDREN.  Maybe in red?  WITHOUT CHILDREN.  Listen, I'm willing to add as much HTML code as necessary to get the point across.

Some people might have used this opportunity to clean their house from top to bottom.  Some people might have worked on their household budget.  Some people might have gone to the gym for back-to-back Zumba, Body Pump, and Yoga classes.

And if you know any of those people, TELL THEM THEY'RE CRAZY.  This is a day off!  Let's live it up!


So I decided to do my own personal version of a workout, which included walking around the mall and swiping my debit card until the money ran out.  I think Jillian Michaels has a new DVD coming out on it soon.  

Ahhhh.  The mall.

Don't you just love the mall?

I get a happy high from walking in, seeing the busy shoppers, smelling the freshly brewed coffee, and even avoiding those uber-annoying kiosk people.  "Hello, ma'am. Can I ask you a question? Would you like to try this lotion? Does your makeup contain wax? Do you have a flat iron at home?"


Even though I've spent more time at the mall than John Stomas has spent styling his hair, there was one thing that I hadn't done: a Chinese acupuncture-inspired mall massage.  

Do you know why I've never gotten a massage at the mall before?  Well, it's right there in the question.  It's a MASSAGE at the MALL.

And, unfortunately, the massage area is never located in a discrete, vacant corner.  It's always located in the dead center of the mall where it's the most open and there's the most foot traffic.  Can you say awkward?

But I figured, why not?  I'll give it a shot.  I mean, I'm the same person who dance walked into Starbucks.  Embarrassment is something that happens to other people.   

So this is the scene.

See that empty chair?  That's where I was. 

The first few minutes were strange because I was painfully aware of all the people watching me get a mall massage.  And that's just weird, y'all.  I felt exactly how the gorillas feel when my kids laugh at them at the zoo.    


And the massage chairs, although designed to be comfortable, created a few problems for me.  


1) They were the "one-size fits all" kind of chairs, and I'm slightly shorter than most adults.  Okay, okay - fine.  I'm a midget in some states.  Whatever.  


2) The chair might be made for taller adults, but the face rest was made for 4-week old infants.  My face got swished deeper and deeper into that thing.  Pretty soon, me and my Cabbage Patch doll looked like identical twins.  


3) See how you have to lean forward in the chair?  This position is not conducive to wearing low rise jeans if you know what I mean.  I think it's safe to say that Victoria's Secret is out now. 

But after a couple of minutes, I completely forgot about my humiliation.  And I relaxed.

Soon, the sounds of whiny children became the sounds of crashing ocean waves at high tide.  And the warmth of the iridescent lights became the warmth of the Caribbean sun.  It was paradise.

But that was before the therapeutic part of the massage started. Ahem.

BAM.  An elbow into my side!  CHOP-CHOP-CHOP-CHOP.  A vicious attack on my spinal column!  I never knew relaxation could hurt that much.

And did you know that you have a funny bone in your bicep?  I didn't either until this guy pushed on it.  And now, I'm sorry to report that I still don't have any feeling in my fingertips.  And there's nothing funny about that.

Then I felt 180-pounds of Asian masseuse body slam me.  Both of his feet completely left the ground before his forearms crashed into my back.  It was a wrestling move that I saw Hulk Hogan pull on The Ultimate Warrior when I was a kid.  But this time, instead of WWF, it was more like WTF.

Listen, buddy - I'm sure this is healthy for me and all, but just for the record, I'm totally fine with my toxins staying right where they are, okay?  Thanks.

I was one lung thrust away from putting an old Chinese proverb into action: "Of all the thirty-six alternatives, running away is best."

I'm not sure what the first 35 alternatives include, but I bet it has something to do with going Kung Fu on a masseue's ass.


But toward the end of the 20-minutes, we had come back full circle.  It was relaxing and wonderful again.  And I could hear those crashing waves and feel the Caribbean sun. Ahhhh.  


Then he leaned down and said, "Time up.  Thank you much."


I stood up and was completely shocked at how de-stressed I felt.  All that body slamming actually was helpful.  Who knew?  I guess that's how The Ultimate Warrior stayed in the game so long.  

And just think! - I almost spent that $22 on some Bare Minerals foundation instead.  Pfft.  As if.

One click = One vote.  Please click the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog.  Thank you!  

  

Tying Up Loose Ends With Poop

Today I realized that I needed to bring you up to speed on a few things.

1) I still love coffee, doughnuts and shoes.  I know that information didn't require an update, but I always feel better when I say it.  

2) Thanks for signing the Werdyab Twins petition!  I needed to get 50 signatures in order to force persuade Jenny to be in this [potentially hilarious] video.  At last count, we had like 72 names or something.  Yay!  Let the humiliation commence.

Poor Jenny.  She took the news pretty well.  She asked me to call her when I was ready to make the video.  She gave me her number, so I guess she's really serious about it.

Source

2) I know this is supposed to be #3, but when you read what it's about, you'll agree that it should definitely be referred to as a #2.

I never told you the results of my endoscope!  Oops.  My bad.  Didn't mean to leave you hanging like that.


It was just like the "Who Shot JR?" cliffhanger on Dallas in 1980.  Except, you know, there wasn't any media hype and nobody offered me $100,000 per post to come back to the show.  


The endoscope revealed two independent problems. 


The first one was a hiatal hernia.  It's an extra special kind of hernia because part of your stomach goes up into your esophagus.  No wonder I felt so much pressure.  My esophagus was the birth canal, my stomach was the 10-pound baby who got stuck there, and I was the 42-week pregnant chick shouting, "WILL SOMEBODY DO A FREAKIN C-SECTION ALREADY?"  


The doctor made a point of telling me that hiatal hernias are common in older overweight people.  I think he said it 3 times.  And here I thought that I couldn't feel any worse today.  Thanks for going the extra mile, doc.

The doctor also gave me a list of foods to avoid: fatty foods, alcohol, chocolate, coffee, tea, sodas, peppermint, spices, citrus juices, tomatoes and tomato sauces.

Great.  That only excludes 99.6% of what I ingest on any given day.  I hope starvation is as fun as it sounds.

The second problem was a bacteria found in the base of my stomach called Helicobacter Pylori.  Tons of people have this bacteria and most of them don't have any symptoms.  However, if it goes untreated, it could cause ulcers or even stomach cancer.

But I was cancer free and ulcer free.  Phew! A strong dose of antibiotics and I'll be as good as new.

The doctor gave me some material to read about my stomach eating bacteria. Here's an excerpt from the first paragraph:  

"H. pylori is probably spread by consuming food or water contaminated with fecal matter."

Whoa. What?  I ate poop?  Not even I knew that my cooking was that bad.

So I tried to think of a time when I ate "fecal matter".  As if I was actually going to think of one.

"Uhmm, yes, hi.  I'll take a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, poop, mustard and ketchup with a side of fries, please. Thanks."
"Hey, let's try that new steakhouse on Baker Street.  I hear the filets are craptastic!" 
"No, it's fine.  We'll just grab a bite at the concert.  I can't wait for Poopapalooza!"


But none of that happened.  I couldn't think of one single time when I knowingly ingested poop.

Wait.  Does Taco Bell count?

Do you know what's the best part about having a big camera stuck down your throat?  (Other than the drunk-off between me and Charlie at Waffle House, of course.)  IT'S THE PICTURES.

Warning: These are actual photos of the inside of my esophagus and stomach.  After this post, a jury of my peers will probably force me to change my web address to www.TMI-y'all!.com.

The first photo was from the beginning of the test.

My endoscope started about 1:30 PM and I hadn't eaten any food since midnight, so I was STARVING.  And apparently, my stomach is as outspoken as I am.  In fact, my stomach is thinking about starting its own blog.

www.AmandaIsAnIdiotButSheHasAReallySmartStomach.com.  You might want to go ahead and bookmark it.

The second photo was of the hiatal hernia, also known as, GET MY STOMACH OUT OF MY ESOPHAGUS NOW!

And, listen -  I'm no doctor and I don't claim to understand modern medicine, BUTT I couldn't help but wonder how they knew it was a poop bacteria from just looking at it.  

But then I saw this photo and the answer became pretty obvious.

So now, when you tell me that I'm full of crap, I can't argue with you.

One click = One vote.  Please click the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog.  Thank you!  

  

I'm Radioactive

Have you noticed a little less Amanda pollution on the internet lately?  Sorry I've been out of touch, but I haven't been feeling good because of some stomach problems.

And I know what you're about to ask me: "What kind of stomach problems?"

TMI, y'all!  But since we're friends, I'll tell you.  First off, it has nothing to do with puking in public or pooping my pants. 

I know.  I'm disappointed, too.  That would have been an awesome blog post.

My symptoms have included a general state of crappiness, extreme fatigue, pain, nausea, and my stomach swelling up like I swallowed a watermelon whole.

It sucked the obnoxious right out of me.  I didn't even feel like dance walking or anything.

For example, I tried a new hairstylist a couple of weeks ago.  I typically use my salon time to practice my stand-up comedy bit or enjoy some girl talk.  But instead, I sounded like a 37-year-old trapped inside an 87-year-old's body.

All I did was complain about aches and pains and trips to the doctor's office.  I mentioned that I write a humor blog and the stylist said, "Really?  I'm surprised because you don't seem funny at all."  #I'mCoolerOnline

My stomach swelling was so bad that Bailey asked me if she was getting a baby brother or a baby sister.  Ahem.

At first, I was all like, 'Honey, no, I'm not... uh, wait.'

I've never been that good at math, but suddenly I became a master mathematician counting back weeks in my head faster than you can say HOLY CRAP.  But we're good.  Although I wouldn't blame karma if it punished me for this post.   

Sooooo, just in case anybody was unclear after that last paragraph: I'M NOT PREGNANT.  Phew!  Moving on.

Based on the symptoms and physical exam, my gastroenterologist thought that my gallbladder was the culprit, so he ordered a HIDA scan.

Have you ever had a HIDA scan?  You lay in a MRI-looking machine for about 3 hours.  During this time, they inject you with a radioactive agent that lights up your gallbladder like the 4th of July.  Then you're injected with the same hormone that you release after you eat to determine gallbladder functionality.

The machine does all the work.  It spits out some fancy-looking charts and graphs and gives an exact percentage of organ function.  

So the nurse talked on the phone THE.ENTIRE.TIME.  I don't know if you know Heather or not, but according to what my nurse told Rebecca on the phone, Heather sounds like a total B.  And if I was her husband, I'd probably leave her, too.

I don't think she even touched the machine once.  Uploading pics to Facebook looked like more work.

But she was the one who injected me with the radioactive agent, so she didn't get a free pass.  She walked in wearing a white, protective suit and oversized gloves.  Then she unscrewed a huge metal cylinder that contained a single syringe.

Hey, lady - if you're scared to touch it, I'm a little scared to have injected it into my body.  Especially with you wearing your Doc Brown Back to the Future suit.  What if we don't hit 88 miles per hour?  Will I be stuck in 1955 forever?

The nurse said that most people hate this test because you have to be still for so long.  To make it more bearable, you can watch television or take a nap.

Uhmm, seriously?  What are you people complaining about?  The last time that I laid around in the middle of the afternoon was sometime during the Clinton Administration.  Can I come back next week for another scan?  Pretty please?  

Besides watching CSI without one single kid asking me to wipe their butt, there was another awesome part about this test.  IT MADE ME RADIOACTIVE.

I really wanted to pee somewhere weird to see if I could make stuff grow.  Like one of those flesh eating plants from Little Shop of Horrors or maybe a nice petunia.

And, listen -  I've seen those Spiderman movies and I know what I was promised.  One spider bite, and I would have been Spiderwoman.  But it didn't happen.  Damn it.  Looks like I bought this costume for nothing.

The result?  My gallbladder is 100% perfect.  Yay and dang it!  Back to square one.

Tune in next time to hear all about my second day of torture, which included a long nap and somebody else cooking dinner.

And I don't mean to give anything away here, but it involves anesthesia and a Waffle House.  There, I've said too much. 

One click = One vote.  Please click the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog.  Thank you!  

  

Spray Tan 101: My Day as an Oompa Loompa

Have you ever gotten a spray tan before? No? Well, let's talk. You know, just the two of us.

When I walked into the tanning salon, the lady said, "Hi, Amanda. Just go on back and get undressed."

What? No dinner? No movie? Shouldn't we get to know each other a little bit first?

She told me to put barrier cream on my hands and feet to block the color. I guess I didn't use enough becasue my feet looked like I'd been stomping grapes into wine since I was twelve. My hands looked like I built the Egyptian Pyramids all by myself - or at least that's what I told people, and I'm pretty sure they bought it.

Having a total stranger look at every inch of my body while wearing nothing but a thong and a smile was pretty uncomfortable. I felt more violated than a mammogram, pap smear and full-body dermatology exam combined. Hold out your leg. Twist back your arm. I'm surprised that she didn't offer me a cigarette afterward.

That's when she interrupted my uncomfortable silence with small talk.

I'm sorry, honey, I would love to talk to you, really I would, but it's little too late for pleasantries now that you know where all the scars are that could accurately identify my dead body.

The more she talked, the more I felt like I developed a rare but recognized form of Terests where I wanted to shout,"NAKED!" "SORRY!" "CAN'T TALK!" And she could have talked about anything, really -  baseball, the weather, the Kardashians - but instead, she chose to discuss "how hard it is to spray fat rolls".

Uhmmm, can you say awkward?

Hey, lady, in case you haven't noticed, I'm standing here, like, right this very minute, in all my naked, fat roll glory. Thanks for crushing my fantasy that you are a professional who doesn't pay attention to what my body actually looks like.   

She sprayed me with a freezing liquid that shot out of what Brian used to pressure wash the patio last weekend. Sunbathing on an ice glazier in the middle of the Arctic would have been warmer. Listen, forget water boarding! Spray tanning would make me tell you every government secret that I ever knew and a few that I would totally make up. This CIA needs to know about this. (Call me.)

But all the uncomfortable, freezing, awkward moments were worth it when I left the salon feeling tan and beautiful. I hardly worried at all about my fat rolls.    

Hey, look at me! I'm tan. I wanted to wear a neon shirt so my eyes would pop, or stand in the middle of a group photo so I could balance it out, or accept MTV's offer to be on Jersey Shore even though I live in Atlanta.

But when I got in the car, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. I used to wonder what I'd look like as an Oopa Loompa, but I don't have to anymore.

This is a dramatic reenactment.  (I sang a completely different song when I look like this.)  

What I thought was a pile of sun-kissed sexiness was actually a blob of Willy Wonda factory worker. There's no golden ticket here, folks.

I stopped by the gas station on my way home, and somebody spoke to me in Spanish thinking that it was my native tongue. I'm not even kidding. Can you imagine their disappointment when my redneck voice said, "I AM SOOOOO SORRY, BUT I CAINT UNNERSTAAAAND YOU".

My three-year-old, Drew, was scared to sit by me at dinner that night. Instead, he just quickly cut his eyes toward the beast he used to called "Mommy". I told him not to worry because it would wash off. But when I got out of the shower the next morning, his little voice broke as he said, "It didn't wash off, Mama. Is your face ever gonna be normal again?"

(I think that's how you know you did it right.)

Oh, and hey, did you pick up on the "next morning shower" thing? You have to let that crap sit on your skin for hours - sometimes overnight - making it nearly impossible to sleep. It doesn't just stink, it STANKS. Think self-tanner times 10 with rat feces sprinkled on top.

Let's just say that my husband offered to sleep on the couch that night. "You need your rest, baby. Why don't you take the entire upstairs floor?" 

I also learned that spray tans don't fade away evenly. Check out this pic of my arm on Day 8. Nice, huh? I'm just waiting on someone to make it into the perfect pair of snakeskin boots.  

One click = One vote.  Please click the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog.  Thank you!  

  

A Latte of EmbarrASSment

After taking my daughter to school, my three-year-old son, Drew, mumbled something from the backseat: "Brownies."

Huh? What'd you say? I couldn't hear you.
Brownies.
Oh, brownies...  Well, not for breakfast, baby.
BROWNIES. NOW.
Is there a way to ask that nicely, like, 'Mama, may I please have some brownies?'
NO! BROWNIES! NOW!

And because I really care about nutrition and manners, I immediately pulled into the Kroger to buy this kid some brownies.

Okay, I care, honest to goodness, but not first thing in the morning when I'm going on very little sleep and less than very little coffee. Brownies for breakfast? Well, sure. You want to wash them down with a Mike's Hard Lemonade?  Okay, fine, whatever. Oh, and here's some matches for you to play with if you get bored.

(But I would never admit any of that on my blog.)

Do you know what's the best thing about the Kroger near my office? It has a Starbucks in it. I bet that's exactly how Joan Rivers feels about having a plastic surgeon's office down the street from the QVC studio. I could get my daily coffee fix and Drew's brownies at Starbucks. Two for one! Boom. 

Luckily, there was only one person in line when we walked in because Drew was having one of those mornings. He couldn't stand still, and he was equally dividing his time between crying for no reason and laughing hysterically.

I swear, some days he is sooooooo three-years-old.

By the time I ordered, there were four people in line behind me.  

And speaking of my behind (ahem), this was when Drew started slapping my butt like he was Charlie Sheen at a bachelor party. So I said, "Drew, stop!" and I nervously chuckled, looking back at the people in line behind us.        

And, yes, of course they were watching.  

Then I felt Drew's little hand on my badonkadonk again, but this time, he was rubbing it in a circular motion like he expected a genie to pop out. It was a "wax on, wax off" that would make Mr. Miyagi cry.   

What was going on with this kid today? Seriously, I've felt less violated by TSA.

Now, for this next part, I can't figure out exactly how it happened. Logistically, it doesn't make any sense, so you'll just have to take a leap of faith with me here: I quickly reached back to grab Drew's hand and somehow jerked his head into the counter. BAM! It looked just like a maneuver that Chuck Norris would do before he had his coffee.

Drew immediately started screaming. I scooped him up and kissed his little head. I wanted to say, "I'm so sorry, baby. You can inappropriately rub my butt in public ANY TIME YOU WANT. How 'bout a pony? You want a pony?" But instead, I just silently wished that he would quit screaming like any other child abuser would. 

Drew shouted through the tears, "I'm sorry, Mama. I won't touch your butt anymore! Please don't hurt my head again!"

OH MY GOSH. Can this get any worse? And there for a moment, nobody assumed I did that on purpose.   

I could feel their judgmental eyes peering through me like laser beams. I almost said, "Yes, I agree that Social Services needs to get involved. Look (taking iPhone out of purse), I'll even make the call for you." But instead, I just silently wished that they would quit staring like any other child abuser would. 

A Starbucks employee came out from behind the counter with two lollipops in her hand. She said to Drew, "I'm sorry that you got hurt, honey. (Evil eye toward me) Which one do you want? Red or blue?"

Two points for the little people!  Nothin' but net!

She didn't ask me if I was cool with my kid having a lollipop at 7:30 in the morning. Of course, I was the same mother who was there buying brownies for breakfast while body slamming him into the counter, so.... the bar was set pretty low.  

I've never wanted to run away so bad in my life. The only reason that I didn't was because I thought I'd look more guilty if I did. I'm pretty sure that one of them spit in my drink. Can't say I blame them, though. Besides, I've been trying to cut down on the cream anyway.

Thanks a latte, Drew.

Linking up with: Yeah Write.  Why?  Because it's awesome. 

This week goes to Werdyab’s fateful visit to Starbucks. In A Latte of Embarrassment, Amanda’s son demands brownies for breakfast. While in line to order, he fondles her enough to make a TIME magazine cover mom blush, loudly begs her stop hurting him after an accidental head slam and takes candy from a stranger. All this and silent judgement from those in line behind her, too? Makes for a perfect morning and a hilarious post. Amanda’s delivery is a zippy, fun read that proves that even when you give little kids exactly what they want, they can’t resist dabbling in public humiliation.

        Congrats, Amanda, on the win.

I had a couples massage WITHOUT my husband

Spoiler Alert:  It was my daughter.  I was going to drag it out, but I just can't do it to you.  So if you're too disappointed in the lack of scandal to read the rest of this post, then I totally understand.  But Spoiler Alert #2? Strangers saw me naked.  Will that keep you reading?

(I knew it would.)

Bailey is leaving today for her annual ski trip with her Dad, so yesterday we enjoyed our annual "Special Day".

Bailey's "Special Day" is a day devoted to us doing whatever she wants to do.  It's morphed quite a bit through the years as she's gotten older.  At first, it was Chick-Fil-A.  (My, those were the good ole days!)  Then it was Build-A-Bear, then Chuck E. Cheese, then American Girl Bistro, then roller skating, and then bowling.  But this year, she asked for a spa day.

Can you hear the angels singing or it that just in my head?


*Sniff, sniff*  I'm sorry.  I, I don't mean to get emotional on you... It's just... *sniff* It's just that I've waited for this day for so long.  *Wiping tear*  And I thought it would never come. *sniff*

Needless to say, I jumped on that idea faster than the Real Housewives jump on a Botox party.

Bailey gives a thumbs-up for spa days!  And if you could see me, I had 47 thumbs up.
Yes, I know that I only have 2 thumbs.  IT WAS METAPHORIC. 

I decided to book it like a couples massage so that we would be in the same room.  I thought it was best after Bailey almost cried when I told her about undressing to her "comfort level".  I quickly learned that her "comfort level" is a turtleneck, pants, boots and maybe a hat and gloves.  GOOD GIRL.  Keep it that way until you're at least thirty-seven.

When we arrived, they took us to our room for our romantic afternoon.  They had flowers and chocolate covered strawberries waiting on us.  Apparently somebody missed the whole "mother-daughter thing" I said when I booked the couples spa day.  We must have looked like a pretty ill-suited couple.  They looked at me the same way that I looked at Anna Nicole Smith's husband who was, like, 242 years older than her.  Pfft. PERV. 

Bay kept talking about skiing the Black Diamond slopes again this year.  Hey, kid.  It's kind of hard to relax over here while you're talking about stuff that could GET YOU KILLED.  I'm probably the only person to have a panic attack during a massage. 

The massage was great, but I could have used some more relaxing music.  If LMFAO ever made a spa record, this would be it.  Could I get something with a little less.... oh, I don't know... club mix?

After the massage, the therapist said something as she walked out the door.  Unfortunately, all I heard was "blah, blah, wah, wah, waaahhh."   The good news is that I've figured out where Charlie Brown's teacher goes between the Christmas and Thanksgiving specials each year.  That, or my brain was too relaxed to comprehend actual words.

I got up to get dressed, but I decided to snap a picture of Bailey under her spa covers first.  BECAUSE THIS BLOG IS IMPORTANT.

This is as good as it gets, folks.  Apparently the Ghost of Embarrassing Present decided to jump in this pic.

About that time, our two masseuses walked in with our hot towels.  OOOOHHHH.  SO THAT'S WHAT THEY WERE SAYING.  They were coming right back with hot towels... Gotcha. 

Too bad for them, my "comfort level" was a small teal thong and an awkward smile.  Ahem.

It will take years of expensive therapy to erase their looks of horror from my memory.  Then I'll be able hide this embarrassment in the same place that I've carefully hidden the middle school dance and my first hunch punch party.  It will be just like it never happened. 

One click = One vote.  Please click on the banner below to register one vote for Werdyab Blog. Thank you! 

The Turd Cycle

I washed a load of laundry with poop today.  Yeah, there's probably a way to sugarcoat that statement, but I couldn't think of one.  

As I pulled some clothes from the dryer, I caught a distinct whiff of poo.


DREW.  Where are you?  Do you need to go potty?

But it wasn't Drew.


BRIAN!


Okay, I'm only kidding.  Sort of.

But really, where was this stench coming from?

When you're the mother of a potty-training toddler, you can sniff out a turd faster than Tom Cruise can put out those Mission Impossible movies (What are we up to now?  Mission Impossible CDXXXVII?)

My nose can quickly transform into that of a bloodhound.  I'm just like that Jacob kid off Twilight, but my abs don't look as good. (For those of you who just said, "What abs?", you can come to my house and find the poop next time.)

I determined that the smell was coming from the dryer full of CLEAN CLOTHES.  Huh?  Well, that makes no sense.  So I continued to pull the clothes out of the dryer and then I saw it.  A tiny, Tide-washed, Snuggle-dried, petrified piece of poo.  Ewwww!

See that little, string-wrapped, brown thing on Bailey's plaid shirt?  That's poop.  HEY.  I paid fifty bucks for that Abercrombie shirt!   You mean that little moose couldn't help me sniff out that nugget?  It's like I only buy these clothes for the name brand or something.

Oh, and how awesome would it be to have scratch-n-sniff photos on blogs?!  I really want you to understand how bad it was.

Am I saying that the detergent and fabric softener couldn't drown out the smell of a few quarter-sized poop pellets?  Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.  This is a great science experiment, kids.  I'm calling first place for Bailey at next year's school fair.

Barring Drew climbing into the washer and dropping trous, I think the poop must have come from some "accident" underwear that his preschool sent home in a grocery bag.  No, I didn't check to see if they fished out all the poop first.  I worked off good faith.  

Because when I looked through the clothes, I found a pair of Thomas the Train underwear that reeked!  If you've ever wondered what hot sh*! actually smells like, I can tell you.

I really don't know why I sniffed through the entire load of laundry until I found the source of the poop.  It's like when somebody says, "AWWW.  THIS SMELLS AWFUL" and then they hand it to you and you smell it.  Why do we do that?

So I'm not saying that Drew's preschool intentionally sabotaged my laundry.  I'm just saying that a few issues lately could have caused them to sneak poop into Drew's backpack.  Ahem.

Bailey walked into the laundry room tonight,

WHAT is that smell, Mama?
I accidentally washed poop with these clothes.
Well, why did you do that?
I didn't mean to.  I think Drew's preschool sent home underwear with poop still in them.
Ohhh.  Payback, huh?
Yeah, I suppose so.
So.... do I have to wear these stinky clothes or are you going to rewash them?
No, honey.  I'm going to rewash them.
Cool.  Goodnight, Mom.
Goodnight, Bailey.
Goodnight, POOP! 

It's true what they say" What goes around comes around.  And sometimes, it comes back around as poop.

 One click = One vote.  That's all you have to do.  Just click the banner below.  

  

I'm Plop For Teacher

When I picked up Drew from preschool yesterday, his teacher said, "Drew had a really rough day."

Awww!  A rough day?  Did he get hurt?  Did he not like his lunch?  Did he finally work up the nerve to talk to Emily only to discover that she is holding out for Mr. Thumb-Sucker over there?

Nope.  It was worse than that.

During circle time, she heard Drew crying from the bathroom.  He was screaming, "I pee-peed in my face!  I pee-peed in my face!"

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, he peed in his own face.

With little girls, all you have to do is make sure that they make it to the potty.  But for little boys, there is a placement issue.  I'm still working through the learning curve.

And like what happens with an unattended water hose in your flower bed on a beautiful Spring day, Drew shot pee everywhere!  He sprayed the floor, the sink and the wall.  It's, like, really gross graffiti for toddlers.   Drew must be working on his street cred.

Throughout the day, she kept asking Drew if he needed to go to the potty and he said that he didn't.

He lied.

And wouldn't you after all that water boarding from earlier?  His Mama didn't raise no fool!  I should know.

So while Drew was in the computer lab, she noticed him creating his own personal Lake Eerie on the tile floor.  Then his friend Luke slipped and fell in it.  Awesome.

Toward the end of the day, Drew walked up to his teacher and handed her a pile of poop.  Yes, his very own Play-Doo sculpture.

Startled, she yelled, "DREW, WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS?!"
And he said,  "Near my butt.  In my Thomas underwear."

I did feel sorry for her, really I did.  And even though my head was thinking, I'm so sorry!  Can I buy you a spa gift certificate?, what came out of my mouth was  "hahahahahaha! *inhale* hahahahaha!"

She didn't seem to think it was as funny as I did, though.  I guess poop will do that to a person.

One click = One vote.  That's all you have to do.  Just click the banner below.  

  

Preschool Peep Show

Alright.  C'mon and fess up!  Which one of you bessies read that last blog post to Drew?  It's okay.  You can tell me.  I won't sneak into your house and replace your shampoo with glue probably.

Because the fact is that Drew can't read this blog on his own.  I highly doubt that he could even make it to the web address.

Before our children can read or spell, we feel a certain amount of security.  And rightly so.  Because they don't have a freakin' clue what we are talking about!  It's the same thing that happens to you every time you walk into a nail salon.

Parents can feel comfortable saying in front of their young children,

I was thinking that S-A-N-T-A could get that B-I-K-E.

We are going to the D-O-C-T-O-R later for S-H-O-T-S.

John, quit acting like an A-S-S in front of the kids. 

I apply this same doctrine to the continuous exploits of my preschooler on the world wide web in my blog.  I'm safe. He can't read. He will never know. You like pedicure today? It make you look nice.

After work, I went to Drew's preschool at prime-time-pickup-time, as was evident by several other parents also arriving to collect their toddlers.

Drew was on a mission.  It was premeditated.  He didn't waste any time with the usual small talk.  No "My Mommy's here!" or "I pooped in the potty today!", but instead, he went straight for the jugular.

He ran over to me and lifted up my dress - exposing all my glory to God and everybody. Awesome.  I tried to move so that he would let go, but he has fingers of steel, I tell ya.

Okay.  I'm not saying that the two teachers, preschool director, four parents and seventeen three-year-olds were humiliated by the unveiling of my lilly white, cottage cheese dimpled, black thong wearin' butt....  I'm just saying that I was.

Below is a photo of me, post-preschool-peep-show.  I'm overshooting it, I know.  But I was trying to act like it didn't bother me that Caitlin's mother was sitting at the dinner table and hysterically laughing about what happened to Drew's Mom today.

Don't let that Mary Poppins pose fool you.  I was mortified. 

See how quickly and easily a bare fanny could be exposed in an outfit like this if the blog subject was vengeful enough?

DANG.  I'd hate to see what Faith Hill  would do if she got a hold of me.  Instead of This Kiss, it would be more like KISS THIS!

If you are not a blogger, then be grateful.  Because when you make the conscious choice to expose your friends and family on the internet, bad stuff is bound to happen to you.

Even if your Aunt Sally doesn't egg your house after reading about her Christmas day flatulence, you cannot assume that you are safe.  Because the universe will find a way to punish you.  It's called karma, people.  And it HATES bloggers.

So on Monday morning, I won't walk into preschool with my head held quite as high as before the peep show incident.  But I will be wearing pants.  And a belt.  

Birthday Poop

We took Drew to Provino's to celebrate his birthday.  And it wasn't just because he got a free meal and dessert, it was because.... okay, it was because it was free.  So sue me.  But who doesn't love some Italian for dinner?

It's difficult for a three year old to grasp the gravity of a birthday.  I think that Drew has been a little confused by all the attention today.  Like, I'm not totally sure why Mama sent two dozen cupcakes to preschool this morning, but hey - I'm not complaining!

After we were stuffed with carbs, the waiters and waitresses sang the infamous off-key birthday song to Drew.  It makes adults cringe but makes kids giddy like Christmas morning.  He loved it!

The surrounding tables joined in the sing-a-long fun and wished Drew a "Happy Birthday!"  They also said how cute he is because he's totally cute.  Duh.

Drew was overwhelmed by holding the attention of the entire restaurant - the song, the applause, the "oh, he's so cute! - and he panicked.

With all eyes on him, Drew smiled a nervous smile, and then he shouted,

"POOOOOOP!"

Proud Mama moment right there, folks.

I should probably talk to Drew about how to appropriately fill uncomfortable silences.  Tomorrow.  Because today is his birthday and he can say poop all he wants.  Happy Birthday, Drew!

We asked for a piece of cake as big as his head.
 I guess they took us seriously.  

Bless Her Heart.

Have you ever looked through your photos after an event and noticed something something that you didn't see at the time?

As I was taking a photo of Bailey and Connor waiting in line for the tractor, I accidentally captured this lady's Fruit of the Looms.   Clearly she just had a baby (unless she's really good with props), so this is totally forgiven, BUTT I still have to say, "Awww!  Bless her heart."

Code 12

Since that last post about potty training was becoming longer than Dances With Wolves, I decided to make this story into its own post.  There is only so much poop that one reader can handle.

So if you don't want to waste your time reading the previous entry, please allow me to bring you up to speed: Drew has potty-trained. Hallelujah! 

But this is a conditional potty training.  Drew will not use a public restroom.

But unfortunately, when you're less than 3-years-old, you only have a 30-second window between saying, "I need to go potty" and actually going potty.  Public restrooms are a necessary evil. 

But no matter how much I mummify that toilet seat with tissue paper, Drew gets stage fright every single time.  

Last night, we were at the ballpark for Bailey's softball game.  And since a toddler has the attention span of a gnat, Brian and I took turns watching Bailey pitch or watching Drew play in the dirt.  

In-between strike two and three, I heard Brian shout from behind the bleachers: "Amanda, we have a Code 12!"

Code 12?  What in the world is he talking about?  

So I gave him that look that only wives can give their husbands that silently says, "What in the world are you talking about?"

Brian said, "You know.... we have a ONE and a TWO."   And then I noticed that Drew was walking like he had ridden a horse from here to California.  

Ohhhhhhhh.  Right.  "The truth? You can't handle the truth!"  

Oops. That's a Code Red. Sorry, I get those two confused every time.   

Even though the Code 12 happened on Brian's watch, he felt that I was the best person for the job.  So I took Drew into the ladies restroom with my Coach Kit in tow. 

What's a Coach Kit?  It's simply a Coach purse filled with paper towels, wet wipes, hand sanitizer, underwear, pull-ups, socks and a change of clothes.  Oh, and some lipgloss. 

BUTT between you and me, that Superman is no superhero in my book.  If he had any special powers at all, he could have prevented the Code 12 from taking up residence over one-third of my son's body.  Drew's poo is apparently more powerful than kryptonite. 

As I was thinking to myself that I need to add a pressure washer to the Coach Kit, a little girl and her mother entered the restroom.  And I heard this sweet, little, six-year-old voice say, "Gross, Mama!  It stinks in here!"

I'm sorry, sweetie.  See, this is dude poop and something that you should not be exposed to until after you're married.  But unfortunately, this was too big a job for the men's restroom.  In a perfect world, it would have stayed on their side of the swinging doors, but we don't live in a perfect world honey, and it's best if you learn that now. 

We left the restroom with Drew wearing mismatched clothes, making his Lutropublicaphobia known to everyone around him.  (That's the fear of public restrooms, by the way.  I looked it up.)  But now, he was happy and clean as a whistle!

Just in time to start playing in the dirt again.

One click = One vote.  That's all you have to do.  Just click the banner below.  

  

Potty Training Goddess

Drew has officially potty-trained.  That's right, people, we are flying high on Lightning McQueen underoos and a prayer.

I don't know if it's their gender difference or individual personalities, BUTT potty training each of my children was a unique experience.  

With Bailey, I circled a date on the calendar and wrote "Big Girl" with a red sharpie.  Yes, a paper calendar with pictures of puppies. I'm so old school that I still think Pluto is a planet.

For the two weeks leading up to Big Girl Day, I would say, "Oh, I can't wait until Big Girl Day when you use the potty!  No more diapers.  It's so exciting!"

I made going to the potty sound cooler than going to Disney Land.

On Big Girl Day, she did, indeed, use the potty.  And from that moment on, she had exactly zero accidents.

I am a potty training goddess! Parents who complain about potty training are just not as smart as I am.  I can solve all the world's problems one poopless pair of Dora panties at a time.

So when Drew was of potty training age, I was not concerned.  Why?  Because I'm a parenting genius, that's why.

But Drew didn't give a rip about Big Boy Day.  So I tried to buy his poop, but apparently a two-and-a-half year old does not value money, either.  To him, it's just paper that somebody else has already colored on.

I begged, pleaded, bribed, bartered, and even threatened (when nobody was looking, of course) to no avail.

I've heard that boys like to make a game out of peeing on Cheerios.  But not my son.  Or that boys think it's fun to tinkle in the yard.  But Drew said, "I don't want to tee-tee on your flowers, Mama.  They're beautiful."  Now would you mind if that sweet boy was still wearing diapers?

If it was up to me, Drew could go off to college still pooping his pants, but preschool frowned upon this idea.

They were nice enough to let Drew join the Early Preschool room based on a potty training promise.  By me.  The parenting genius.  And when I couldn't deliver the goods, they wanted to demote him to the thumb-sucking baby room.

So even though my self-proclaimed brilliance was on the line, eventually, I just gave up... and then he used the potty!

This is clearly because I knew exactly when to stop pushing him.  Yessss! I am still a potty training goddess!

Drew, enjoy the Early Preschool room.  Pull up a nap mat and stay a while.

Cavity Searches and Pimples

I had a very traumatic experience at the dermatologist's office yesterday.  And I thought, 'What could make me feel less embarrassed than sharing this story on the world wide web?'  I can't think of a thing.

When I walked in, I saw two of my friends sitting in the waiting room.  One sign that you are getting older is that you see your buddies at the dermatologist's office.  Soon, we will move on to even better hangouts like Bingo Night at the Elk Lodge.
 
I was a little concerned about a couple of moles, so I had made an appointment for a full body exam.  Since I am not getting any younger and camels have had less UV exposure, I felt that it was time for some long-overdue preventive care.

As it turns out, "full body exam" is not a misnomer.  I laid on the examination table, completely undressed, strategically positioning a three-foot-by-three-foot square of tissue paper, and trying to hold onto what was left of my dignity.

The dermatologist shined a light as bright as the sun across my body and then examined every mole and freckle from here to there.  No, really.  Practically a full cavity search.  I have felt less violated by TSA.

Then, similar to an OB-GYN, he wanted to make small talk during the exam.  Can we please wait until after I am dressed to discuss the Braves?  I know, for him, I'm just another patient.  But for me, I'm too busy pretending that I am not mortified to carry on a casual conversation right now.

Somewhere between discussing the leaves changing and Olive Garden, he said, "We should really talk about how we are going to treat your acne."

Acne?  But I am 36 years old.  We don't get acne.  We get love handles and gray hairs, but we do not get acne.  Acne is strictly reserved for teenagers and pregnant women.

I never experienced acne when I was supposed to, but now that I should be enjoying beautiful, clear skin before wrinkles join the party, I am hit with the acne bomb.  It's very similar to the acme bomb from Looney Tunes but a lot more destructive.

He said, "It is likely because of hormones.  Do you feel hormonal?"

So I said, "WHAT? Am I hormonal?  WHY WOULD YOU ASK A QUESTION LIKE THAT?  I mean, did I complain when I had to wait 22 minutes in the waiting room today?  No.  And did I give you anything less than all 5's on my patient survey?  I don't think so.  And for the record, Olive Garden SUCKS!  How DARE you accuse of me of being hormonal!"  And then I just burst into tears.

Okay, I'm kidding.  I didn't say any of that.  But when somebody asks you if you feel hormonal, don't they sort of deserve that kind of response?

I left the doctor's office yesterday feeling violated and embarrassed about my acne.  From now on, I will refer to the dermatologist's office as "Prom Night".