When I'm in a Band: Funniest F*cking Thing I Heard All Day

I was driving the big kids to church when I had the following conversation:

Thumbelina (age 7): “Mom, when I’m older and in a band do you know what I’m going to call it?”

Mom: “No sweetie, what?”

Thumbelina: (pauses for dramatic effect – then makes a sweeping hand gesture) "FIREBLADE.”

Mom: “That may be the most awesome thing I have ever heard.”

Thumbelina: ‘Yeah. I know. I love that name."  (whispers in awestruck voice) "FIREBLADE.”

Hawk (age 5): “When I’m in band when I’m older, do you know what I’m going to call it?”

Mom: “What?”

Hawk: “Go Yoda.”

Thumbelina: “I actually really like that.”

Mom: “I love it.”

Hawk: “It has a dot at the end. Like at the end of a sentence. Go Yoda.”

Mom: “That makes me like it more.”

Hawk: “And the band is only going to play songs about Yoda. I’m going to make up most of the songs but then we’re also going to sing other songs that aren’t supposed to be about Yoda but totally should be. And then people will hear them and be like WHOA – that song is totally about Yoda and I didn’t even know it.”

Mom: “Fantastic. Like what songs are you thinking of?”

Hawk: “We are the Champions” and other awesome songs like that.

Mom: (pauses to let this idea sink in) “I think you’re both going to be rock stars.”

Hawk and Thumbelina look at each other and shrug.

Hawk: “Duh.”


(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

I Partied with Chuck E.

A couple of weeks ago, my kids handed me an invitation they had received to a birthday party. At Chuck E. Cheese. They were ecstatic and buzzing with joy. The mom who sent the invitation is a friend of mine. I asked her straight up what the hell she was thinking about. Cat explained to me that it was all her husband’s doing.  She just shook her head. “He has no idea what he’s done.”

She looked slightly wary, as if I might start screaming or swinging at her because there was no way out of it now. I couldn’t say no. My kids would kill me in my sleep. So it meant that I had to go, too. And this was after five years of telling them that mommies weren’t allowed at Chuck E Cheese – only grandmas and babysitters. But it was all about to go down…Two hours on a Saturday afternoon at Satan’s Playground.

We arrived straight from a T-ball game. My husband and I were running a zone defense. He took the baby and went home with a smile. I took the two big kids and headed into battle. The line to get in extended out of the waiting area, out of the building and down the side walk.

The family in front of us consisted of a harried-looking father with two small, school-aged children literally bouncing with excitement and a large toddler, sucking on a binky that was adhered to his face by two thick, lime green snail trails so viscous that the sight of it actually caused to me to throw up in my mouth. The family behind us was also pretty interesting. Did you know that seven year olds can have neck tattoos? Well, they can. Unless that was a very short adult in a Bratz t-shirt.

Slowly, we made it to the front of the line. I think it may have taken less time to get into Studio 54 in the late 70’s. The guy working the velvet rope looked a prison guard at Gitmo who’s just worked a 36 hour shift. He seemed about 2 seconds away from either quitting his job in spectacular fashion or bursting into tears. He grunted at us, stamped our hands and vaguely pointed to the back of the room. We were in and it was on like Donkey Kong.

At this point, my children were getting restless. I could tell they wanted to take off and disappear into the seething, writhing, squealing, snotty mass of pediatric humanity that is the Mouse’s Hole. I literally dragged them through them the crowds until I got to the “party area” and found our friends. The kids were all there, glassy-eyed and twitchy. The grown-ups all looked like they wanted to hide under the table or self-medicate. The little cups of “money” were handed off and before the kids sprinted away, I went over the ground rules with them one more time.

“Remember – don’t talk to any adults that you don’t know. Check in with me every five minutes. Stay away from mean kids.  Tell me before you go up in the hamster tubes. Tell me as soon as you get out of the hamster tubes. Don’t go to the bathroom alone. And don’t touch your face! Here’s some Purell and for God’s sake be careful.”

And then they were gone…

It took about ten seconds for the panic to set in. You see, I have a disorder that makes me think that every adult that I don’t know is a serial sex offender. And there were hundreds of them and I couldn’t see my children. And it was super noisy. And sort of dark. And everywhere I looked there were kids crying and screaming like Mariah Carey sings and fighting like Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. And the parents all looked as whacked out as I felt. And that’s saying something because it was a very diverse group to all be wearing identical expressions of horror.

I eventually tracked my son to the entrance of the slime drenched-hamster tubes. I found his dirty cleats kicked off with the laces still tied but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I looked around for my daughter, suddenly aware that I was drenched in a flop sweat and certain that I was five minutes too late to stop her abduction. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder and I screamed long and loud as if I’d been bitten by a large, venomous snake. No one noticed. My daughter furtively shoved fistfuls of tickets at me and told me “to guard them with my life” and then darted back out into the crowd.

After that, it was all kind of a blur. I started stress eating the most disgusting pizza in the history of ever. I drank iced tea that tasted like a cross between Chloraseptic and feet.  I debated playing a game of Skeeball but my children apparently could not spare a token.  I finally found my son having his cleats tied by a random dude who was looking around suspiciously. I started to freak out: “What! Did! I! Tell! You! About! Talking! To! Strangers?!” My kid shrugged and darted off. The dad was all: “I’m so sorry. I debated tying his shoes because I thought, his mother is going to think I’m a pedophile, but he asked for help and I didn’t want him to trip and I’m here with my daughter at a birthday party and I swear to God I’m about to lose my mind is it four o’clock yet?” I nodded. We understood each other perfectly. Then we both took off running after our children in opposite directions.

It was suddenly time for cake. I took my kids to that bathroom to wash up. We got as far as the doorway before the stench hit us, followed by my neighbor’s daughter saying: “What. Could. Have. Possibly. Happened. Here?”

We opted for Purell at the table.

When we got back to party area, it was time for the Mouse himself to make his appearance. A row of about six teenagers in red Chuck E Cheese shirts stood up and started doing a group dance. It scared me. The joyless dance of the automaton, the teenagers clapped and stepped in unison with all of the enthusiasm I feel for changing the cat box. Then the Mouse appeared. He seemed to be wearing a Lakers uniform. He went around giving people high fives but I could sense a deep evil coming from his abnormally large head. Who was in that suit? I started to feel like maybe I should attack him and rip his mouse head off so we could see if it was a sex offender under there but then I realized that was crazy.

Then they put the birthday kids, one at a time, into a random plexi-glass contraption called the Ticket Blaster and all hell broke loose. All the children lost their damn minds. If you put me into a phone booth and blew $100 bills around and told me I could keep all the ones I could catch, I would be less excited and happy than the kids who just got to watch someone else grab for tickets.

What is about those tickets? It’s like beads at Mardi Gras. They seem really important until the next morning when all of a sudden you’re like “Whuck? These are tacky plastic beads made in China and I saw some girl commit a misdemeanor to get some.” These kids will do anything to get more tickets. Then they wait for what seems like hours to feed them into the Chomp Chomp Chomp machine and trade them in for… Mardi Gras beads. And stale candy.

And they walk out of the party feeling awesome and happy and jacked up on cake. And I walk out needing a Silkwood-style shower, a nap and a double of Johnny Walker Black. Oh Chuck E… You miserable rat bastard… The kids had the best time ever. Curse you.

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

SGW: Top Ten Things Never to Say to A Pregnant Woman

Today's Special Guest Writer is a very dear friend of ours.  "Friendship" may not be the most accurate word to describe our relationship.  "Mutual stalking" may be more accurate.  We adore her and think she is the most hilarious, brilliant, talented person we have never met.  In addition to being an amazing blogger, she is a graphic designer/art director who did the new MommyLand logo. 

If you want to get a sense of who this woman is her overwhelming awesomeness, then click here.  It's the "About Me" section of her blog and I have never read anything even remotely as funny.  She started her blog to dispel the scary myths and misinformation having to do with pregnancy.  And she always bring the funny.  She actually published this a while ago but we really, really wanted to share it with you. 

10."You look so big/small." Remember when you were a teenager and you didn't want to be unique in any way? Well pregnancy is the same and nobody wants to be told they look huge or teeny because it just scares them. Anything different from other pregnant women = weird = giant freak baby or creepy peanut baby.


9."Haven't you had that baby yet?" If that woman's pregnancy seems long to you I can almost guarantee that it feels like about 30 years to her. Pregnant woman who are asked this question should be legally exempt from murder convictions.

8."You look tired, you must be having a girl because they steal your beauty." Someone actually said this to my friend. So really what you're saying is "you look like shmidt". Thanks. I think the response to this should be "And you must be upside down because all I see is a jackhole talking". (I just made that up.)

7."So do your nipples look weird? Mine went all crazy." Pardon? Unless this pregnant woman is someone that would tell you about her anal leakage or an odd growth on her armpit, then don't ask this kind of stuff and don't share this kind of crap with anybody. Ever.

6."Sleep now because you won't get any when the baby gets here." What the hell does this mean anyway? It's not like you can bank sleep. It's like saying "Don't eat this year because an all-you-can-eat-buffet is opening up next March." Plus, who says that the woman you're saying this to is sleeping now? She may be a congested ball of heartburn, hemorrhoids and back pain so this kind of thing just adds insult to injury.

5."Were you hoping for a girl/boy?" It's not really anyone's business and if she ain't sharin' don't you dare ask. If you're asked this you should answer that you were actually hoping for a puppy that could fart rainbows then just walk away.

4."Was this an accident?" A woman's reply to this should always be "suck my dick." It's a nice, clean, confusing retort for someone that is rude enough to ask this kind of question.

3."I hate that name." Really? Oh okay, then they won't name it that. Nobody cares that a girl named Angela took your oatmeal raisin cookie in grade two so don't lift up the tarp covering your mental baggage. On a similar note, if they want to name their kid Adolph or Kleenex just nod and say "nice" – that will be the least of that kid's problems anyway.

2."Did you use fertility drugs?" I don't want to get all misty here but all babies are miracles and by asking a question like that you're somehow implying that babies that were conceived with 'help' are different from babies that weren't. Not cool so don't ask.

1."Should you be eating that?" This whole website is about people embellishing myths and half truths to scare the crap out of pregnant ladies. So unless she's about to accidentally snack on dog shit, don't say anything and let the poor girl eat.

Finally, there are three things you always say to pregnant women:

"You look fantastic" Even if she is a sweaty, wheezing Jabba the Hut with swollen ankles and a maternity top that no longer covers her fish pail, tell her she looks fantastic. She is making a person and that's pretty fantastic.

"That's wonderful" If she tells you she's going to give birth squatting in a Mr. Turtle pool surrounded by chanting Tibetan squirrels, you say "that sounds wonderful". Every pregnant woman makes about 200 declarations of what she is and isn't going to do and about 4 stick. Don't ruin her moments.

"It's going to be alright" When she starts crying because the pizza shows up wrong or she panics because she used regular detergent to wash the baby's onesies so she'll be a horrible mother or simply because she threw a reciprocating saw at your head because "you're too much of a retard to understand what she's going through." This is when it's a good idea to pull out "it's going to be alright." A side car of "you look fantastic" couldn't hurt either.

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(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

Public Display of Morning Sickness

I was recently informed that people really enjoy reading about all the ways I make an ass of myself in public. Here's the good news: examples of me embarrassing myself spring from a well that will never run dry. Just ask my husband. Cap'n Coupon catalogues the stories of me being an idiot. Different categories exist based on if it was something I said or did or had done to me, or whether it was accidental or intentional. There's even a category en Espanol. If we had an SAP button, you could press it now. Anyway, there's a lot to choose from, but I decided to write down this little gem as Thumbelina enjoys telling people about it all the time anyway.

I should warn you that it's gross. Really gross. Even for a mommy. And Kate tells me constantly that I'm being gross (and I don't even realize it). I know this is bad. So, maybe put the coffee down. Fine, consider yourself warned. Cuidado!

A little less than two years ago, I was four months pregnant. At four months along, I don't really look pregnant. I just look . . . big. Tummy huge, boobies huge, cankles huge. The rest of me normal. Size and clothing-wise, it's the demilitarized zone of pregnancy. You're in the low rent side of limbo, where there's just nothing good to say. No regular clothes fit and maternity clothes look heinous. During the pregnancy DMZ, people don't look at me and say - "Oh, she's pregnant. How nice." They look at me and say: "My, she has gained weight. I had no idea suburban mothers could work as Sumo wrestlers. How very interesting!"

Also, keep in mind that I was walking with a limp because I was still recovering from a Barbaro-style broken leg. So I was pretty awesome all around. Like a gimpy hippo in tight pants and clogs. Just take a minute for all that to sink in.

The Cap'n decides one beautiful Saturday to take us all to lunch at Five Guys. Five Guys is a very yummy local burger chain (that's actually somewhat national, depending on where you live). They are not paying me to write this. As you will soon read, I am saying these nice things about their delicious burgers in order to do penance. So that maybe one day I go back.

But back to the Family Luncheon of Fun. Thumbelina and Hawk are delighted, and we all pile in the car (no van in those halcyon days of two kids). I was so insecure about my appearance that I had actually showered, blown out my hair, and put on make-up - in the hopes that even if my body could do nothing more than gimp-waddle-gimp, then at least my head could good. Think Shelly Winters in the Poseidon Adventure (hint: this is foreshadowing). Stupid Lydia. You should have known better.

So we get there and eat a great noontime meal and, for the first time in weeks, my Hell-spawned morning sickness abated with the actual morning. It was all very nice. And then the bad thing happened.

Hawk: "I haffa go to da bafwoom."
Cap'n: "What?"
Hawk: "I haffa go potty. In da bafwoom. And it's a pooper. So come on, Daddy, let's go."
Cap'n: (looks scared) "Maybe mommy could..."

Lydia and Hawk: "NO!"

Cap'n: (hangs head sadly in resignation, gets up) "Fine. Let's go."

Ten minutes later...

Cap'n: "We're back."

Hawk: "But I didn't go bafwoom because dere was dis big, fat guy and he was in dere a looooong time. And when he came out da bafwoom smelled soooo bad dat daddy said he wouldn't go in dere."

Cap'n: (Muttering under his breath as the big, fat guy in question was sitting at the next table and heard everything that Hawk said) "You don't even understand how bad it is. I'm not going in there. No. Don't look at me like that. Nothing you say or do will make me go in that room. I think that smell has killed men on the battlefield. Good men. . . "

Hawk: "I haffa poop. I really haffa poop."

Thumbelina: "I have to pee."

Lydia: (glaring at the Cap'n, hoping that lasers will shoot out and burn him for getting out of yet another disgusting kid-related chore) "Fine. Let's go."

We go the women's bathroom (which is also stinky). Thumbelina pees and flushes and starts to wash her hands. Hawk jumps on the potty and decides, while pooping, to flush it again right away. But the potty did not like that one little bit. So Hawk jumped off the potty, while still pooping.

This is where we need to pause for a moment. Mommies, you know there are several Universal Truths of Parenting Small Children. Here is one of them. Small children love to eat little, yellow corn niblets and corn on the cob. And we love for them to eat vegetables, so we feed them corn. That corn goes in and comes out looking exactly the same. Crooked accountants would call this a "round trip" transaction.

So while trying to pick up my wriggling, still pooping three-year-old and place him back on the potty (that was angrily threatening to overflow or possibly explode), a kernel of yellow (fecal) corn fell gently onto my foot. And I started screaming: "Gaaahhhhh! Corn! Gaaaahhhhhh!" Then came the gagging.

I pushed Thumbelina out of my way and started to projectile vomit into the sink. Meanwhile, both kids (one on the potty and one backed so far into the corner that she appeared to be trying to tunnel through it backwards) were simultaneously fascinated and completely horrified. I may have screamed at them to stop screaming for the love of God in between wretches. I don't know. Also, because I was pregnant (for the third time in five years), I may have peed a little.

After the retching subsided, I took a moment to take stock of the situation. The bathroom was trashed. Like really trashed. Like the day after Mardi Gras, public port-o-john, unparalleled nasty. Like don't even try to clean it, just get a hose and some bleach and hope there's a drain in the the floor. Karen Silkwood would've felt dirty. Then I looked in the mirror. Suddenly, the bathroom didn't look that bad.

Mascara was running everywhere, Alice Cooper-style. Skin was flushed, sweaty and blotchy. My hair was a crazed bird's nest flecked with . . . just imagine. My entire head (which ten minutes ago had been the one part of my body that wasn't totally embarrassing) was now like something out of a horror movie. I splashed cold water on my face, and it splashed all over the top of my shirt, soaking it. I went to reach for paper towels and there were none.

Then Hawk said: "Momma! Wipe my bottom!" Thumbelina and I looked at him incredulously. He shrugged and said: "OK. Fine. Wipe my bottom, please."

With that, I snapped out of it. I mean, who cares that I had just turned into Linda Blair from the Exorcist in front of my kids and now looked as if I were Scary The Clown. Mommies live to serve. And wipe. And clean. This day was a bridge too far.

Thus began five futile minutes of cleaning up myself, my son, and the bathroom with half a roll of industrial toilet paper. I will spare you the specifics, but it was bad. I gave up and just prayed that the next person who had to use that bathroom had a really strong stomach.

As we walked out of the women's hell-hole bathroom, I became aware of the fact that we had been gone a long time. I didn't recognize any of the faces at any of the tables near ours. In fact, I couldn't see my husband anywhere either. Thumbelina spotted him first and started running towards him. Everything went into slow motion like that scene in Saving Private Ryan.

Waiting by the door with the car keys in his hand, the Cap'n looked at me with the international "that took a while" expression. As I got closer, the expression on his face changed. First concern, then horror, then stifled laughter. Like I said, third pregnancy in five years. He knew exactly what had happened. I tried not to look at anyone else because I was scared to see their reaction to my truly frightening countenance. Hawk and I were limping slowly towards the door, holding hands like we'd just seen combat or escaped from the basement of a serial killer. Then Thumbelina started screaming in the high pitched shriek that only little girls can make. It was clear as a bell and impossible for anyone to ignore.

"Daddy! Hawk pooped on the floor and some of it got on mommy's shoe and then she screamed and started making weird noises and then DIARRHEA came out of her MOUTH! A lot of it! Most of it got in the sink!"

Stunned silence. Everyone put their delicious burgers down. And looked at me. Except for the people standing in line. Who seemed to be scanning the place for any possible exit and were seriously considering a leap through the plate glass window just to get away from me and my kids.

"DDDAAAAADDDY! Didn't you HEAR me?! Hawk pooped on the floor and DIARRHEA came out of mommy's MOUTH!"

The Cap'n then realized if he didn't say or do something, she was going to say it again and louder. He hesitated one second too long.

"DAAAAADDDDDDY! I SAID Hawk POOPED on the FLOOR and --"

(Picture a man shaped like Dom DeLuise with an open mouth, dropping his burger, and glaring at the Coupon clan with the transcendent "Come on, you filthy carnies!" expression).

At that point, we were at the door. The Cap'n gallantly held it open for us, his charming family, firmly pushing Thumbelina through it so that the rest of her recital was projected into the parking lot. As he closed the door, he tipped an imaginary hat to the still silent, confused and nauseated dining room.

"Well," said the Cap'n looking at me with more than a little amusement in his eye, "The Coupons have left the building."

(Editor's note: You guys are a really professional family. - Kate)

It's been a long time, but some experiences just never leave you. In part because every time we drive anywhere near the Five Guys in question, Thumbelina starts in. "Remember that time at Five Guys when..." And I burn with embarrassment and think to myself: "I'm sorry Five Guys. We promise never to come back to your fine establishment. I'm so very, very sorry."

And that is but one of my finest Lydia moments. There are a lot more. And some of them are worse. So, please, don't judge me.

xo, Lydia, who clearly puts the "ass" in embarrassment, is out.

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(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

My Baby is a Cupcake. Baked by the Devil.

Recently, my life has undergone a drastic transformation. Last week, my sweet, squishy, adorable 15 month old was toddling around trying to kiss everybody. Then something happened. Something terrible. I took my eyes off of her for a moment and when I looked back, she was standing on top of the kitchen table, doing a tap dance on my open laptop. I lunged towards her in slow motion while screaming: "Noooooooo! Stoooooop!" At seeing my obvious distress, she stopped dancing, laughed in my face, started wagging her finger at me saying: "No no no no!" and then fell off the table with a horrifying THUD. She was completely fine five minutes later and I am now scarred for life.

And so it begins.

Mini-mini-me has moved to the next phase of her development. The one where my life is essentially over for the next two years. Fantastic. This phase has many names. But let's start at the beginning:

Phase One: The Red Wiggler Phase (newborn - 6 weeks):
Whereby the baby is a non-communicative lump with its days and nights mixed up. You and your husband are convinced that your Red Wiggler is the most beautiful, awe-inspiring piece of perfection in baby form ever. Meanwhile, everyone else on the planet thinks your baby resembles a grimacing plucked chicken, and they are right.

Phase Two: The Happy Lumpkin Phase (6 weeks - 6 months):
The baby is now cute and sleeps all the time. And it smiles and then laughs and all is right with the world. Then it stops nursing for 5 hours and you react as if you were JFK and there are missiles off the coast of Florida. You may find yourself making frantic phone calls to your husband or mother and saying things like: "You don't understand. The. Baby. Hasn't. Eaten. You have to come here right now and make her nurse. RIGHT NOW. I don't care about the meeting with the shareholders! Tell them to suck it! The baby hasn't eaten since 6 am and it's almost noon. You have to come home right now! Gahhhhhh!!!!!"

Please note that my memory of this phase is only *slightly* informed by the massive amounts of pregnancy hormones I was shedding at the time.

Phase Three: The Five Minutes Of Happiness Phase (6 mos - walking/fully mobile):
The baby is now ridiculously cute. It may sit up and crawl around or even walk like a drunk person (happy drunk, mind you). The baby is easily distracted and interested in everything. My son Hawk could happily play with spoons for forty minutes. It's great. You can still watch inappropriate TV shows during the day and accidentally say "Sh*t!" without fear of immediate and prolonged parrotting. Thumbelina is still unaware that she watched seasons 1-4 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while nursing. And don't even talk to me about 90210 re-runs. During this phase, the little critter just wants to hang out and be cute and be near you. Enjoy this all too brief window.

Phase Four: The Lydia Contemplates Going Back To Work Full Time Phase (Fully mobile to age 3): This phase has many names. Here are a few:

The I Am Not Having Any More Kids Phase

The Don't Get Distracted by Facebook for One Minute or Your Baby Will Burn Down the House Phase

The Totally Exhausted Momma Vs. Fully Energized Baby Steel Cage Battle of Death Phase

The It Would Be Funny But For The Fact That She is My Child Phase

The Five Trips to the ER in Six Months Phase

The Nightmares about Triplets Phase

The Your Child is Covered In Self-Inflicted Bruises and You Hope No One Calls the Authorities Phase

The Gain or Lose Ten Pounds from Unyielding Stress Phase

The All My Phone Calls End With "Oh No!  Baby!  I've Got to . . .{Click}' 

The Please Let Me Avoid What Appears to Be Imminent Death Phase
The My Baby is a Chicken Hawk Who Thinks I'm Foghorn Leghorn Phase

This is the phase where you question both the validity of natural selection and the existence of God, as you wonder how it is possible that any creature with such an obvious lack of self-preservation is depended upon to perpetuate the species. There is no logic. There is no reason. There is only the fervent hope that you can stop them in time. Because they never stop being naughty. And the only thing standing between your baby and the electric socket she is about to lick - is you.

Let's remember who we're dealing with. I am Lydia, and I am an idiot. I am outwitted on a weekly basis by laundry. I often wear my pajamas to drop my kids off at school.  When I do make an effort to get dressed, I find that my cardigan is on inside out. This is BAD. I am ridiculous and because of this, my precious little cupcake could get hurt. And let me state for the record what we all already know: Nothing seriously bad is allowed to happen to our children or the world will end.

Mini Mini Me has been walking for five months. Trying to climb things with limited success for 2 months. And all the while, she has been so sweet and good that I thought I was getting a pass on this child. She is my third. Thirds are special. And she is such an angel in so many ways...

And then, a switch got flipped in her little brain. She is now attempting stunts that would reduce the guys from Jackass into puddles of fear. These life-threatening tricks of coordination and skill are made more shocking when you consider that they are being executed by someone with the physique and personality of a Care Bear.

Wait. What's that noise? Oh. Dear. God.

My precious cupcake has just opened the dishwasher while it was running and is now splashing through the rapidly flooding kitchen with a steak knife in her hand cooing in a singsong: "Mine mine mine".

Do you understand NOW? Do you know how hard it is to open the dishwasher while its running? I can barely do it. And yet, with no apparent difficulty - she has mastered it. Actually, she's doing it again right now. Oh. Actually not. She's actually turning over the trash can so she can gain access to the empty container that held raw chicken.

Thirty seven minutes later...

I just cleaned the kitchen floor (with bleach) because she managed to mix raw chicken covered garbage and three days worth of coffee grounds with the water from the dishwasher. Then I had to bathe her. In the middle of this, the big kids got home. It's 3:02 pm on Day Five of Phase Four and I need an adult beverage.

Oh Schmidt. I just heard a crash and the dog is now whimpering. I've got to go. Holy CRAP. She appears to have stolen a jalapeno (how?) and she is eating it. NOOOOOO! STOOOOOPPPP!

I think my baby might actually be an alien. Or a Terminator. Because she never, ever stops. People, I am not Linda Hamilton.  I am not Isis or Wonderwoman or Oprah.  I have no super powers.  Even if I did, the baby is made of 24 carat kryptonite.  I fear for our future.  I will post again when I am able. Probably after my baby starts preschool sometime in 2012, provided I am able to avoid the Cupcake Apocalypse (Cupocalypse?). 

Lydia out.

PS: Moms of mulitples, I need to say something.  My grandmother is a twin. I have twin cousins.  I avoided your fate for one reason.  The Supreme Being (in charge of pregnancy, breastfeeding and parenthood) knew my limitations (considerable) and spared us all the rants I would have been posting from the Nervous Hospital.  Because had I given birth to twins, that is where I would be.  I salute you.  I drink to you.  I adore you and worship your awesomeness.  Now please turn off the computer and go check on your kids because I think I smell something burning.

Lydia out.  Again.

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