I know I'm not the funniest or coolest cat on the block, but I like to think I still have a little bit of it.
Obviously, I'm the only one.
I noticed this yesterday on Facebook (Yes, Facebook. So what.) A "mommy friend" of mine had put on her status, "Disney is so expensive". So I did what any self-respecting 20-something would do: I replied " Yeah, especially when you figure in all the alcohol you'll need for the Electric Light Parade.."
Absolutely no one thought that was funny.
What? Was one of the side effects of your epidural "sudden loss of humor"?
It just seems like all these women (and I'm sure some dudes too) just lose any sort of fun once they pop out a baby. Like suddenly jokes about male genitalia and drug use are no longer funny to them. I call shenanigans, 'cause that mess is always funny. I'm sure they think "I'm someone's mother. That's so unbecoming". I only have that thought when I debate whether or not I should be buying my clothes from the clearance rack at Hot Topic.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Mom Jeans
One of my biggest fears in life is snowman sweaters. It's right up there with people in cartoon character costumes, driving a minivan, frogs and rabbits. This very real and very rational fear started when Bubba and I decided we wanted to have a baby. It's one of those things you never notice as a teenager because you're so cool and waaay too important to even look at anybody else. (Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about).
When we started this whole 'let's have a baby' thing I started to notice all these women out with their kids and one thing hit me. "Holy Crap. Save me from that." I thought. The kids would be dressed to the nines with their little Gymboree outfits with matching, well, everything, and the moms looked, well, haggard. They looked like they had just run a marathon... for three days... through the swamp...ending at a Michael Bolton concert.
They wore things that made me shudder; things like:
Pants with elastic
Sweaters that notified everyone as to what season/holiday it was
White tennis shoes (think more Nurse Ratchett than Serena Williams)
Jewelry made of buttons, clothes pins, bells, or any combination of the three
Twin Sets and pleated khakis
I'm not claiming to be the coolest, but I sure as hell didn't want to end up like that. I also didn't want to go in the other direction. You know what I'm talking about: mothers who look like they raided their tween daughter's closet. Now, I'm all down with being... ahem... "timely", but there's just something creepy about a 39 year old woman in jeggins and a t-shirt that says "I 'heart' Justin Bieber". (Yeah, honey I'm sure you do. Now just stay right there so I can call Chris Hanson and the "To Catch a Predator" crew...). I'll admit it; I am a fan of skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors and buffalo plaid, but I try no to look like I just got scooped out of a gutter in front of a community garden in Brooklyn. Finding a happy medium is what it's all about: and that means not trying to embarrass your kids, or your significant other with your unfortunate wardrobe choices.
When we started this whole 'let's have a baby' thing I started to notice all these women out with their kids and one thing hit me. "Holy Crap. Save me from that." I thought. The kids would be dressed to the nines with their little Gymboree outfits with matching, well, everything, and the moms looked, well, haggard. They looked like they had just run a marathon... for three days... through the swamp...ending at a Michael Bolton concert.
They wore things that made me shudder; things like:
Pants with elastic
Sweaters that notified everyone as to what season/holiday it was
White tennis shoes (think more Nurse Ratchett than Serena Williams)
Jewelry made of buttons, clothes pins, bells, or any combination of the three
Twin Sets and pleated khakis
I'm not claiming to be the coolest, but I sure as hell didn't want to end up like that. I also didn't want to go in the other direction. You know what I'm talking about: mothers who look like they raided their tween daughter's closet. Now, I'm all down with being... ahem... "timely", but there's just something creepy about a 39 year old woman in jeggins and a t-shirt that says "I 'heart' Justin Bieber". (Yeah, honey I'm sure you do. Now just stay right there so I can call Chris Hanson and the "To Catch a Predator" crew...). I'll admit it; I am a fan of skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors and buffalo plaid, but I try no to look like I just got scooped out of a gutter in front of a community garden in Brooklyn. Finding a happy medium is what it's all about: and that means not trying to embarrass your kids, or your significant other with your unfortunate wardrobe choices.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Holiday Horrors
How was your Thanksgiving? Did you eat some turkey? Do some shopping? Go to the ER?
No?
Well, I did. Sorry you missed out.
Thanksgiving started out great. The kids were playing nicely and there was lots of good food. After we gorged ourselves on near deadly amounts of fried turkey, my mother-in-law, both my sister-in-laws and I decided to do some shopping. We left our kids in the capable hands of the guys and let outta that place like our asses were on fire. ( Don't judge me. I love The Kid, but you would've done it too).
After a few hours of shopping we decide to come home. When I come in the door I yell for The Kid. She pops around the corner and smiles. Good. I don't hear any crying and the house hasn't burnt down; she's been pretty good. To confirm this, I ask my father-in-law how she's been. "Good" he says " but she bumped her head. She cried for a minute, but then she was fine". I look The Kid over. 'Nothing really bad HOLYCRAP! What the hell is that?!' I think to myself. Right above her left eyebrow is the evidence of her little tumble. Actually it looks more like she was whacked in the head with a cricket bat. That bruise was nasty, but it didn't seem to bother her any so I calm down... a little.
We sit down and eat some leftovers for dinner, but The Kid was not having any of that. All in all, she ended up eating a cup of diced peaches and drank half of Nanny's cranberry sierra mist. How nutritious. A couple hours later we decide it's about time to make the 45 minute trip home. We load The Kid and enough leftovers to feed a tribe into the car and head for home. In the rain.
About 15 minutes from our exit, The Kid wakes up. She starts coughing and then vomiting... like Linda Blair. That's right, Exorcist vomit everywhere. I freak out, wake Bubba up and pull the car over to the side of the road. As soon as the car comes to a stop he jumps out and takes her out of her car seat. The Kid just keeps throwing up and crying and refusing to look at me. This is when the fear sets in. Head injury + vomit = Big Problems. When she stops puking for a minute we strap her back in the car and call my cousin, the nurse. With a "if she was mine, I'd take her" we tear ass to the hospital.
Now, this is the time when every bad scenario plays in your head: what this means, what they'll do to her in the hospital, everything. I have got to stay calm. As much as I would like to start screaming and crying too, I bite my lip and get to the ER in record time.
After filling out paperwork and rehashing the story four separate times to various nurses, office personnel, and my father (Oh yes, he was there. Did you think he'd miss an opportunity to worry about something beyond his control?) we're back in a room and seriously antsy. The doctor finally comes in and says hello very unenthusiastically. He takes a cursory glance at The Kid and says "I think we'll do a CT scan" and leaves. Come again?
So, let's look at the pros and cons:
Pro: They'll be able to look inside The Kid's head and make sure nothing's rattling
Con: She may glow in the dark and/or grow a third nipple from the radiation.
(Yes, I'm that mother.)
After I get Dr. Bedside Manner back in the room to explain to me exactly why it's prudent to stick my kid in this machine (he actually made a valid point... through gritted teeth.) we head down to the CT room and this is where my second panic attack begins.
If you've even seen those slick GE health care commercials (or watched your fair share of House) you know how one of those fancy electrical-doughnut-thingys work: you lay on a table, completely still, and it slides you in for a minute and then back out. No big deal, right? Wrong. News to me: you have to strap children down. No, not just 'strap down'. You have to wrap up them up like a mummy, lay a lead vest over them, put foam chocks on the side of their head so they don't wiggle, then put a strap over their body and forehead. Yeah; all that. So here I am , holding her down telling her "It's ok! It'll be over in just a minute" while she gives me that look and screaming what I'm sure translates to "I hate you woman! Get me out of this damn thing or I will suffocate you in your sleep!". Finally the machine stops and I pull her out of the straps. She climbs me like a spider monkey and gives me a look that says 'You better give me a good Christmas after all this crap or I really will kill you'. Glad to see she's feeling better.
We get back to the room and start the waiting game. After the longest 30 minutes of my life, the doctor comes in to give us the good news: She didn't knock herself stupid and DCS was not coming to take my child. Hurray. As we get ready to head home I tell The Kid "You better never scare me like that again".
In case you were wondering, first thing the next morning she climbed on the ottoman and stood up just to dare me. I believe she lives to watch me slowly die. Ahh, motherhood.
No?
Well, I did. Sorry you missed out.
Thanksgiving started out great. The kids were playing nicely and there was lots of good food. After we gorged ourselves on near deadly amounts of fried turkey, my mother-in-law, both my sister-in-laws and I decided to do some shopping. We left our kids in the capable hands of the guys and let outta that place like our asses were on fire. ( Don't judge me. I love The Kid, but you would've done it too).
After a few hours of shopping we decide to come home. When I come in the door I yell for The Kid. She pops around the corner and smiles. Good. I don't hear any crying and the house hasn't burnt down; she's been pretty good. To confirm this, I ask my father-in-law how she's been. "Good" he says " but she bumped her head. She cried for a minute, but then she was fine". I look The Kid over. 'Nothing really bad HOLYCRAP! What the hell is that?!' I think to myself. Right above her left eyebrow is the evidence of her little tumble. Actually it looks more like she was whacked in the head with a cricket bat. That bruise was nasty, but it didn't seem to bother her any so I calm down... a little.
We sit down and eat some leftovers for dinner, but The Kid was not having any of that. All in all, she ended up eating a cup of diced peaches and drank half of Nanny's cranberry sierra mist. How nutritious. A couple hours later we decide it's about time to make the 45 minute trip home. We load The Kid and enough leftovers to feed a tribe into the car and head for home. In the rain.
About 15 minutes from our exit, The Kid wakes up. She starts coughing and then vomiting... like Linda Blair. That's right, Exorcist vomit everywhere. I freak out, wake Bubba up and pull the car over to the side of the road. As soon as the car comes to a stop he jumps out and takes her out of her car seat. The Kid just keeps throwing up and crying and refusing to look at me. This is when the fear sets in. Head injury + vomit = Big Problems. When she stops puking for a minute we strap her back in the car and call my cousin, the nurse. With a "if she was mine, I'd take her" we tear ass to the hospital.
Now, this is the time when every bad scenario plays in your head: what this means, what they'll do to her in the hospital, everything. I have got to stay calm. As much as I would like to start screaming and crying too, I bite my lip and get to the ER in record time.
After filling out paperwork and rehashing the story four separate times to various nurses, office personnel, and my father (Oh yes, he was there. Did you think he'd miss an opportunity to worry about something beyond his control?) we're back in a room and seriously antsy. The doctor finally comes in and says hello very unenthusiastically. He takes a cursory glance at The Kid and says "I think we'll do a CT scan" and leaves. Come again?
So, let's look at the pros and cons:
Pro: They'll be able to look inside The Kid's head and make sure nothing's rattling
Con: She may glow in the dark and/or grow a third nipple from the radiation.
(Yes, I'm that mother.)
After I get Dr. Bedside Manner back in the room to explain to me exactly why it's prudent to stick my kid in this machine (he actually made a valid point... through gritted teeth.) we head down to the CT room and this is where my second panic attack begins.
If you've even seen those slick GE health care commercials (or watched your fair share of House) you know how one of those fancy electrical-doughnut-thingys work: you lay on a table, completely still, and it slides you in for a minute and then back out. No big deal, right? Wrong. News to me: you have to strap children down. No, not just 'strap down'. You have to wrap up them up like a mummy, lay a lead vest over them, put foam chocks on the side of their head so they don't wiggle, then put a strap over their body and forehead. Yeah; all that. So here I am , holding her down telling her "It's ok! It'll be over in just a minute" while she gives me that look and screaming what I'm sure translates to "I hate you woman! Get me out of this damn thing or I will suffocate you in your sleep!". Finally the machine stops and I pull her out of the straps. She climbs me like a spider monkey and gives me a look that says 'You better give me a good Christmas after all this crap or I really will kill you'. Glad to see she's feeling better.
We get back to the room and start the waiting game. After the longest 30 minutes of my life, the doctor comes in to give us the good news: She didn't knock herself stupid and DCS was not coming to take my child. Hurray. As we get ready to head home I tell The Kid "You better never scare me like that again".
In case you were wondering, first thing the next morning she climbed on the ottoman and stood up just to dare me. I believe she lives to watch me slowly die. Ahh, motherhood.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Freak Out
As my husband is well aware, I have a list. This list contains words that I cannot even hear without dry heaving. These words are so disgusting, I'm having a hard time typing this right now. I will not list these words for fear I may puke and pass out, but believe me, they're bad. They're pretty much everyday words that, to me, have a undesirable connotation. They are literally dirty words. Bubba knows these words and if he's feeling incredibly loving, he'll drop them into everyday conversation just so he can push my freaking buttons.
As charming as my neurosis are, you would think it would be make Bubba sad to know that my child has now inherited them. Not my husband.
We discovered Boo-Boo's little... er, issue... a couple of weeks ago. Bubba and I thought it would be a grand idea to teach The Kid animal sounds (you know, good parenting and all), so we sat down with a little book and started looking at the animals. "This is a dog. The dog says 'Woof!'. This is a cat. The cat says 'Meow!'". Everything was going just swimmingly until we got to the cow.
Now, this isn't just any cow I'm sure, oh no. Bubba's in the middle of saying "This is a cow. A cow says..." when he makes the sound of the most demonic bovine that ever exhisted. As soon as he says "Mooo..." she looks up at him with a face full of fear and discust and begins to cry. Not just any cry, mind you, but the "Slow Cry".
Every parent knows what that is. It's not the "I'm so mad I could kill you" or the "Oh look, the floor just reached up and slapped me so pick me up and give me candy". Oh no, this one starts with The Look. The look that says "Did you really just do that?". The one meant to break you. If that doesn't work, next is the Lip Quiver. This means " My feelings are truly hurt". If that still doesn't help, they pull out the big guns: The Big Cry. The Big, Nasty, Sobbing Cry. It's just years and years of unending sorrow. "Why, oh why have you done this? But I thought you loved me!" cry. I felt terrible. I'm a bad Momma. I looked over to my lovely husband to see if he felt my sorrow. Well, I should have asked him after he stopped laughing.
That freaking laugh. The same laugh I hear after I stop regurgitating my dinner over ... those words. Now he has two of us to laugh at. So now, for fun, Bubba will just get infront of The Kid and moo that low, slow, evil moo. Not because he's mean or unfeeling. Because he's a parent, and that is one of the small joys of parenting.
That and knowing when they get older, they can be your indentured servant help you clean the house.
As charming as my neurosis are, you would think it would be make Bubba sad to know that my child has now inherited them. Not my husband.
We discovered Boo-Boo's little... er, issue... a couple of weeks ago. Bubba and I thought it would be a grand idea to teach The Kid animal sounds (you know, good parenting and all), so we sat down with a little book and started looking at the animals. "This is a dog. The dog says 'Woof!'. This is a cat. The cat says 'Meow!'". Everything was going just swimmingly until we got to the cow.
Now, this isn't just any cow I'm sure, oh no. Bubba's in the middle of saying "This is a cow. A cow says..." when he makes the sound of the most demonic bovine that ever exhisted. As soon as he says "Mooo..." she looks up at him with a face full of fear and discust and begins to cry. Not just any cry, mind you, but the "Slow Cry".
Every parent knows what that is. It's not the "I'm so mad I could kill you" or the "Oh look, the floor just reached up and slapped me so pick me up and give me candy". Oh no, this one starts with The Look. The look that says "Did you really just do that?". The one meant to break you. If that doesn't work, next is the Lip Quiver. This means " My feelings are truly hurt". If that still doesn't help, they pull out the big guns: The Big Cry. The Big, Nasty, Sobbing Cry. It's just years and years of unending sorrow. "Why, oh why have you done this? But I thought you loved me!" cry. I felt terrible. I'm a bad Momma. I looked over to my lovely husband to see if he felt my sorrow. Well, I should have asked him after he stopped laughing.
That freaking laugh. The same laugh I hear after I stop regurgitating my dinner over ... those words. Now he has two of us to laugh at. So now, for fun, Bubba will just get infront of The Kid and moo that low, slow, evil moo. Not because he's mean or unfeeling. Because he's a parent, and that is one of the small joys of parenting.
That and knowing when they get older, they can
Monday, November 22, 2010
Magic Words
The Kid is bow required to say "Please" and "Thank You". I know, she's only 18 months old, but good manners start young (and I really can't stand rude kids). Anyway, now she thinks as long as she says one of these two phrases along with "Uh Oh" she can do whatever she wants and receive no punishment. For example, if she puts her dirty kid fingers in your dinner she says "Thank You" as she shoves it in her mouth. Or, she'll drop her cup on the floor and yell "Uh Oh" as she sits in a pool of juice. Better yet, when she really wants something she'll say "Pleeeeeaaaaassseee" while she trying to take it from you.The Please-and-Thank-yous don't bother me at all. It's the "Uh ohs" and "No ways" that really get me though.
Like this morning: I called mom to check on The Kid and she if she's taking a nap or set the house on fire or whatever. Mom answers the phone and laughs. "Is she sleeping?" I ask. "No" mom replies "I put her in her crib and she's been talking. When the phone rang she said 'Uh Oh'". 'Uh Oh's right' I think to myself. She knows it's nap time and she knows it's me calling to check.
In short, 'Uh Oh' means 'I've been caught'. If she decides she's going to try to make it all the way up the stairs before I notice she's not standing beside me, 'Uh Oh' is a completely innocent and acceptable phrase to say as I run up the stairs (two at-a-time mind you) behind her. It's like saying 'Oh, aren't I cute? Don't you still love me even though I'm trying to kill myself and give you a heart attack all at the same time?'. Just like 'Please' means 'I'm going to say this as sweet as I can and hope that you will give me some of what you have before I forcibly take it from you'.
At least it's better than some of the other things she's been saying lately: specifically "No Way".
If I tell her not to feed the dogs off the table she says "No Way". If I tell her not to put her hands in the toilet, she kicks and screams "NO WAY!!!". Cute the first time; kinda funny the second, really annoying the 7,345th.
It's kinda funny how quick kids figure these things out for themselves. I thought we were safe from this kind of thing (mostly because she's an only child and isn't around other kids enough to conspire and trade tips).
Alas, no parent is safe, I fear. It's like when your mother said "You're going to get yours 10-fold when you have kids". It's not that I didn't believe her, I just didn't think I was that mean.
Like this morning: I called mom to check on The Kid and she if she's taking a nap or set the house on fire or whatever. Mom answers the phone and laughs. "Is she sleeping?" I ask. "No" mom replies "I put her in her crib and she's been talking. When the phone rang she said 'Uh Oh'". 'Uh Oh's right' I think to myself. She knows it's nap time and she knows it's me calling to check.
In short, 'Uh Oh' means 'I've been caught'. If she decides she's going to try to make it all the way up the stairs before I notice she's not standing beside me, 'Uh Oh' is a completely innocent and acceptable phrase to say as I run up the stairs (two at-a-time mind you) behind her. It's like saying 'Oh, aren't I cute? Don't you still love me even though I'm trying to kill myself and give you a heart attack all at the same time?'. Just like 'Please' means 'I'm going to say this as sweet as I can and hope that you will give me some of what you have before I forcibly take it from you'.
At least it's better than some of the other things she's been saying lately: specifically "No Way".
If I tell her not to feed the dogs off the table she says "No Way". If I tell her not to put her hands in the toilet, she kicks and screams "NO WAY!!!". Cute the first time; kinda funny the second, really annoying the 7,345th.
It's kinda funny how quick kids figure these things out for themselves. I thought we were safe from this kind of thing (mostly because she's an only child and isn't around other kids enough to conspire and trade tips).
Alas, no parent is safe, I fear. It's like when your mother said "You're going to get yours 10-fold when you have kids". It's not that I didn't believe her, I just didn't think I was that mean.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
So, a couple of months ago, Bubba and I decided that we would go on a date on a Friday night. Without The Kid. Well, what started as just dinner without ended it up as The Great 3 State Tour.
I talk to Bubba everyday at lunch. He calls me up, tells me about the idiots he spoke to that day and we have a good laugh at their expense. That Friday, Bubba says to me "Why don't we go somewhere this weekend? Ya know, without The Kid". What? Is that even possible? Can I convince someone to keep her for a whole two days or will I have to sit her on her grandparents doorstep, ring the doorbell and run like hell? All these possibilities considered, I agree anyway. We fly home Friday, pack our stuff and head for Nanny and Peep's (suckers). After spending the night there I wake up the next morning ready to plan out our weekend. But, plans are for sissies (or so Bubba tells me) so we just get a rough idea or where we would like to end up that night and hit the road.
It starts out good enough: we go do some shopping at the mecca of crazy-random-awesomness, The Unclaimed Baggage Store, grab some lunch and head to Chattanooga. This is when things begin to go... not as planned.
When we get to Chattanooga, Bubba asks me to look for a hotel. So, I get out my phone and search for the hotels I found on Friday who had more than enough rooms. Not so that day. Everything was booked. Now what do we do? "Let's go to Cherokee and go to the casino!" he says. Great idea! By the way this day was going I was going to need a free drink (or five). So, we get back on the road and head to North Carolina. About 10 minutes outside Chattanooga I ask Bubba "Do you think I should check rooms there first?" "Nah." he replies "We'll call when we're closer"
'Closer' ends up being about 45 minutes outside Cherokee. I call the casino, and guess what: No rooms. None in the casino or in any hotel in Cherokee. I begin to cry. 'Why?' you may ask. Well, because I'm 3oo miles from home and the prospect of sleeping in a Wal-Mart parking lot makes me break out in hives. I'm not 19 anymore ya know. This will not stand. After I finally calm down, we stop in a parking lot in a little town with 3 hotels. I call the first two to no avail. There's a rodeo in town and there are no rooms. Well, hell. Starting to freak out, I try the last one. Hallelujah! There is room at the [Holiday] Inn! We bust ass down there. It's not the Ritz, but frankly, I didn't give a rat's ass. It wasn't that god-forsaken Wal-Mart, so I consider it a win.
We get settled in and we do what any couple who has a small child and is alone together for the first time in over a year; we pick up some beer and Zaxby's and sit and watch a football game.
Compared to that rest of the trip was pretty uneventful:
I talk to Bubba everyday at lunch. He calls me up, tells me about the idiots he spoke to that day and we have a good laugh at their expense. That Friday, Bubba says to me "Why don't we go somewhere this weekend? Ya know, without The Kid". What? Is that even possible? Can I convince someone to keep her for a whole two days or will I have to sit her on her grandparents doorstep, ring the doorbell and run like hell? All these possibilities considered, I agree anyway. We fly home Friday, pack our stuff and head for Nanny and Peep's (suckers). After spending the night there I wake up the next morning ready to plan out our weekend. But, plans are for sissies (or so Bubba tells me) so we just get a rough idea or where we would like to end up that night and hit the road.
It starts out good enough: we go do some shopping at the mecca of crazy-random-awesomness, The Unclaimed Baggage Store, grab some lunch and head to Chattanooga. This is when things begin to go... not as planned.
When we get to Chattanooga, Bubba asks me to look for a hotel. So, I get out my phone and search for the hotels I found on Friday who had more than enough rooms. Not so that day. Everything was booked. Now what do we do? "Let's go to Cherokee and go to the casino!" he says. Great idea! By the way this day was going I was going to need a free drink (or five). So, we get back on the road and head to North Carolina. About 10 minutes outside Chattanooga I ask Bubba "Do you think I should check rooms there first?" "Nah." he replies "We'll call when we're closer"
'Closer' ends up being about 45 minutes outside Cherokee. I call the casino, and guess what: No rooms. None in the casino or in any hotel in Cherokee. I begin to cry. 'Why?' you may ask. Well, because I'm 3oo miles from home and the prospect of sleeping in a Wal-Mart parking lot makes me break out in hives. I'm not 19 anymore ya know. This will not stand. After I finally calm down, we stop in a parking lot in a little town with 3 hotels. I call the first two to no avail. There's a rodeo in town and there are no rooms. Well, hell. Starting to freak out, I try the last one. Hallelujah! There is room at the [Holiday] Inn! We bust ass down there. It's not the Ritz, but frankly, I didn't give a rat's ass. It wasn't that god-forsaken Wal-Mart, so I consider it a win.
We get settled in and we do what any couple who has a small child and is alone together for the first time in over a year; we pick up some beer and Zaxby's and sit and watch a football game.
Compared to that rest of the trip was pretty uneventful:
- We learned that nothing is free at an Indian Casino
- We saw the exploitation of a proud people while buying authentic moccasins
- Found out that a 16 oz glass bottle will, in fact, break after a 2 foot fall on a tile floor
- and we remembered what we used to do before The Kid came along.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Share and Share Alike
We live in a house with four dogs.
I put it that way because we don't really own them; they're more like roommates. Stinky, loud, fighting, annoying roommates. The Kid loves the dogs. She'll try to kiss them and hug them and when they don't stop immediately and bask in her attention she chases after them and try to bite them. Because she has to assert her dominance as the Alpha of The Pack I suppose.
The other day, I was sitting in the living room eating cheez-its when The Kid decides that Mamie needs to try one too. Now, Mamie is half-boxer, half-lab, and completelystupid sweet. So basically, whatever The Kid wants to do with her, the dog obliges. Well, The Kid's real big into this 'sharing' concept, so she decides to share a cheez-it with the dog. Instead of sweetly handing one to the dog she shoves her WHOLE HAND down in dog's mouth.
Oh crap.
This can only end in tears.
Little did I know, it was canine tears. Mamie tries to back up, but The Kid's right there; one hand grabbing her lip, the other force-feeding her like she was trying for froie-gras. I jump up in an effort to save my child from the teeth of this dog, but what I ended up doing was saving the dog from certain death by choking. As The Kid finally pulls her hand from the dog's mouth, she immediately offers me the dog slobber cracker.
Because, ya know, we're supposed to share.
I'm a complete idiot for teaching her that.
I put it that way because we don't really own them; they're more like roommates. Stinky, loud, fighting, annoying roommates. The Kid loves the dogs. She'll try to kiss them and hug them and when they don't stop immediately and bask in her attention she chases after them and try to bite them. Because she has to assert her dominance as the Alpha of The Pack I suppose.
The other day, I was sitting in the living room eating cheez-its when The Kid decides that Mamie needs to try one too. Now, Mamie is half-boxer, half-lab, and completely
Oh crap.
This can only end in tears.
Little did I know, it was canine tears. Mamie tries to back up, but The Kid's right there; one hand grabbing her lip, the other force-feeding her like she was trying for froie-gras. I jump up in an effort to save my child from the teeth of this dog, but what I ended up doing was saving the dog from certain death by choking. As The Kid finally pulls her hand from the dog's mouth, she immediately offers me the dog slobber cracker.
Because, ya know, we're supposed to share.
I'm a complete idiot for teaching her that.
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