There's No Place like Home

We're back from our vacation. Who would have thought that our attempt to unwind would turn so stressful?

Here's a brief run down of events:

We arrived on the tiny island of Kauai, just north of our own little, tropical island, and found ourselves in an entirely different climate. It was cold and raining. Good thing I packed ONE inclimate weather outfit per child. None for the Mom and Dad, however. We froze our asses off.

This cold rain lasted the first three days of our trip. Not to be outdone by the weather, we braved the elements and forged on with a boatride to the Fern Grotto and a round of golf. On the fourth day we went to the beach to snorkel despite the cloudy, somewhat misty weather. Fun, fish, coral, scenery. A three quarter mile walk barefoot on hot sand carrying two children, food enough for a small, third world country, and just as many changes of clothes as Britney goes through in one of her shows. It was almost paradise. All that was missing was the sun.

Yet while we missed the sun due to the fact that it was kept well hidden behind the clouds, the sun found a way to touch us nonetheless. You see, clouds are not only good for the sun to hide behind, but they act as a magnifier for the sun's burning rays. My whiter than driven snow children, slathered in an SPF50 reapplied hourly, burned on that cool, cloudy day in Kauai. Doesn't it sound like the punch line of a very bad joke?

Wait. It gets worse.

The next day my dear husband, a devoted father who enjoys giving his daughter horsey back rides in spite of his bad back and who played the part of pack mule for our burning sand trek on the beach, awoke with a stiff and sore back. No big deal, we thought. Just take it easy for the day. We went golfing and the only thing he drove was the cart. When he went to bed, he was sure he'd wake up feeling much better.

And he did. He felt great. We spent a nice, relaxing day at the pool where he went in the jacuzzi and soaked his formerly sore back. The weather had turned bright and shiny and warm. All felt right with the world. Until....

The day of our departure. The pain in his back slipped down and over. It had gone from his spine to his muscles in the form of severe spasms. He was in incredible pain. I packed us up and lugged us out. And when our plane touched down here, on home sweet home, we went straight to the ER.

Since then he's gotten morphine and other fun pharmaceuticals. We've taken him back to the ER twice and tomorrow we'll be going again. He cannot even walk to the bathroom. At this point, there seems to be no end in sight.

All this and a vacation, too. If I get any more relaxed, someone is gonna mistake me for a day trader on Wall Street.

Mothers should Form a Union

One of the first things that you notice when you become a mother is that while the job has some nice perks (slobbery kisses and soft baby snuggles are just a couple), time off is nonexistent.

Everyone knows there are sleepless nights involved, but no one thinks of getting sick. If you get sick, you just suck it up and keep nursing, changing diapers, doing laundry, wiping chocolatey mouths and the hundreds of other daily chores that become almost painful while suffering the effects of whatever virus has come to roost. And those viruses come more often when you have children in the house.

Children are moist breeding grounds with a deeply embedded bacterial magnet. They are not just germ factories, they are more often than not Patient Zero. So while you are caring for your sick child, they lovingly share (as you have been repeatedly telling them to do) and within hours you are suffering the same symptoms.

My friend Holly lived this a couple weeks ago. She was comforting her 10 month old son when he baptized her in virulent puke. In a matter of mere hours she was worshipping at the porcelain altar, catching quick little naps while laying on the cold tile of her bathroom. Her son, in contrast, slept in peaceful comfort having rid himself of what ailed him. He didn't just share. He gave. Holly was less than proud.

The same goes for vacation time. There is no such thing as a vacation when you are a mother. Say you spend thousands of dollars on a tropical family trip. Do you honestly think there will be any REST or RELAXATION for Mom in that R&R? Nope. In fact, family vacations are actually MORE work for Mom.

First, a mother must pack up everything packable. Let's just talk clothing for example. If you are gone 6 days, you'll need 9 pairs of pajamas per child (one for each day plus three extras in case of accidents). A minimum of fifteen daytime outfits per child (that's 2 per day plus three extra in case of accidents). Then you'll need several bathing suits per child and swim diapers if you are putting your little ones in the water. Oh, and don't forget the shoes. A pair of gym shoes, a pair of beach shoes, a pair of sandals, and their slippers. That's four pairs -- per child. Undergarments. Well, just bring as many as you own if your child is not way, way, WAY past potty training. Accidents always seem to happen when they are least convenient. A hot, sticky, sandy beach with only a filthy 60 year old public bathroom used mainly by vagrants sums up inconvenient.

And that is just for clothing. Then there are diapers and burp cloths, wipes and ointment, pacifiers, strollers and a sling, the Pack and Play, carseats, a breastpump and bottles, the baby food maker, sunblock, floaties, toys, toys, books, and toys, blankies, baby shampoo, a first aid kit, and DVDs.

Let's not forget Dad's golf clubs, either. He is, afterall, on vacation.

Who ever set the airlines' 50lb per bag limit never went on vacation with children. Wanna know what Mom gets to pack with that strict limit? A frumpy skirted bathing suit, a toothbrush, and a t-shirt that reads, "I [heart] Mom."

This past week, I've been both suffering from a cold inherited from my generous children and packing up 30% of our household goods for a week long R&R.

Jail time with Martha Stewart is looking better every day.

Mama's Always White

As many of you know, my children have inherited their father's skin tone. White is not bright enough a color to describe their lack of pigmentation. These poor kids literally are devoid of any melanin whatsoever. They are negative factor melanin. It is a huge detriment here on the equator. Just to go outside for a short walk around the block requires me to slather loads of zinc oxide based skin block.

Last Saturday, we were supposed to go to the beach with another family. After heaping the sunblock on both the kids, loading the car including a huge cooler with food and drink, and packing enough change of clothes to keep a small country in the latest aloha fashions, we wound up staying home and watching Animal Planet while eating fruity snacks.

How did that happen, you ask? Well, Reilly rubbed her eyes. A simple enough action that caused the ruin of an entire beautiful Hawaiian day. She rubbed the sunblock straight into her eyes, irritating them so badly that it took 2 hours for her to stop crying and a 2 and a half hour nap for Mommy to recover from Mommy Guilt.

I'm in a damned if you do, damned if you don't quandary. If I don't put the sunblock around her eyes, they burn. I know. I've avoided her eye areas before. She burned. As any high school drop out turned cosmetic counter salesperson can tell you, the skin surrounding the eyes is the most delicate skin on the body. You burn that and, quite frankly people, you wind up looking like Katherine Hepburn by the age of 22. I don't want that on my conscience.

But if I put the damn stuff around her eyes, she winds up rubbing it into her tear ducts. Depending on how much of the gunk I slathered on, it can be a day breaker. Saturday, I doubled coated her.

Yesterday we tried again to go to the beach. It took a fifteen minute phone call with my mother to convince Reilly to even be in the room with me and the bottle of SPF 50. It took another full hour to get it on her. With a lot of care and cautious application, I did get the lotion on without it getting into her eyes or any other sensitive areas.

But here's the thing. I used this line to convince her that she needs the lotion: "You are special and need this lotion. You are white. White means you burn in the sun and you need lotion to protect you from burning." I repeated this over and over, varying it a bit each time.

"You have special white skin."

"You can burn and need lotion because of your special white skin."

"If we don't put the lotion on, the sun could hurt you because you are special."

Do you see where I'm going with this yet? By the time we got to the beach, Reilly Kate was repeating this to herself and anyone else who would listen. "I am white. I am special."

Huh? That isn't what I meant. Well, it is. But it isn't.

Here in Hawaii, we haoles (white people in Hawaiian) are in the minority. Bringing my children up with this unusual American experience is something I treasure. I believe it will lend to them a unique perspective about race and justice. I hope they come away richer, more textured, and more compassionate for it. Yet here's my daughter announcing to an entire beach where we are among just a few other haoles that she is special because she is white. I wanted to dig a sand hole with her little plastic shovel and crawl right into it.

In describing her as special I was meaning disadvantaged "special." In this day of political correctness we use the word "special" in Special Education. Special Education doesn't mean it is better or more elite. In fact, if you want to get right down to it, it means disadvantaged. There is no air of superiority surrounding a special ed class. If you are in Special Ed it's because you just can't hack the regular ed. We say quadriplegics are "special." Nobody's envying them, right?

I remember a kid I went to kindergarten with, David. David had horrible asthma and had to sit out games of kickball because he was "special." We all knew that David wasn't "special" in a good way. He was sickly and we sure as hell were glad we weren't him. And this was back in the 70s before "special" hit its full stride.

But here I've got my "special" because she is white and lives on the equator and could get skin cancer or wrinkles without the protection of a high SPF daughter walking around telling all our various neighbors and local beach goers that she is special because she is white. We're gonna be labeled "that KKK family." I just know it. I have visions of phone calls from her preschool teachers and angry parents of classmates.

She is a colorless girl living in a colored world. And all I wanted to do was put her stinking sunblock on. Maybe we should just stick to indoor activities. Like mall walking.

Good Morning Walmart

I had to go to Walmart this morning. I had to go early because I wanted to get my Martha Stewart supplies to craft myself another glorious Mother's Day. Read my post below for more on that.

We arrived around 8am. I hadn't brushed my teeth or Reilly's hair, but we were there early and I planned on whizzing through the store like a bee in a flower bed and being back at the ranch before 10am. That was the plan. And ya know what they say about plans... the best laid plans of mice and housewives often go straight to hell.

I started off by going over to the t-shirt section. I needed to get some plain old white t-shirts. As I am looking at the shirts, the bathing suits which were sinisterly displayed right behind me, caught my eye. I really need a new suit since we have a beach date planned with some bikini clad skinny moms on Wednesday. I look like a milk cow next to them, but at least if I had a new suit I could pretend like I fit in.

I was magnetically pulled over to the bathing suits with my daughter following behind me. She was pushing a hand basket across the wood flooring, scraping and scratching it with each step she took.

"Reilly, please pick up the basket."

"No." She no longer even pretends to obey me.

I was looking through bathing suits in sizes that a few years ago I didn't even know existed. It was so depressing. I wasn't in the mood to play around with my toddler and her shopping basket. I leaned down to pick up the basket. In an attempt to get away from my reach, she rammed my calf with it.

"Ouch!!" I cried out in genuine pain.

"What's wrong, Mama?" Her favorite question.

"You hit me with that basket. Now give me that." I said and took the basket away.

"What's wrong, Mama?" She asked again. This question is only fun if asked a minimum of ten times preferably in a 30 second time span.

"I just told you what was wrong, Reilly. Please, let me look at these bathing suits in quiet."

"What's wrong, Mama?"

"Please, Reilly."

"What's wrong, Mama?" She continued on for about two minutes like this. At about the one minute mark I quit playing.

Finally I found a couple of suits to try on and marched us all over to the fitting room. As I was starting to undress, Reilly switched gears.

"Whatchya doing?" she asked.

"Trying on bathing suits." I informed her little inquisitive mind.

"Trying on bathing suits?" She was requesting confirmation. Maybe I hadn't been as clear as I thought.

"Uh huh."

"Whatchya doing, Mama?" This is her second favorite repetitive grilling. This one also continues and is more fun when asked a minimum of 10 times in a 30 second time span.

"I just told you." I wasn't going to fall into her toddler lair.

"Trying on bathing suits?" I didn't respond. I just fell silent and continued disrobing. "Whatchya doing? Whatchya doing, Mama?" She continued, undaunted by my silence until she looked and saw Roman holding my bra up to his mouth.

"Roman! Don't do that rrrrrriiiiight nooooow!!!!! That's disgusting!!!" She ripped it out of his grasp so quickly that she didn't even have a good grip on it herself. It tumbled onto the ground and slid across the freshly waxed, shiny tile floor of the changing room and landed, I assume, somewhere near the feet of the attendant who so kindly giggled and then handed it over the door to me.

With a new bathing suit in the basket that Reilly was now carrying despite the fact that it was almost half her height, we headed over to the craft aisle. I needed felt for the inside of the never-to-be-made cigar box purses. As I am looking around, Roman begins fussing. I tried to sooth him by rocking the stroller a bit, but no dice. I figured he was ready for a little morning nap so I flipped the back to the stroller to get him in a lying down position. Unfortunately, the lever slid too quickly and fell backwards with a loud thunk and a shrieking cry.

All the other women in the craft department looked at me like I was Mommy Dearest or something. I don't know what all those women were doing in the craft section at that hour in the morning anyway. I don't know where their kids were. But they were there, six of them, all shooting eye daggers in my direction. One even gasped and then said to him, "Oh, my poor baby!" Who's baby? Who the hell are you, Miss Nosy Busy Body.

I picked up crying baby boy with the bonked head and that's when the smell hit me. And every other nose in the joint. He had a buttload of stink bomb poop in his diaper.

The same Miss Nosy Busy Body peeks over and says, "No wonder he was crying. I'd cry too if I had to sit in that."

Huh.

Then my daughter chimed in with her little rap that while painfully cute in the privacy of our own home is just plain painful in the craft section of Walmart at 8:30 in the morning with Miss Nosy Busy Body looking on.

"Who got the poops? Say it! Roman got the poops. Roman got the poops. Roman got the poops."

"How cute," drips Nosy Bee. "Even your daughter is telling you to change his diaper."

I managed to squeak out a weak smile while positioning Roman so as to not leak the slimy, mustard yellow baby poop on my shirt. I looked over at Reilly and she was now bouncing with her rhyme.

"Who's got the poops? Say it!" then she pointed to Nosy Bee who responded with,

"Roman's got the poops."

"Roman's got the poops. Roman's got the poops." The two, my traitor daughter and the childless Nosy Busy Body, rapped a poop duet to stinky, screaming, bonked head, dirty diaper boy with the unusually populated craft section looking on.

I clutched Reilly's hand mid rap and marched us all to the bathroom.

After I had Roman all cleaned up, I decided that it might be a good idea for Reilly Kate and I to use the toilet as well. I put her on first amidst cries of "No! Don't have to. I can't do that right now!" and "I can't want to use the potty!! I can't go pee pee! I can't!"

There she sat as time ticked on and my bladder got fuller and fuller. It is horrible to have to stand there waiting for your toddler to go while listening to other people going and toilets flushing and water running. I swear one day I will wet my pants in that situation.

About five minutes into Reilly's toilet protest, a woman came in who had, from the sounds and smell of it, a bad case of diarrhea. The poor woman must have been really suffering. Public bathrooms echo horribly as it is, but this particular bathroom, located near the layaway counter in the dead middle of the store, has almost no privacy. You can hear all that goes on inside from the outside.

Diarrhea woman let out volley number one followed by a courtesy flush. The second volley hit the toilet as the smell of volley number one hit the air. And then it hit Reilly.

"Mama! Someone is pooping in here!!!" her voice smacked the walls and reverberated throughout the bathroom, echoing loud enough that the workers at the lay away counter heard it all, I'm sure.

"Yes, Roman did poop in here." I was hoping to redirect her attentions.

"No! Not Roman. Some lady. She's in here. She's pooping. It's stinking. Some lady got stinky poops."

I heard someone in the bathroom laugh. I was crimson with embarrassment, my own and Diarrhea woman's.

"Roman did have stinky poops." I'm not sure why I think I can pull this off. Even if I succeeded in redirecting her attention, she speaks so clearly that no one would ever misunderstand her.

"Not Ro-MAN! No! Some lady. Right there!" she pointed at the stall wall. "Some lady right there has stinky poops. I can hear 'em." She loudly sniffed the air. "I can smell 'em!! Them's stinky!!"

There was more laughing from the bathroom.

I whispered in her ear in as harsh a tone a whisper will allow, "Stop that. That isn't nice. Just stop talking about it. Please."

She whispered back, as loudly as a whisper will allow, "No. Those are stinky poops. I can smell 'em. It's stinky in here." Then back to her normal thunderous volume, "Spray, Mama. Spray in here!" She pointed to some air freshener that was sitting on the toilet paper dispenser. Unfortunately, it was empty.

There was nothing I could do at this point. I quickly got her off the toilet and we left the bathroom with her talking about the stinky poops the whole time. I, by the way, still had a full bladder having not yet used the toilet myself.

As we exit, there were some workers sitting on a bench next to the bathroom door laughing their heads off. Reilly looked at them and pointed from where we just came.

"It's stinky in there. Some lady's got some stinky poops in there. Them's stinky!"

I pulled her arm and dragged her off as she was saying, "Spray's empty. Mama's gonna buy some spray for that lady's stinky poops. In there!!"

I didn't turn around, but I heard howling laughter behind me. I just hoped that Diarrhea woman didn't work in Lay Away.

When we had almost completed our shopping trip, I told Reilly Kate that we could go through the toy department. Reilly is very serious about toy shopping. She went up to each toy that interested her and discussed it's merits.

"This one's blue." "It's got dinosaurs on it." "The dog is pretty."

Then she saw it. An African American baby doll with little pig tails and a purple back pack. I immediately told her to put it back. We have about 25 dolls at home and she plays with just one. I was not about to buy and bring home another orphaned baby doll. No way.

We were just about to get knee deep into toy negociations when I spotted Disney dress up dresses for $20. My girlfriends have repeatedly told me to get Reilly Kate some dress up, pretend clothes and accessories. "She'll play by herself for hours," they tell me. "They may be expensive, but worth every penny," they reassure me.

I gravitated toward the Cinderella blue one with thoughts of a mini break this afternoon. My vision is filled with Reilly in her room, dancing with an imaginary prince at a make believe ball while I miraculously craft the Mother's Day gifts together making the 4pm postal deadline.

With a far off, dream like look in my eyes, I ran my hand over the Snow White red and blue signature garment. I only had one free hand, as I held a now clean diapered but still fussy Roman. I balanced the Sleeping Beauty pink lacey sparkle gown on a pinky and the Cinderella shiny, pale blue one on my forefinger. I turned toward Reilly and with a voice filled with hope and anticipation, I asked,

"Which princess gown would you like? Cinderella or --" I didn't get the chance to finish.

"No. I can't want that. I want my baby." She cuddled the little baby doll with the purple backpack while glaring an evil glare at my hopeful handful of play garments.

I was losing my afternoon dream. My chest started to tighten and my eyes filled with tears. "No. No. No. You want one of these. You want one. You like being the princess. These are princess dresses. Here. We'll try one on you." I quickly undid the velcro fasteners with trembling fingers and brimming eyes.

"I can't want that. No! No! Aaaaahhhhh aaaaahhhhh...." She took off running at a break neck speed, racing against me through the toy aisles, dodging the books and stuffies strewn about.

I shifted Roman under my arm like a football, and chased after her with cheap taffeta and fake sequins flying along beside me.

"You love Cinderella!" I called out to her. "Just try it on!!"

"My baby!!! My baby!! I want my baby" she answered, clinging desperately to the African American pigtailed doll as she sprinted through the video department.

I caught up with her over by electronics, right in front of the big screen TV's. I held her tight between my knees since I had no free hands. She was fighting like a crazed pig before the slaughter. I had the Cinderella dress undone and ready to put over her bobbing head as she screeched. "Please, no!! I want my baby. No dress. No Cinderella. NO!!!!"

A man's low, baritone voice stopped me as I was about to pop the pretend gown over her head. "She don't want that."

I looked up and saw an old man standing in front of the biggest television in the store. He was leaning against a rack of movies, wearing 100 year old flip flops and a t-shirt that read, "Eddie Would Go."

"She should watch this movie." As he talked, I noticed that a couple of his front teeth were missing. It made him lisp a little. "It's like Hawaiian."

I stopped what I was doing and watched the screen. It was a movie with ships and Russell Crowe. I flipped through my memory banks and replied, "It's Master and Commander, isn't it?" which is nothing like Hawaii, I wanted to add, but didn't.

"Yeah. Just like Hawaii. She don't want that thing. You put it back. She want to watch this movie. It like Hawaii."

And that was that. Reilly released the baby doll and I in turn released Reilly from the clutches of my knees. I shoved the doll along with the dress up gowns in with the work out videos while Reilly sat in front of the huge television next to toothless, old Hawaiian dude.

"I told you. She don't want that. She like this movie." He said again before drifting off to look at digital cameras.

I lured Reilly Kate away from the movie with the promise of a lollipop and we were back home a few minutes before noon. So much for a quick, early morning Walmart trip, eh?

I Love Mom, but Hate Mother's Day

Every damn year since Reilly Kate was born, I attempt to morph into Martha Stewart. This year was no different. No, I didn't do any insider trading or any other illegal activity. I tried crafting some Mother's Day gifts.

It started out simple enough. I was going to make a couple of nighties for my mom and grandma. The plan was to put some pictures of the kids on t-shirt nightgowns. I looked for months for the right kind of nighties, but could only find them on eBay for an outrageous sum of money. I shelled out the cash only begrudgingly. In my mind, crafting is not only supposed to personalize something. It should also save you money. I spent more than I intended and I still had to MAKE the damn things.

Then I got the brilliant idea to make totebags with the babes' photogenic mugs on them for their godmothers. I bought the canvas bags, washed them as instructed and they literally fell apart. I had to return them and buy different ones. Sadly, after printing out all the iron ons, I discovered that the canvas bags that don't fall apart are too textured to receive an iron on. The totes are now sitting in a pile under my bed.

The first Mother's Day of Reilly's life, I had done hand prints on polymer clay. I decided that, in the interest of fairness, I needed to do the same for Roman's first Mother's Day. I bought the clay and brought it home. I spent three hours kneading and rolling out, but the clay was too old and wouldn't soften up. I had to take it back. The teenager behind the counter said, "Nope. It was a sale item. All sales final. It's old. That's why it was on sale."

This I do not get. I mean, if they were selling sushi could they just sell me rancid fish and forget about it? I'm none too thrilled with this craft store. Sadly, there aren't a lot of craft stores here for me to chose from.

I bought more of the stuff at full price and some liquid drops that supposedly soften old polymer clay. It didn't' work. I spent three more hours today kneading and rolling to no avail. It is sitting in a technicolor clump in a ziplock baggy on my counter.

While at the craft store, I saw some cigar box purses. I thought that I could do the kids' pictures on these instead of the tote bags. I bought them at a hefty price. Plus, there's the lacquer stuff. Needed a gallon jug of that at a whopping price. Lugged all that crap home to find the hinges on the purses broken and no good. I'll have take those back to the same crap... I mean craft store.

At this point now I have no gifts for the godmothers.

I went today to Walmart and bought 80 more bucks worth of crafting supplies in an attempt to rectify some sort of gift for someone. I got more iron on sheets and some t-shirts. When I got them home, I realized I had bought the wrong iron ons. I needed the sheets for white t-shirts. These are for black shirts.

Oh, and I bought a coloring kit. It has special paper and crayons and the kids can color it and then you iron it onto a shirt. I thought I'd do this for my mom's nightie. Nope. RK peeled all the labels off the crayons, broke most of them in half, and then mixed them up with her other crayons in her coloring box. I'm not about to go through 457 crayons and crayon bits in an attempt to locate which are the special iron on crayons. Another 15 bucks down the tubes.

So far, I'm down about 200 American greenbacks with nothing to send out for Mother's Day. If you are some sort of maternal relation to my children, well, this is for you: Happy Mother's Day. I'll be wearing my I [Heart] Mom shirt on Sunday just for you. That's all your getting. Martha's in jail and I'm done.

So What's Eating Rome?

For some reason, I thought Roman would take to food much quicker and with more enthusiasm than Reilly Kate did. I don't know why I thought this. I guess because he is a boy. I figured that he would grow big and strong and eat whole tomatoes like his father before him.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Quite to the contrary, Roman's reaction to his first bit of food was actually much worse than Reilly's first bite. She wasn't that interested, focused more on the picture of a rocking horse on her high chair than the spoon I was shoving in her mouth. She pushed the rice cereal gruel out of her mouth with her tongue, but opened her mouth up for the next bite to push out. Eventually, after weeks of this, she clammed her mouth shut to food and didn't open it again until she was almost a year old. But at least for a small period of time, she willingly allowed food to enter her system.

Last week Roman turned 5 months and I bought a box of rice cereal. I excitedly milked myself into a bowl (no, that is not a typo -- I did MILK myself -- think cow and pail but the cow has hands and no need of the farmer), mixed my milk with some of the cereal to form a soupy gruel, lined up the cameras, and spooned him his first bite of food.

Immediately, his face skewed up into a grimace as if I had just put a rotten, sour lemon into his mouth. He pushed it all out of his mouth and let out a whine. Undeterred, I tried again. Again, he pushed it out and let out a bigger whine. His facial expression had turned from a grimace into a look of pain. I got concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with it so I took a bite. No, nothing wrong with it provided you are a fan of raw human breastmilk -- which most assuredly Roman is.

I tried for a third time. This time he shrieked, grabbed the spoon with his right hand, my hair in left and yanked hard on both. I pried open the hand with my hair, worried that he might pull it out leaving me with a nice bald patch. While I was occupied with that, Roman took the opportunity to steal the full spoon away from me. Once I had my hair back, he looked right at me and flung the spoon across the room. The soupy mess went flying all over the kitchen, dining area and even into the livingroom. Again, Truman McFatty (the ever dieting dachshund) was there to lend a hand with the clean up.

I'm thinking that Roman is not so crazy about rice cereal. Next I'm gonna try bananas. Truman likes bananas, I think.