This is the kind of shit that can only happen to me

Mike bought me a beautiful watch for my birthday. It's a Bulova with 16 diamonds (my birthday is the 16th of February). I love it. I wear it every day. I just don't use it.

When we moved to Hawaii, I got pregnant within a few weeks. I never held a job while we lived there. I lived on Hawaiian time which requires no watch. It's a laid back, I'll get there when I can kind of living. I threw my watch away and didn't miss it for a minute.

Now we're back on the mainland where the kids have to be involved in a minimum of two activities or they'll never get into to preschool, let alone a good college. People live by time, checking their watches throughout the day and running around like a people living on their last few moments. It's nuts.

And I've fallen right into it.

So I have this watch, right. And I don't use it. Mike asked me yesterday if I was liking my watch and I fessed up that I really haven't even used it, although I wear it daily. I have even gone so far as opening my cell phone to check the time before remembering that I have my gorgeous watch on my wrist. I live off of surrounding clocks and I run around like a person living on her last moments.

He wisely suggested that I try to remember to check my watch and that perhaps I would find myself running on schedule. And so, I tried.

I put my watch on post shower as usual. But this time, I looked at the time, and each time I went to do something else like clean baby poop off the carpet or remove mud from Truman's mouth (yes, he's taken to eating mud now instead of $80 video games, thank god!), I would check my watch.

It's the most amazing thing, people. A watch. A clock readily available to tell me what time it is. And the most amazing and truly liberating thing happened. I was not just on time, I was early. As I herded up the youngin's and got them out the door, I happily looked down at my watch and saw that I was about 3 minutes ahead of my usual time to leave. This meant that I could actually do the speed limit and I wouldn't have to scream at my children to click themselves into their seats faster and I could actually stop at stop signs instead of just rolling through them. I was over the moon.

Then I started the engine and out of habit checked the clock on the stereo. It read 9:58. Roman's swimming lessons started at 10AM. I shook my head and looked again, just in case, you know, I had a screw loose or something that made me see 9:58 when in reality it was really 9:42 as my watch so lovingly told me. Sadly, I when I looked up the damn clock read 9:59. I looked down at my watch and I swear I saw it smiling at me, smiling a beautiful yet deceiving 9:42. Wicked, wicked watch.

Refusing to believe it, however, I ran back inside (not just to check the watch, mind you, but because I also forgot to pack Roman's towel). All the fucking clocks now read 10:00, on the nose. I sprinted into the van, screaming at the kids to buckle up, popped that puppy into gear, and sped away doing well over the speed limit and rolling through stop signs. We made it to his lesson in five minutes, including the race from the parking lot, through the recreation center and the steamy locker room, into the pool area in, carrying the baby in her carseat, the swimming bag, the diaper bag, the towel, and a partridge in a pear tree.

It would have made a delightful story to share with the other Tuesday/Thursday swimming moms, but, unfortunately for me, they're all bitches. So I just sat mumbling to myself and giggling. They probably think I'm suffering from delusions... delusions of punctuality.

But still, it's a really pretty watch.

Bad dog. Bad day.

You know it's going to be a bad, bad day when it starts off with this:

"Mom! Truman ate Roman's LMAX."

And sure enough, the day continued as the early morning predicted. I couldn't find Roman's swim trunks so he had to wear a pair two sizes too small. The van was on empty and, in fact, still is. And the interior of my house is entirely yellow, with the exception of my pink bedroom. It just pisses me off.

Woe to the few people that called me today and attempted to lighten my mood. I argued against my own statements... within five minutes of making them. And bit the head off of anyone who tried to agree with me.

And I'm sick of stinking. It's like being stalked by an old sweaty dairy farmer who had to milk the whole herd single handedly in scorching heat and then threw up on himself. Every where I go, there's that smell... because, well, that smell is eminating from me. Showers do little to help. Ah, yes, envy me.

I washed just about every single dish I own today and somehow still have a stack in the sink. And my kids toss their garbage on the floor all over the house like they're starring in a PSA on littering. Laundry, I'm convinced, procreates on its own which is kind of disturbing as it's being done in my kids' bedroom while they sleep. I miss Almin.

The worst part of the day is that that damn, fucking dog ate a fucking hand held video game and made it through without even so much as a stomach ache. Fucker.

Memorial Day

Sometimes all you need to say is in a picture.

25 Signs You're a Grown Up or 25 Signs I need to Grow Up

I got this list in an email and found myself shaking my head to almost the whole list. I think it's worse that I it seems at 36 I'm desperately trying to cling to my youth...

Here's my edited version:

1. Your house plants are alive, and you can't smoke any of them.

All my houseplants ARE dead and I've thought about smoking them. The lone cigarette that's been sitting in my coat pocket for a year screams my name daily and when it gets really bad I think, "Can one smoke african violets legally in this state ?"

2. Having sex in a twin bed is out of the question.

Having sex in a king sized bed is out of the question with three kids and a dog in between the two of us. Sex in the family room is completely possible provided I can stay awake long enough.

3. You keep more food than beer in the fridge.

I do keep more food in my fridge than I do beer. That's why I gots me a BEER fridge. And that puppy is full of beer. And, of course, 2% milk for the kids.

4. 6:00 AM is when you get up, not when you go to bed.

Sometimes, for me, it is both.

5. You hear your favorite song on an elevator.

This hasn't happened to me yet. I think of myself as pretty hip in the music department. I have to tell ya, my ring tone is "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me" by the Pussycat Dolls which I thought was highly amusing when I was heavy with an 11lb baby and a 52" waist.

6. You watch the Weather Channel.

I don't think we have the Weather Channel. I don't need it. I send RK out every morning to see what it's like. If I need more, I do as our internet savvy prez does, I hop on the Google.

7. Your friends marry and divorce instead of hook up and break up.

This one I'll grant you. But I've got to add that they still hook up which is probably contributing to the divorce rate. Oh, and then they remarry. And still hook up.

8. You go from 130 days of vacation time to 14.

Where the hell do I go to get this 14 days of vacation time? Is there an HR department around here? I'm going to go look in the basement. I bet that's where Mike's got it hidden.

9. Jeans and a sweater no longer qualify as "dressed up."

If they are free of baby poop and puke and spit and... well, basically if they are devoid of all bodily fluids and... ummm... solids, then they qualify alright. It's just that it's pretty fucking hard to be free of all those things for more than 10 minutes.

10. You're the one calling the police because those damn kids next door won't turn down the stereo.

If they're waking up my kids during Mommy's free time, then you are GOD DAMNED RIGHT I AM! If, however, it is during the day, then I'm thrilled. The louder the better so I can't actually hear my kids fighting and trying to kill one another.

11. Older relatives feel comfortable telling sex jokes around you.

I'll do you one better. My grandfather, the first time he held Irina, said, "Whoa. She's heavy." Then holding up is hands in a circle the size of a basketball said, "That hole must have been this big!"

I leaned in to him and said, "Yep. It sure was when she came out. But thanks to Kegels, you could hardly get a pencil in there now." His jaw dropped that I would say such a thing. But I didn't stop there. Oh, no. Not I. "That's right. I've got more tricks than a Thai whore."

12. You don't know what time Taco Bell closes anymore.

Hello? I was just pregnant. Midnight hunger. New baby. Up late. Don't want to cook a thing. Hell yeah I know what time Taco Bell closes and it is NEVER!

13. Your car insurance goes down and your payments go up.

Not sure about this. I'll have to go find the accounting office. Probably near the HR department.

14. You feed your dog Science Diet instead of McDonalds leftovers.

Oh, no. Mama's babies have NEVER eaten McCrap. No, no. I'll feed that shit to the human babes, but like hell with holy water will I ever allow that waste to enter the mouths of my dear dogs. Of course, Truman eats his own shit. But he's more Reilly Kate's dog.

15. Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.

If I didn't sleep on the couch while nursing I would be lacking those three precious hours I get each night.

16. You no longer take naps from noon to 6 PM.

Never been a napper. Sleeps for the dead, I always say. I saw on a barista's apron a slogan that I've adopted, "Life's short. Stay awake."

17. Dinner and a movie is the whole date instead of the beginning of one.

Oh, are you talking about the mac & cheese, chicken nuggets, and broccoli we just had followed by a half hour of Dora? Is that it?

18. Eating a basket of chicken wings at 3 AM would severely upset, rather than settle, your stomach.

Food doesn't upset my stomach. Not having food upsets my stomach. See above post regarding Taco Bell.

19. You go to the drug store for ibuprofen and antacid, not condoms and pregnancy tests.

Umm... no, I do go for condoms and pregnancy tests. And the occasional hemorrhoid cream. Hey, I had an 11lb baby!!!

20. A $4.00 bottle of wine is no longer "pretty good stuff."

If I'm drinking it straight out of the bottle, I'm sure it's "pretty good stuff."

21. You actually eat breakfast food at breakfast time.

I eat whatever, whenever. I think people who need breakfast food are rigid and inflexible and probably vote Republican. Besides, what besides coffee does one really need in the morning anyway?

22. "I just can't drink the way I used to," replaces, "I'm never going to drink that much again."

At this point in my life, I usually say both. That's really pathetic, eh?

23. 90% of the time you spend in front of a computer is for real work.

Well, yeah. 90% of the time I'm in front of the computer I'm lactating which falls within my job description.

24. You no longer drink at home to save money before going to a bar.

I no longer get to go to a bar. Hence I've installed a bar in my home. Now I drink at the bar and need only stumble mere feet to sleep on the couch. It's a beautiful thing. And once I've rolled those african violets into stogies, it'll be even better.

25. You read this entire list looking desperately for one sign that this doesn't apply to you.

I read this whole list and thought how pathetic it is that I'm 36 and don't agree with most of it. I need to grow up. I must still think I'm 25. Fortunately, I have mirrors to keep me grounded. Damn those things.

Quote of the Day

"Play dead."

-- Reilly Kate upon being asked what she should do if someone were to try to steal her or her siblings. My Mr. Stranger Danger talks aren't working so well, I guess.

Blog blog blog

I'm a sucky blogger. If the blogosphere was a high school, I'd be the class dork who eats lunch with the hall monitors, gets lost and walks into the wrong class, and has a boyfriend in Canada who just couldn't make it to prom. Now that I think of it, I think that was me in high school, too.

I've never really clicked with other bloggers. I don't really read blogs. I once tried my hand at a blog community and made a few blog friends, but they all rightfully drifted off when I stopped reading and commenting on their blogs. All but Thordora over at vomitcomit. She must really love dorks 'cause she's never left. God bless her. And if you want to see how a real blog looks, head on over. It's all neat and organized with links and such. I'd put her link up, but I haven't a clue how.

The reality is that things are pretty hum drum around here. I've received many compliments on my writing and suggestions that I try to publish some of this drivel. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, but as Mike was driving around the other day seeing how the higher ups live, he came home and demanded that this blog start bringing in some money.

A blog that can bring in money? Is that possible?

I did a little surfing and found not only is it possible, my friends, there are some really less than literate mommies out there doing just that. Crazy.

So, I'm thinking this place is in need of a face lift. I have a problem when it comes to html -- I can't html my way out of a paper bag. Not that one would need to html one's way out of a paper bag. But, if I did need to, I wouldn' be able to. Don't suggest a class (as Mike so brilliantly did). I don't have the time to learn. Basically I need someone or some team of ones that does this type of thing. Make me a pretty blog. Transfer all my archives over to the new blog. Get me a .com address. I've googled some companies and may contact them, but I'd employ a mom who does this kind of thing at home to earn some extra money. If anyone knows of anyone or has used someone to have this done, let me know.

Lastly, it seems that many blogs around the net have give aways. That's right. All you have to do is comment and you get entered into a raffle to win stuff. I don't know where they get the stuff, but they get stuff, good stuff, and give it away.

Well, I don't have stuff. But I got several things just as good as stuff. I've got a husband, three kids, and two dogs. All going up for raffle. First out the door... er... I mean, the first prize to be raffled off is MY HUSBAND. He's good at... stuff. He's got his own... stuff. And he's... he's... a good driver and... umm... he... sits well. And reads. And he can sit and read at the same time. He comes complete with clothes, uniforms, dress clothes, and gardening attire. He's potty trained, meaning he puts down the seat. And sometimes even loads the dishwasher. Yep. Some lucky reader out there is going to be lucky. Just your luck. Enter to win!

Leave me a comment and you may be the lucky winner. Go ahead show me some love! I dare ya.

Love it

Someone mistook me for a teenaged babysitter today. I heard him ask Reilly Kate, "Do you have a babysitter now?"

"No," she told him.

"Well, who's that in your house? Looks like a babysitter," he insisted.

"Who? That? That's just my MOM!" she giggled.

Of course, that someone was Kevin from Planet Weird so I'm not so sure I should take the compliment seriously. Perhaps he's trying to just butter me up and get on my good side.

They're still at their over the fence summer courtship. Every single day he comes out and sits on his swing, the two of them talking. Every single day he invites her to hop the fence and come swing on his swing. Every day I tell her no, his yard isn't fenced in, she is only five and therefore cannot go over to his yard. Yesterday I even invited him over to ours. I felt all warm and fuzzy after his mistaking me for a teenager. But he's far too shy or something for that.

"No thank you," drawing out the last two words with such a strange emphasis I know there is more to it. Perhaps it violates some mating custom on their planet.

Speaking of folks from Planet Weird, Reilly Kate and Roman were discussing who her boyfriend really is.

"You're boyfriend is Kevin," said my three and a half year old boy. I just have to wonder where the hell he even heard such a term and how he figured out what it meant. And what floozy is he the boyfriend to?

Anyway, Reilly Kate adamantly denied Kevin was her boyfriend.

"Then John's your boyfriend," Roman said with confidence. John is a nice little boy that is in Reilly Kate's swimming class. Very cute and nice and normal. It'd never work between them.

She denied John, too.

"Then who, Tutu? Who's your boyfriend?" It seemed Roman really wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery man.

"My boyfriend is Brett and he's a grown up."

I'm so glad Brett's on the other side of the planet, modelling his way through Asia. I'm sure he's glad of it, too. Poor guy. I didn't have the heart to break it to Reilly Kate that Brett already has a girlfriend and that she too is a grown up.

I wonder if Kevin knows about Brett. I wonder if there's dueling on the Planet Weird. This summer romance is shaping up to be quite the drama as seen from my backyard deck. Stay tuned....

Artwork by RK

A beach ball with some dog poop. Of course. What else would one want for Mother's Day?

Golden Slumber

A friend of a friend. A flimsy connection. Wouldn't know her if she bumped right into me. But my heart aches, my soul weeps. For her. I mourn. With her. She lost her 5 month old baby girl. On Mother's Day. Not that it would have mattered what day. Mother's Day.

The sweet innocence of a new life shattered. A bright future burned out before the flame could even flicker. A daddy without his girl. Two sisters without their third. A mother whose milk doesn't know to quit flowing. Faith shattered. What was God thinking?

A baby laid in their arms only to be ripped away mere months later. A sweet faced girl never to grow into beauty. Promises of kindergarten graduation, a drivers license, first loves, growing old, getting wrinkles and gray hair... all broken by a peaceful death in her sleep a hundred years too soon.

As my baby lies next to me each night, I lean in and whisper, "Don't leave us. Stay, sweet love. Stay." It's a fear all mothers have. It is now one mother's reality. Her baby drifted off, too far to ever come back. If only they came with anchors to our hearts.

What was God thinking? To take one child away will force the rest of us to appreciate what we have a little more? Perhaps. I had a bit more patience today. My love flowed a little freer. I took more pictures. A lot more. Maybe that was little Abby's destiny. We all must meet it. Some just sooner than others.


Golden slumber kiss your eyes,
Smiles await you when you rise.
Sleep,
pretty baby,
Do not cry,
And I'll sing you a lullaby.

Care you know not,
Therefore sleep,
While I o'er you watch do keep.
Sleep,
pretty darling,
Do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.


If you are so moved, memorials can be made to the DuPage Community Foundation, Attn: Abigail Catherine Mueller Children's Fund, 2100 Manchester Rd, Building A, Suite #303, Wheaton, IL 60187.

Dr. Who?

The new chiropractor is working out well. At the first visit, I walked in with my entourage of two kids whose volume level shakes skyscrapers, a wailing, hungry baby, and big, droopy, leaking boobs. He greeted me with, "Don't worry. I have three kids, too."

Thank god!

The receptionists helped watch them while I got xrayed. Yes, I finally consented to xrays. What can I say? He was very convincing. And it doesn't hurt that he's cute, too. Oh, haven't I mentioned that he's cute? Yeah. Adorable. Smokin' bod. Gorgeous eyes. Sparkling smile. He even smells good. It totally sucks.

I hate good looking doctors and if I had the time, I'd run for office just so I could propose legislation that would outlaw good looking people from practicing medicine. There really is NOTHING worse than standing bare but for a hospital gown, big saggy tits drooping down to the waistline, fleshy belly hanging loosely, dimpled ass sticking out the back, while a spiffly dressed, slickly coiffed, hard bodied Dr. Studly Hotterson does his examination. Or, in my case, redoes the xrays as he explains "You're just too thick to get accurate xrays. We'll have to retake them from a different angle and hope for the best."

Yeah, mortifying.

It reminds me of an incident I had once with a dermatologist. You see, I had this mole. It was down... down there... in the nether regions. It was big and growing. It looked just like those moles they print in pamphlets and leave lying around tanning booths. I'd ignored it, let it go and let it go. I really did not want to go in to have it examined. I just kept envisioning the scenario.

The doctor walks in and says, "What can I do for you today, Ms... [looks down at the chart] Peet?"

"Well, doctor, I've got a little something I'd like you to have a look at. If you'd just come just come a little closer [as I spread open my legs]... No, no, closer, Doc! You're gonna have to get a lot closer. It's down here. Just take a peak. Come on! Just a peak!"

So you see, I really dreaded the whole thing.

Finally, one day, I mustered up the courage and pulled out the preferred provider list from our insurance. It listed all the dermatologists in the Tampa Bay area. I decided the least painful way this whole mole exam could play out was if the doctor I went to was an old, crinkled up man with hardly any memory left. I scanned the list over and again for about an hour searching for a name that said I'm over 70 with one foot in the nursing home and I'll never remember your face if I see you on the street. I found a mile long Greek name that just screamed out OLD. It was something like Wrinkledupolis Oldmanos. I called, made my appointment, and showed up on the prescribed day.

After taking off all my clothing and doffing the flimsy paper gown I'd been handed, I settled in on the exam table, complete with comfy paper liner. I sat swinging my legs and trying to keep my mind on things going on at work (I was working on a pretty big political campaign at the time). Then came that simultaneous knock and walk that doctors are infamous for. I looked up fully expecting to see Wrinkledupolis and was met face on with Adonis.

Oh my god, was he a fine looking man. One of the best I've ever met. So fine that I wanted to jump down off the table and make a run for it, but I didn't want to go back to the office without my clothes on. I resisted the urge to scream out, "I've been duped! Where's the old man? Get me a doctor over 60! How dare you be so hot!" Instead, I turned a shade of crimson not easily found in nature and began to tell him my tale of the yoni mole.

"Well, let's have a look at that mole, then," he said.

I wanted to die.

While he removed the mole he asked me what I did for a living and we immediately started talking politics. Lucky me. Not only was the doctor who was removing the grotesque mole from my privates Hotty McStud instead of the Shrivel Prunerson I'd ordered, but it seemed Hotty McStud was a Democratic contributor. Most excellent. Oh, and isn't that interesting, he knows my boss. How lovely. Yes, yes, in fact, he knows quite a few of the people I work with. Gee, great.

"Would you please take your robe off so I can do a total body mole check?" he asked.

There I stood, naked as the day I came into the world as he chatted up about the recent Democratic races.

"Do you know about the golf fundraiser tomorrow?" he inquired as he inspected my skin for any suspicious lesions.

"Yes, I'm on the planning team," I told him while trying not to exhale as I sucked in my belly and prayed to die.

"Great, will I see you there?"

"I'm sure. I'll be there all day. Find Bob and you'll find me," I informed him while making a note of staying as far away from Bob as possible.

"Cool. I'm on a team with some college friends of mine," he said, then added, "Could you lift your breasts so I can check underneath."

I did as I was told. I stood there, freaking butt ass naked, one breast in each hand, hoisted up high so that the hottest doctor in all of Florida could peer under in search of moles. And if that wasn't enough, then came the corker.

"I'll buy you a drink tomorrow and you can tell me all about what it is you do," he said, taking a break from his search to flash me a Ken doll grin and a wink.

Needless to say, I spent the whole next day hiding, literally hiding from the man. I'd jump into the bathroom, hide behind people bigger than me. At one point I even held up a golf bag in front of me just to get out of his line of sight.

And I never, never, ever went back to any dermatologist again.

The mole, by the way, was benign despite its appearance -- which makes the whole fucking doctor's visit even more of a tragedy that could have been avoided.

So far so good with the chiropractor, though. His good looks are off set by his fatherhood and understanding of my beasts. We'll see how long this all lasts.

Funsday

As we drove across the country we saw lots of cars towing campers and fishing boats and all kinds of outdoor activities going on. When we passed a couple of blokes in a boat casting their lines without a care in the world, or at least looking like they were at rate, Mike said, "I'd like to do that."

"Do what?" I asked, not quite comprehending what it was he wanted to do as we are not what you'd call outdoorsy types.

"Go fishing," he replied.

"Fishing? You don't fish," I said while scanning my brain for any memories I might have of him involving the drowning of worms as a recreational pastime.

"I use to," he said looking off into a time gone by, stored somewhere in the recesses of his aging brain. "I'd like to fish again sometime."

"Well, then, go fishing sometime," I told him. With a giggle I added, "In your spare time. The 5th Grunsday after next is a bit free."

"There are a lot of hobbies I'd like to pick up again," he said, thoughtfully. "I need a day for fun stuff. Hmmmm... I'll call it Funsday!"

And then he proceeded to serenade me the remainder of the 14 hour long trip to his own version of Manic Monday. It went a little something like this:

Just another manic Grunsday
Wish it were a Funsday
'Cause that's my fun day
My I don't have to run day
It's just another manic Grunsday

He really thinks he's clever. He sang and laughed and sang and laughed. I started to wish I had a set of earphones to the DVD player so like the kids, I too could tune into 14 straight hours of Rolie Polie Olie instead of the manic Grunsday Funsday comedy show.

Is it any wonder I'm just this side of being medicated?

Roadies!

We went on a covert mission on Friday to give my mom a heart attack - because what else would we give her for Mother's Day? Mike and I and the kids road tripped our way to Southern Illinois University for my youngest brother's graduation. We didn't tell a soul except my other brother and his wife and we only told them because we're staying at their house. Hell, I didn't even tell the blog.

It was a 14 hour drive that the kids were excited to take. They'd never had the opportunity to drive that far before. Think about it. They lived on a small island that takes about an hour and a half to drive around completely. Then they lived in a major Asian metropolitan area in which you could drive for fourteen hours, but you'd still be mere blocks from home, stuck in a traffic jam that's a daily reality. Needless to say, they were excited.

We started off our trip pumping our fists in the air and yelling out "Road trip!" Well, all of us except Reilly Kate because she just couldn't be bothered.

Then about six hours into it, we stopped for gas and when we hit back on the highway, Mike and I pumped our fists and yelled "Road trip!"

Roman responded with "Airplane trip." Gone was the glee, the excitement, the fist pumps. He wanted to find an airport and hop on a plane for the rest of the trip.

By twelve hours, we turned back to the carseated ones and chirped "Road trip."

Reilly Kate wouldn't even look at us, so pissed off was she. Roman, with his mean face on, glared and yelled back, "Road poop!"

I guess they may be world travellers, but truckers they'll never make.

Things aren't always what they seem

The butt crack is a bonus. Adds a little somethin' special, don't ya think?


This a "like father, like son" story. One of my mother-in-law's favorite stories about Mike was when he was about Roman's age. It seemed wee Mike had a fascination with trucks, which he pronounced just as Roman. One day when they were leaving church, he looked out and there was a large truck going down the street. He yelled out, "Look at the big FUCK!" And then he pointed...just as a large fat man crossed his path, stopping right in front of aforementioned pointed finger.

And now you all know the story of the Big Fuck.

Summer lovin', happened so fast

I do believe Reilly Kate has a c-r-u-s-h on the neighbor boy, Kevin.

We met Kevin when we first moved in, but haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. Or anyone in the neighborhood for that matter. I'm assured that everyone is holed up their houses as a result of frigid temperatures and not a reaction to us. You can't help but wonder, though. Since the weather has turned nice, Kevin has been out in the backyard, swinging on his swing. We still haven't seen any of the other neighbors. Still holed up, I guess.

Kevin is a nice, 9 year old boy. And if I were 5 I'd think he was absolutely hunka hunka. He's got nice eyes and a great smile. Plus, he's weird. A perfect match for Reilly Kate. Mike stood out there one day as the two were talking over the fence (his house is behind ours so our backyards are only separated by a dilapidated split rail fence) and said it sounded like two aliens from the planet Weird.

Now, I don't use the term "weird" lightly or derogatory. There are variations of weird. Weird can be great. Or it can be just weird. Reilly Kate is weird weird with a streak of great weird that flares up occasionally. Kevin too seems to be weird weird. On first impression, he seems almost autistic. Perhaps he is. It's not something you really ask another parent.

"By the way, your kids seems a little off. Is he a 'tard?"

No, that wouldn't win me any popularity contests. So I ain't askin'. I'll just do my own observations and come to my own conclusions and keep them to myself. And this blog. Which is easily found with a quick Google to my name which is all over this here blog. Yeah, I guess I'm broadcasting this to all who cross my path and have access to the internet, which is everyone not living in a third world country. Shit. No wonder I'm not so popular.

Okay, back to the c-r-u-s-h. Every night we've been eating our dinner outside on the old deck. It's been beautiful, bugless weather which I figure we might as well enjoy while it's here. All through dinner Reilly Kate talks so loudly it's as if her mouth were a bullhorn.

"Mmmm... this dinner is GOOD. I bet KEVIN would love it. KEVIN loves dinner. And worms. KEVIN loves worms. I bet KEVIN will be coming out soon. KEVIN goes to all day, every day school. KEVIN's in 3rd grade. But KEVIN is home from school now. And KEVIN will be coming out any minute now."

And sure enough, before dinner is over, Kevin is there on his swing swinging. And saying, "Hello. Hello. Hello," over and over and over. He'll keep going until everyone in his view says "Hello" back to him. It's a bit annoying. Plus, he has taken a shine to Alyx, our German Shepard Dog. He was terrified of her at first, but now, for whatever reason, has decided she is his buddy. "Alyx. Alyx. Alyx. Alyx." over and over and over until she finally comes up to the fence. Then as soon as she leaves, it's "Alyx. Alyx. Alyx. Alyx," all over again.

Reilly Kate then finishes her dinner and runs between her swing in our yard and the fence that separates ours from his. Back and forth. The two swing and talk. Like Mike said, two aliens from the planet Weird.

It never dawned on me that Reilly would have a c-r-u-s-h on Kevin. I don't know what I was thinking, but I really thought that 5 was a bit young for that. Then again, at 5 I was in love with Shawn Cassidy and Mickey Melfi, a childhood friend I was determined to marry, keeping Shawn as a part time lover. I would cry when Mickey had to be dropped off at kindergarten, fearing that he'd marry one of his schoolyard playmates. 'Cause you know all those kindergarten "playmates" are just whores after my man.

Yesterday Reilly Kate came running up to me, a love struck, silly grin plastered on face. "Mama! My secret plan is working," she whispered.

"What secret plan?" I asked.

"My secret plan to get Kevin out here."

"Does your secret plan involve shouting his name all through dinner?" I inquired.

"No. Of course not," she replied and went off running up the hill toward the fence. As she ran she spread her arms out wide and yelled, "Kevin! I'm poetry! I'm POETRY!"

"Your what?" he asked.

"I'm POETRY!!" she explained.

"I'm cannonball. CANNONBALL," was his reply.

"Me, too. I'm cannonball and poetry."

And on like that the aliens from the planet Weird went, doing their strange courting ritual. I'm just glad it hasn't progressed to the exchanging of worms. Although, I did notice Reilly Kate digging up a special few and setting them aside the other day. It can't be too far off.

I've been robbed!

This being my last baby, I kinda hoped to have one of those itsy bitsy teeny weeny babies. You know, the ones that everyone goes "Oh, my GOD! She's sooooo tiny!! Just like a little doll." But, I got behemoth baby. Which is fine since what she lacks in petiteness (is that even a word?), she makes up for in beauty (she is after all her mother's daughter!).

As a big baby, one might assume that she then would naturally be slower to start her mobility. This would be my trade off. She might be big, but she won't be all grown up and sitting up and walking and stuff. Bigger babies have more to balance and more weight to bear and a harder time orchestrating all that. Right?

Guess not.

So, who does that remind you of? I'll give you a hint. Look here.

I'll have to go back and check the baby book, but this might even be earlier than RK. What, oh what am I in for now?

I know what. I'm in for a double scotch. Neat. That's what.