Eyeball Assault

I was assaulted at the YMCA  yesterday in a very terrible way.  I was about to drop Eva off at Child Watch so I could workout when I noticed her shorts were wet.  I didn’t want to be one of those parents who leaves a dirty diaper for someone else to change so I ducked into the family locker room to slap a clean diaper on her.  I’m going about my business, pointing out the aquatic animals on the wall mural to Eva, when out walks a naked man from the showers.  A naked, old man.  And I mean old, like wrinkled skin hanging so low from his knees I was surprised he didn’t trip on it. 

He had a towel covering his giblets but the moon was full and bright.  He had the towel wedged beneath his chin and was fiddling with shampoo and a loofah in his hands as he waltzed by.  Here’s an idea: wrap the towel securely around your body, fasten it with duct tape, a safety pin, your hand, anything to hold it in place, get your toiletries in order and then exit the shower.  The fire alarm wasn’t sounding, there was no tornado warning, we weren’t instructed to quickly exit the building, the guy had time to properly fortify his nethers before assaulting an innocent bystander with his Day-Glo bum.  He obviously hasn’t seen his backside or he wouldn’t have thought holding the towel only out front was sufficient. 

If I was a pervert, I could have locked in on a juicy side view of his frontal bits.  I, however, am not a pervert so I did not do this.  I learned as a child the proper way to peep at male genitalia; by gawking at photos in an old anatomy and physiology textbook my parents saved from college.  This is also how I learned about Elephantiasis, skin boils, and birth defects.  Had my locker room compadre had his identity obscured by a large, black censor bar over his eyes like the textbook pictures, I would have been more comfortable peeking at his man parts.     

I tried to act like I wasn’t creeped out but I’m sure my face said differently.  I couldn’t erase the horror from my eyes. 

And?  Eva’s diaper wasn’t even wet.  She had just spilled water on her shorts. 

I’m glad I could have my retinas burned for nothing.

The Signal

Eva and I apparently have an understanding.  When she’s done eating, she thinks I want her to dump her uneaten morsels of food onto the floor.  Eva likes to keep things adventurous and make sure I have plenty of chores.  Sometimes she will hang her hand over the side of her chair and look me in the eye while she dumps the food.  That usually doesn't end well for her.  Yet the game continues.

Done with cereal.

 

Done with lunch.

I’m done with mopping.  Forever.

Temptation

I bought ice cream at the grocery store today.  I went in for milk but ice cream seemed prudent also.  So prudent that I bought 2 containers.

I can’t stop thinking about the ice cream sitting in the freezer.   Michael is at work for a couple more hours and then he has an appointment.  It could be nightfall before I get a taste.  I could have a breakdown waiting that long.  I would just go for it and have a bowl, but I told Michael about the ice cream.  He’ll know if I’ve dug in without him.

Darn me and my big, fat blabber mouth.

Time Warp

I’m finding it impossible to leave the house on time.  I wanted to leave this morning to go workout at 8:45.  The actual time I left was 9:28.  It’s exasperating.

During the 45 minute delay Eva pooped her pants, refused to let me comb her hair, had a time out, threw all of her cut-up pear onto the floor, pulled half of the dental floss out of the container, tried to eat cough drops, successfully ate the snack I had packed for the gym, and removed her shoes.  I was tired before I even began.

New strategy. 

I’m converting to Hermit-ism.  Come visit once in a while. 

Manly Tools

I’m working on a project for Eva’s bedroom and it involves attaching a wooden letter to fabric.  I was pondering over the best approach and asked Michael for his opinion.  His response was to use a glue gun. I told him I didn’t want to purchase a glue gun just for this one project.  You see, I can be crafty when the need arises, but I’m not crafty at heart.  I don’t necessarily enjoy it and I certainly don’t subscribe to emails from Craft Warehouse or Hobby Lobby.  I’m not a glue gun kind of gal.

Michael said I didn’t need to buy one, I could just use his.

His?

Hmmm…I didn’t know he had a glue gun.

WHY does he have a glue gun?

When he stays up late “working,” is he Mod Podging a table and attaching feathers and beads to a vest or headband with his glue gun?

How can I be married to this guy for nearly 12 years and not know he has need of a glue gun?

What else is he hiding in all of those little storage bins in his office?   

Long story, short: I used his glue gun and it worked beautifully. 

Let’s just be clear that ownership of this tool doesn’t make him any less of a man. 

At least my dad will be happy to know that Michael actually owns a gun.

Squeeeeze

The last 2 years we’ve had a service auction as a church activity.  Last year I won the 5k training, which turned out to be an enormous blessing and was the impetus for my ability to do the Epic relay.  This year I won homemade donuts.  My priorities have shifted. 

I donated pet sitting as my service.  I envisioned watching a goldfish or a pet rock, certainly not an animal that required actual attention.  I know now that I should have put that in the fine print.

I ended up pet sitting a dog.  A big dog.  Actually, a big, obnoxious puppy.  His name is Sam and he’s a Golden Retriever, Poodle mix.  He’s the typical puppy in that he tried to eat every one of Eva’s toys, he peed on the carpet when he was excited, he dug a hole in our grass, he ran up the street and wouldn’t come back so I had to chase him for at least a hundred miles in the blazing sun, he jumped up on me, he jumped up on Eva, he bit Myke’s hand when he was trying to feed him some meat trimmings, and he humped poor Aika ALL THE TIME.  It was a really fun week.

We ended up having to leave both dogs either in the yard or in the garage because they were very destructive in the house together.  It was hot so we’d leave the garage door open a skosh so they could have some air flow.  Those dogs tried to squeeze out of that tiny opening every day.  It was very entertaining.  I should have invited my neighbors and charged admission.  I tried to tell the canines it wouldn’t work and that they wouldn't be able to get through the space.  I know what I’m talking about.  I have experience trying to squeeze in and out of things.  Mostly pants. 

Here’s how it works when you attempt to squeeze into an area smaller than your mass.  For example, pants.  You get one leg into the pants with little effort, thus confirming your idea that you can actually fit into the trousers, but the second leg is a problem once the fabric has tightened.  You jump and wiggle and squirm while pulling on the poor waistband like it’s taffy until the pants finally inch over the bulk of junk in your trunk.  Even though you are out of breath and beginning to sweat from exertion, you feel like you’ve been successful so you go ahead and make the poor decision to zip the fly and secure the button.  This is where you suck air to fill your lungs to capacity, then hold your breath while the button refuses to make the journey through the button hole, even though you’re pushing so hard on it your fingers are turning purple from the force.  This step in the process has to be repeated multiple times until you are light headed from holding your breath and necrosis has set in on your finger tips.  This step can also be attempted while lying prostrate, allowing gravity to help distribute your giant apron.  However, this option makes it a bit more difficult to maneuver the button since you can no longer see it. 

In the rare event that you actually get the pants buttoned, you can’t participate in any activity that requires moving, sitting, bending, twisting, or breathing.  It’s best just to lie on the couch and watch TV.  When it’s time to remove the trousers, you must engage a partner to pull on the pant legs while you hang onto a stationary object.  Be advised that this carries a high risk of ripping the pants.  Your only other option is to fill the bathtub with acid and sit in it until the fabric dissolves. 

You’re better off throwing the pants away in the beginning and accepting that you’re a chub.

Can you believe those dogs just looked at me and blinked when I gave them all this free and valuable advice?

You can lead a horse to water…

Skills

Some recent Eva.

Playing horse

 

Horse betting

 

Betcha Mom loves this new way to doze

 

Bull-dozing friends

 

Friendly beach bumming

 

Bum scratching

 

Bum scratching?  Michael!

Kids really do learn by example.

Smarter Than You

Before I had a child I knew everything about parenting.  I watched heathen parents doing it all wrong and I judged them.  I had a very specific list of things my child wouldn’t do.  After all, I didn’t want to be a heathen parent. 

Here are the things I vowed would not happen with my child.

My kid WILL NOT:

• Watch TV before the age of 2.
• Drink soda or juice.
• Be formula-fed.
• Bathe fewer than 5 times a week.
• Go out in public with a dirty face or shirt or uncombed hair.
• Eat in the car seat.
• Scream, cry, or throw a horrific fit at the grocery store.
• Ignore my commands.
• Have ten-billion stuffed animals.
• Throw food on the floor during dinner.
• Run in parking lots.

Man.  I was an idiot.