(Un)Happy Tree Friends

If you are easily offended or weak stomached go ahead read this instead. xoxo

It is blessedly quiet right now. LeArtist has convinced LeBella to play in the back yard with him for a bit. (Can we give a cheer for locked, 6foot high privacy fences and large bedroom windows that show the entire yard?) This peace won’t last for more than 10 minutes so I need to write fast!

Over the last few weeks LeBella has been a whirling, swirling tornado on crack. The new meds haven’t made any noticeable change. And apparently she has forgotten how to talk. Oh no, don’t get your hopes up. She yells and screams. Constantly. From the minute she wakes up until the minute she passes out from exhaustion. The only time she is quiet is when I give her the computer. The problem is I have a million things I need to get done during the day. Besides writing (blog and book) I have classes, people. College. Online. So…

In attempt to provide her with a bit of entertainment while I got some work done I went hunting on Netflix for something that would capture her fleeting attention. Que the Happy Tree Friends.

 

Look they're so bright and Happy!

What little girl doesn't love colorful, lovable animal characters?

Ok, so she is engaged. Happy animals, happy girl minion. I turn my back to her. Not in a mean way, that’s just how my desk faces. And she is blessedly quiet for 1 minute….2minutes…..3 minutes and then…

“Oh god…..oh…no…oh…oh….god…..mommy shut it off SHUT IT OFF!!!!” by this point she is screaming hysterically and burying her head in the blankets. I turn to the screen and I am greeted with this:

Um, ouch?

Yeah. I was all, “What the crap??” and diving for the remote. I mean this is the girl who was traumatized by The Little Mermaid!

So, if you want to see the Happy Tree Friends in action here ya go, just make sure your kiddos aren’t around. (BTW my 13 thinks its hilarious, go figure.)

 

That is all people. That is all.

And Then My Heart Bursts…

I blow my bangs out of my face for the umpteenth time and look around the cramped portable. I hated being here, in the dingy dim light, waiting for hours to be seen. The girl sitting a few seats down smacked her gum and I glanced at her sideways. Her Baby Phat jeans looked painted on and I wondered if she could even breathe. Every time she shifted impatiently in the hard plastic chair, the row of dangly gold bracelets jingled against her chocolate colored skin. I briefly wondered what her story was. Did she really need this help? I know I would not be here if I could pay the full child care bill myself.

She caught me looking at her and gave me a sneer. I turned my back to her and focused on the one ray of sunshine in the depressing room.

LeBella. Not quite 2 years old. She’s such a ball of fiery energy that it’s a rare treat to see her sitting quietly, flipping the pages of a board book, slowly and upside down. She sets the book aside and adjusts her bubblegum pink skirt and then looks up at me.

For a moment I am lost in big brown eyes. She looks so cute with her fluff of blonde hair pulled up into pig tails. She smiles a raidiant smile and takes a deep breath.

As she begins to sing, my heart bursts….

With EMBARRASSMENT.

“To da window…to da wall! Sweat drip down my balls…ah skee skee skee skee ah skee skee…..”

The dark skinned girl and I are simultaneously dying. Her from laughter. Me from mortification.

So, thank you Lil Jon, from me and Jingly Bracelets.

Death by Meatloaf or The Time I Blew Up the Oven

See that pretty meatloaf? Yeah, I didn't make it. Thank you Google Images.

I tried for years to perfect my meatloaf making expertise. I mean it’s the all American Go To Meal, right? Can I really don my nifty, bubble gum pink, cupcake adorned apron knowing that I can’t even bake a simple meatloaf?

I can make a lasagna that makes every person who says “Trust me, Amanda, I/my mom/my grandma/my drunk next door neighbor makes the best lasagna” drool and beg for seconds.

Ok, I didn't make this one either...But trust me mine's just as pretty!

But my meatloaf?

Ahem.

Needless to say I was forbidden to make anymore meatloaf. It really broke my little Joan Cleaver Heart. ..::sniff::..

So now, you can imagine my elation when I found a fresh prepared meatloaf in the meat department of my local Publix. It already had the perfect meat to bread crumb ratio! It was perfectly season and molded into a pretty shape. In. Its. Own. Pan. Bake. Eat. Dispose. Best meatloaf ever. I can retain my self proclaimed Domestic Goddessness without feeling like a poser.

So fast forward 10 meatloaves later…..

I overslept that morning, making everyone late for school and myself late for work. The day is stellar already. Half way through my day of entertaining 24 2 year olds (yeah, no you read that right) I realized I forgot to thaw out meat for dinner.

That afternoon I spent a good 45 minutes in the daycare director’s office hearing how LeBella had gone all Rosemary’s baby on her teacher. Again. Ahem. The fact that this is the day she was kicked out of daycare is irrelevant. Or not.

*>sigh<*

On the way home I stopped at Publix to grab a meatloaf (America’s Go To Meal, people) and some sides. LeBella had the Gimmies throughout the store and was in full meltdown mode during the ride home. As we pulled into the driveway she was eerily quiet but I was a little distracted and my reaction time was delayed as she bolted from the car and took off down the block. In the rain. Did I mention it was raining?

A half an hour later I had corralled all children, groceries and my tattered dignity into the house. I threw the meatloaf into the oven and collapsed ointo a dining room chair.

-Children glued to probably inappropriate TV show? Check.

-Dinner started? Check.

-Mommy having her daily anxiety attack? Check.

I put my head down on the table as I attempted to catch my breath and slow my pounding heart. As I am staring, thoughtlessly, at the little window of the oven I see a small flash of light. WTF?

-Grease catching pan placed under slightly overstuffed meatloaf pan? FAIL!

As I rush towards the oven I see a couple more of those little flashes and I am hoping to get to the oven before it makes too much of a greasy mess. I reach for the handle and…

Booph! The entire inside of the oven is on fire!! I am panicing! My first thought is: Water! Wait, that may not be a good idea, Amanda. The oven is electric. I sense badness in this plan.

Okay, okay: Salt! Awesome, I am still reigning Goddess. Except? The salt is in the cabinet above the burning oven, along with a big bottle of vegetable oil!

&^%^(%@#!! Why do we not have a fire extinguisher?!?

Just as I have lost all hope, of not humiliating myself I reach for my phone to call in some Big Dogs, the fire disappears. Like my oven was saying, “Ha! Just effing with you.”

Just then LeDaddy shows up…

As I relayed my terrifying story LeDaddy interrupts to ask, “Why didn’t you grab the fire extinguisher from the garage?”

WTF?

Mom Confession: Torture as a Discipline Method

This is Jiovanni aka LeScholar at about 2.5 years old. I know what you’re thinking. Those chubby cheeks, big brown eyes, sweet little smile. Why would you ever need any discipline at all, let alone torturous ones?

Well, my answer is two fold. He is the first born child of a teen mom (uh, that would be me, y’all). So he was the guinea pig. You know, the test kid that you practice all your parenting stuff on before you decide to stock up on more expand your little family. And the second part? Oh yeah, he was quite possibly possessed by a demonic spirit 93.2% of the time. And also he was immune to my discipline tactics.

“You are grounded!” earned me a quick smile.

“No car keys for a week!” was good for a giggle.

“I’m taking away your cell phone!” got me a belly laugh.

People, we were dealing with a two year old. Big guns were required. I refused to be taken down by  a two foot tall terrorist who thought poop made great wall decorations.

“I’m getting the Shoes.”

“No, mommy, no shoes! I beed good! I beed the good boy! I no want it shoes!” This plea was often punctuated by one of those ear piercing wails that only a toddler and my 9 year old daughter are capable of.

Now before you go to call CPS let me tell you two things!

1. Statute of limitations.

2. While often tempted, I did not ever beat my child with a shoe.

Let me explain. Remember that Christmas about 10ish years ago when Mother’s everywhere were eye gauging and ripping out each others hair to get this lil guy into their shopping carts?

Well, being the loser last minute Christmas shopping Mommy that I am, I had to settle for the slightly less popular:

And what made our Cookie Monster so awesome was that he came with a pair of plastic shoes (one piece) with speakers in the top and wheels on the bottom. So you stuck his fuzzy wuzzy feet into those bad boys and he could (drum roll please) walk and talk!!

“My want cookies! Nom nom nom nom!”

And that deep growly voice couple with the slightly jerky movement of the shoes scared the wall art out my demon possessed sweet baby boy. Score!

So, I did what any responsible teen mom still learning how to discipline a toddle would do.

I let him watch me placed them in the little half closet that house the AC unit for the house. And gave him the plain boring Cookie Monster doll to torment cuddle with.

And then?

Refuse to go to bed? “I’m getting the Shoes.”

“Noooo! I beed good! I no want it shoes!”

Learning that hitting is fun?

“Shoes?”

“Nooooo! No, shoes, Mommy!”

Kamakazee jumping off the furniture?

*Look towards closet containing the offensive shoes.*

*Docile toddler climbs off the back of the sofa and sits with hands in lap, watching mindless episodes of The Teletubbies. Occasionally glaces apprehensively at Mommy and said closet.*

Is there, like, some kind of award for mastering child discipline as a teen mom? Just curious…..

A Second Serving Repost from @marthapoints

Can you think of a more worth while pursuit than that of Martha Points? How about the mayhem and hilarity of watching Lori accumulate and lose them? From CATapults to slutty stick figure skirts she covers it all. And now she is sharing with us a quite ingenious idea:

Introducing: The Stupid Tax

This is truly an overdue concept. Originally the idea of a friend of mine some years ago, I think it’s time to formalize it.

How many times have you been annoyed at people for:

• Wasting your time?
• Draining your energy?
• Squandering your resources?
• Tainting your aura?
• Breathing your air?

Have you ever wished you had some way to recoup your loss (be it time, energy, resources, aura or air)?

Look no further. We have your answer.

The Stupid Tax.

Here are a few examples of how you might apply the Stupid Tax.

While shopping for your family, the person in front of you discovers they have forgotten their wallet. No biggie, you forget your wallet sometimes, too. But then they ask you to wait while they call their husband to come…from home. BWAM! Stupid Tax: $10. No, I do  not have time to wait while your husband DRIVES to the supermarket to pay for your Fruity Pebbles and mallowmars.

The cable repair guy enters your home to repair the dead satellite system. He crawls under the house to check the cable, then proceeds to track mud on every square inch of your carpet. When he sees you staring incredulously at your floor, he asks, “Did I do that?” BWAM! $20 Stupid Tax. No, I do not let my own family track mud through the house like a herd of rutting moose.

After working for eleventy-hundred hours on your project and finding yourself down to the final copying and collating, your co-worker interrupts the job so they can photocopy the latest LOLCat and tack it to their bulletin board. As you survey the mound of paper that is the  half-finished copy job that you have no idea how to resume, the co-worker says, “Oh, were you in the middle of something?” BWAM! $50 Stupid Tax. Why yes, in fact, I was in the middle of something MEANT TO EARN THE COMPANY ACTUAL MONEY.

The uses are endless.

The stamp is meant to be applied to the forehead of the person having the Stupid Tax levied against them. Because as much as I want the revenue, I want less stupidity even more. And perhaps this will cause some actual learning to happen.

Apply for your license here. Tell me who you would levy the Stupid Tax against. Hypothetical circumstances are fine. You don’t have to name names. Unless you want to.

*   *   *   *   *    *    *    *

I hereby Tax all those people that choose to judge the behavior of other people’s children in public without knowing their story.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *   *

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