me:  “What?  You want a peanut-booger and jelly sandwich?  Coming right up!”

son, shrieking:  “EWWWW!  That’s gross!  I don’t want a peanut-booger and jelly sandwich—I only eat boogers straight from my nose!”

Silly mom. 

Happy New Year, everyone.  May your sandwich and your nose remain booger-free. 

Any mother with even an ounce of sanity would spend her first kid-free days in over a year doing something relaxing.  Like soaking in a spa while eating bon bons and getting a foot massage by a young Antonio Banderas doppelganger.  Or lounging on a squeezably soft yet tasteful comforter at the Four Seasons while ordering room service and reading trashy novels, only venturing out to float on a raft in the pool while sipping a strawberry margarita.   Or perhaps even sending the kids away so she could hole up in the house ALONE while eating Dulce de Leche Haagen Dazs and watching endless reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Veronica Mars.

But apparently all my sanity was sucked away into the black hole of motherhood long, long ago.  Because instead of doing any of those things, I’ve chosen to squander my hard-earned freedom at a dog show.  Where the dogs will be pampered more than I.  This wonderful trip involves me flying on a red-eye (read, no sleep whatsoever) and arriving at 6:00 a.m.–just in time to shower and throw on some show clothes so I can take the Ferganator into the ring.  Where instead of humiliating me with her naughty antics in front of just a few local Ridgeback folks, she’ll get to take on the whole nation.  Then, there’s the endless pottying of dogs, exercising of dogs, grooming of dogs (okay, so at least with Ridgebacks, the grooming part is pretty brief–thank god I didn’t choose Samoyeds), before staying up late at the Top 20 event, followed all too quickly by the next show morning, where I will attempt to split myself in two so that I can show multiple dogs and puppies in stud dog and brood bitch.  Speaking of which, maybe I should just enter myself in the latter category.  Think I’d have a shot?  My kids are pretty cute, if lacking in ring demeanor.  Which basically is to say they’ll fit right in with the rest of the crew I show.

And then for the grand finale, I get to drag my kid-free butt out of bed at 4:30 a.m. so I can have the supreme honor of driving 50 miles to the lure coursing field, because nothing says relaxing like being dragged willy-nilly across a dirty old field by four absolutely bunny-crazed Ridgebacks.  And of course, there’s the peaceful event of chasing the especially naughty ones down after the course is over.  To add to my vacation, I’m sure I’ll fall a few times, as well as almost pass out from the humidity.  Oh, and lets not forget that during this entire “vacation”, I’ll be pumping at least four times a day.

And then there’s the return home, where my house will surely look like a condemned property inhabited by one hundred transients and ten families of rats upon my arrival.

So, please, lock me up.  And make sure you do it before 7:37 p.m.  Otherwise, save me a strawberry margarita (or five) in Pennsylvania–I think I’m going to need them!

At any rate, here is the damage that hubby managed to inflict on our home while mommy was away.  Mind you he was watching two very small children at the time, children I’d like to keep for awhile longer.  Even given the feisty mouth on the older model.

Just in case you needed to see it from another angle:

And here’s a little something to warm every mother’s heart—a close up of the particularly large and undoubtedly deadly piece of glass hanging out with your daughter’s ride-on toy:

Of course, then there’s the part where my husband reaches INTO THE BROKEN GLASS–HELLO!!!—and nearly becomes intimately acquainted with the trials and tribulations of being a four-fingered man. 

Apparently, my son, upon viewing hubby’s gushing finger, asks, “Daddy, are you going to die?”

My hubby of course tells him no, he’s fine, to which son matter-of-factly replies, “No, you’re not.  I’m pretty sure you’re going to die.” 

Ah, such a glass is half-empty kind of kid—he does his mama proud.  Although, given the carnage, can you really blame him?

Actually, this sport was recently created by my son and his friends and dubbed “The Naked Show.”  Which sort of leads me to a question.  At what age is in inappropriate for children to play naked together?  And if you answered “four” its probably a good thing you don’t live close by, because my child loves to run around sans clothing.  Come to think of it, so does my hubby. 

This is honestly something I struggle with because on the one hand, you don’t want to make a huge deal of completely natural preschooler curiosities, potentially scarring your child for life.  On the other, you don’t want to operate totally outside of the social norms, potentially scarring your child for life.  So how do you find the balance gracefully?   Obviously, there are social boundaries governing this sort of thing.  Hence the reason why people don’t take a stroll through the neighborhood or go out to dinner with their special bits dangling out in the open.  Which is probably for the greater good.  Think of the extra sanitation that would have to occur involving park benches and restaurant chairs if everyone ran around naked all the time, not to mention the potential leap in the rate of crabs.  Although I’m sure your friendly neighborhood frat house would remain the easiest place to become acquainted with those.  Don’t ask about the crab races that go on there.  Seriously–don’t ask.

All joking aside, I’m actually quite angry now.  I’m angry because I had the cutest photo to go with this post, of Connor and two of his friends, jumping au naturale on the trampoline.  But then doubts started plaguing me.  What if people think I’m a horrible mother for putting a picture of my nude 4-yr-old and his friends up on the web?  What if somebody comes to arrest me for perpetuating child pornography or some other such nonsense?  Or, what if some crazy sick twisted creep found my site and completely sullied the innocence of my son’s joy?  Surely we live in a world where we shouldn’t have to worry about such things and yet here I am, with no photo. 

And I wonder if this is an issue everywhere or just in our country, with our seemingly open-minded sexuality actually masking something more prudish and repressed.  Because I think its fairly obvious there’s some kind of weird issue with nakedness here.  I mean, ponder the absurdity of this for a moment–you can see boobage galore in virtually any PG-13 movie known to man and yet a mom goes to breastfeed in public and people literally freak.  Like suddenly, the mere glimpse of a naked bosom might make them faint from the impropriety of it all.

And just to be a little more inconsistent, until recently the same full frontal nudity in women that would earn a movie an R rating or maybe even a PG-13 would get you an NR-17 if not worse when the man showed his parts.  What kind of sense does that make and more importantly, what kind of message does it send?  And what do breastfeeding and movies have to do with co-ed naked trampoline bouncing photos?   At this point I really have no idea.  My mind just works that way sometimes.

So taking a calming breath and getting back to my original topic–if anyone knows where to find the completely well-adjusted middle ground between raising a flasher versus rearing a repressed neurotic body freak, please clue me in.  Because right now, I think we’re leaning towards flasher.

Addendum—my husband is genius-like person.  He’s single handedly managed to make my photo postable while at the same time adding a little patriotic spirit:

 Although I’m pretty sure my Republican friend whose child is featuring Obama over his private parts will have a slightly less flattering name for him.

So after unwinding and enjoying girl talk for a few hours, I stumble into my house at about 11:15 p.m, ready to crash into my bed.  Only to discover this:

Hello there, big pile of trash on my floor.  Here’s a closer view:

Either a cyclone hit my house while I was nonchalantly slinging dice at Bunco or my hubby and son decided to play a few rounds of recycling man and failed to tidy up.

Talk about a buzz kill.

As far as WW goes, Just call me indecisive…..

Babies…

Dogs:

We picked up his friend on the way, which always makes for an interesting experience.  Here are just a few scintillating snippets of conversation from the seemingly never-ending car ride (Note:  preschool is about two minutes from my house).

“Ahoy there, you scarfy dogs!”  (These being the scurvy dogs’ more fashionable cousins, presumably.)

“Baby sister, quit being so full of happiness!”  (Ah, a budding Morrissey.)

“Go faster, mommy, go faster!” (He won’t be allowed to drive until he’s thirty.)

“Yeah, Miss Debra, go fast!”  (Ditto his friend.)

Son:  “We’re going faster than a walking piece of nothing!”  (I wasn’t sure if I should take offense, or if this was some sort of preschooler existentialism.  And how exactly does this relate to pirates?)

Friend:  “We’re going faster than poop plopping down from the sky!”  (Now, that’s an analogy I haven’t heard before, but I suppose plopping sky poop would be quite speedy.  Though I’m still not sure what any of this has to do with pirates.  Or Gordon Lightfoot, for that matter.)

Then of course, the inevitable round of “Quit touching me!”  “No, you QUIT touching ME!”  And so on, until my head demanded  an IV of Extra Strength Tylenol.

You know, Wordless Thursday really has a nice ring to it……

And here’s the pirate swag my son created and brought home.  I’m thinking less swashbuckler, and more, I dunno, Liberace meets Dead or Alive, maybe?  And the apple stickers are throwing me off a little.  

Unless the pirates ate them to fight off “scarfy”:

“Hound dogs make the best friends”

Here’s how it happened: Hubby and I are getting ready for bed, and at a decent hour for a change. Not that we’ve been up partying and closing down the bars lately.  But in our baby-driven lives, even eleven o’clock is pushing it.

Just as I’m fluffing my pillow and channeling Doris Day by pulling on my pink satin mask (it was cheaper than black-out shades), disaster strikes.  Because instead of the hum of our white-noise maker (okay, so it’s really just a humidifier sans filter and water–call me MacGyver)  I hear hubby’s voice. 

The talking is brief enough at first—a few questions about facebook and linkedin, and who he’s reconnected with so far.  Then, mysteriously, the topic jumps from old college friends to Phish concerts to, of all things, Gordon Lightfoot.  No, I really have no idea how that’s possible, either.  But those kind of random neuron firings happen all too frequently around here.  Maybe it’s the 60’s coming back to haunt me.  Which is mildly perplexing, since I wasn’t born until the 70’s.

Of course, then hubby has to look good old Gordon up on the computer.  I mean, how could one possibly be expected to ever sleep again until they were reminded of which songs he sang, songs that most likely held the talent and longevity of a Milli Vanilli number?  So hubby grabs his handy-dandy laptop, only it’s not so handy-dandy because the battery is shot so it always requires a plug, as does mine, come to think of it, and then we’re in business. 

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Mr. Lightfoot actually sang some pretty good stuff, including Sundown and If You Could Read My Mind.  So, after wasting even more precious snoozing time listening to samples of his music, then looking up the lyrics to Sundown (what did he say in that line about “sneaking” again?), we finally settle in for bed.

And it’s still only 10: 20 pm, so we’re in good shape. Until hubby starts in with some Connor-isms from earlier that evening.  How this relates to Gordon Lightfoot, I have no idea—hence the emphasis on random neuron firings.  Apparently, my son was having a little chat about swear words.  Connor told hubby that he could start using some bad words when he turned five.  When my hubby inquired which words those might be, Connor says, “Stupid.” 

Upon hearing that, hubby heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.  “…And f*ck,” Connor continues, disingenuously.

 I wasn’t there, so I can only imagine the sound of my husband’s jaw slamming onto the concrete and his eyes popping out of his sockets and flying across the garage.  I mean, hubby and I have been known to utter the occasional “butt-munch” or “fart-knocker” at home (and yes, maybe I’ve spewed forth with ”jackass” a few times while driving), but our profanity pretty much stops there.  But Connor has bionic ears, so who knows.

Hubby said it took him a moment, but he finally came up with, “No, that one’s not okay until you’re at least eighteen.”

Connor apparently thought about it for a moment, then smiled and said, “Or ten.”

After that, of course, all bets for sleep are off, as I’m left pondering how I’m going to convince my son that the “f” word is only legal for use once you’ve reaching voting age.

And I still don’t get what any of this has to do with Gordon Lightfoot.

 Randomly, my son turns to me and says, “Mommy, when I grow up, can I be a baker’s man?” 

 My first thought?  Wow, we’ve got to cut back on the Bravo TV.  Then it dawned on me.  He meant baker, not baker’s man.  As in chef.  My second thought?  Much, much more profound. As in, Score!  Please, please, please, major in desserts.

Later, though, I find him standing in the shower, naked, tousling his hair.  “All done?” I ask.  “Almost,” he replies.  “First, I’ve got to fix my hair, so that I’m pretty.”  He pats it a few more times and proclaims,   “There!  I look good!”

I’m thinking about canceling our cable.  Or at least, all Bravo programming.

On the plus side?  At least he didn’t say “fierce”.