It’s scary…

…how grown up this child is looking these days!

 
Terrifying, actually!

Life saver…

After coming off my happy pills back at the beginning of this year, I think I’ve adjusted fairly well.  No major issues to speak of, but, I have noticed a tad bit of anxiety, as of late. 

Rationally, I know much of it is my new schedule, and the stress of school, but, some of the anxiety was manifesting over little shit.

Like cups.

Not just one cup…I’m talking no less than 20 cups, that would be on my kitchen counter by the end of every day. 

I SWEAR it seems that my children get a new cup, for every fucking sip of water they ingest!  They must, for that is what the evidence shows at the end of every day, when my dishwasher is filled to the brim with a myriad of cups from around the globe. 

Some from Dickies barbecue down the street, in all shapes and sizes.  Kids cups from Chili’s.  Cups from Fuzzy’s taco stand.  Cups from Bourbon street that’s original purpose was not for milk.  Cups from a Cowboy’s game back in 2002.  Cups from Chuck E. Cheese.  My favorite cups from Rudy’s barbecue that we collect on our trips to Austin. 

All of them would be strewn across the counter by nightfall.  While I did, just a smidge, appreciate the nostalgia of it all, the daily plastic trip down memory lane…mostly it boiled my blood. 

I would rant and rave like a lunatic, day in, and day out…”ONE CUP…ONE CUP…YOU ONLY NEED ONE CUP FOR A DAY.  MAYBE TWO DAYS.  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SANE AND HOLY…ONE FLIPPIN’ CUP PER PERSON!  THAT’S FIVE CUPS…I JUST PICKED UP THIRTY-FREAKIN-SEVEN CUPS!!  WORK WITH ME PEOPLE!!”

They would listen to me wide-eyed, nod in agreement, and go get a cup out of the cupboard and get a drink of water.

On top of it all…the fights that would break out over one of the any given 37 cups that were on the counter. 

“MOOOOOOOOO-OM.  He just drank out of my cup!” 

“NO I DIDN’T!  The little Dickie’s cup is mine.  Yours is the big one.”

“NU-UH!!  Ave’s is the Fuzzy’s cup, YOURS is the big Dickies cup!”

This would go on for seemingly hours.  These cups were causing chaos, and I was at my breaking point.  I had to do something to save my sanity.  So, I bought these…

   
Color coded cups.  Jack is red.  Ave is blue.  Lil is purple.  There are only two of each.  While one is washing, the other is being used. 

No more fights.  No more fusses.  No more eighty seven cups on my counter each night.  Now, there are only these three.  These three aesthetically pleasing cups.

I’m an idiot for not thinking of it sooner…it’s just that no one tells you that you’re at risk for offin’ yourself over plastic flippin’ cups, when you become a mom! 

Back in the runnin’…

It looks like I might be back in the running for Mother of the Year for 2010.  After today, in fact, I’m in pretty good standing. 

Jake was working from home today, so we went out to lunch.  A friend that Jake plays ball with happened to be there with his wife, so we sat at the bar with them, on a Thursday afternoon, and kicked back a couple. 

That doesn’t exactly put me in the running, but, this next part does…

Jake’s phone rang and I noticed that it was the school.  Immediately thinking that one of my heathen boys were into trouble, I answered the call. 

It was actually Lily’s teacher.  Calling for our scheduled phone conference.  That I’d forgotten about.  Caught off guard, and pretending that I hadn’t forgotten about our appointment, I chatted with Lily’s teacher. 

When I hung up, it dawned on me that I’d just had a parent/teacher conference AT A BAR! 

At a FREAKIN’ BAR!!

I should start working on my acceptance speech now!!

I don’t care who ya are…

A big box of rubber penises is funny!

You can dress me up like a nurse, give me a stethoscope, teach me to auscultate, percuss, assess, and administer a transdermal injection…but, if you do it with a giant box of penises on the shelf behind you, I can promise you I’m gonna laugh!

Don’t think you’re above it, until you try concentrating on a lab demonstration with 50 glans penises of various shades staring back at you!!

It’s officially hopeless…I’m never growing up!

We pulled the trigger…

We got a new pup.  The gaping hole that was left in our lives when Tucker the Fucker ran away could only be filled by another weenie dog.  Or some sappy shit like that. 

This…

is Joben!

The name started out as a joke.  While we were thinking of great names like Capone, Pacino, and Mugsy, we joked that we should call him Joben, from this scene in “I Love You Man.”

We laughed about it, and started calling him Jobes, Jobey, and Joben on his first day with us.  The name stuck and began to grow on us. 

Now, it’s official!  His name is Joben, and we love him!