Like Endless Rain Into a Paper Cup

An Excerpt from a Royal Diary

Hi.  Yes, I'm gorgeous today.  I'm gorgeous every day and really am the Queen of everything.  I'll grant you one picture, but then I have things to do.

I'm looking for something.  What was it?

Oh yes.  Here it is.  My Royal Sceptre, not your ADT sign.  Because you are all my Subjects.  Right.  Now that we have that straight...

Let's pause for a brief moment of thumb sucking and hair twirling.  Will someone please get the giant fanning palm leaf?  Her Majesty is feeling flushed.

I shall now ascend the stairs.  Since you are my Subject, you are not allowed to tell me no.  That will displease me.  I'm going up.  Ok?  What look?  I don't look guilty at all.

You will be fined two juice boxes for photographing Her Majesty's Royal Ass.  You're only allowed to wipe it.

I shall now water the royal herb garden.

Whereas I don't usually do the work of a plebian, I find much joy in watering such bountiful foliage... 

   

...even if it is only pretend water.  What's more important is that I look cute and convincing.  And I'm totally pulling that off. 

Now I Know

So I pick Max up from his piano group this afternoon and he was all excited to tell me something.  We had just walked past a large boxwood with a giant spider web in it and he started to tell me all about spiders and stuff.  In all honesty, I wasn't listening, but rather thinking about how I was going to avoid traffic on the way home.  He keeps talking as I load him into the car and just as I'm about to shut the door and get in my side, he rolls down the window and yells to the top of his lungs and for all the other students and parents to hear...

"OK MOMMY?!  SO REMEMBER, A WEB HOLE IS NOT THE SAME THING AS A POOPER!"

Karma Shmarma

This past weekend I was introduced to Karma.  And she really is a bitch.  Just like the mean woman at the library who yelled at me when I asked if there were any activities for children under 5.  "Yes!  I just counted 100 myself if you're interested!" she said to me like I was the biggest idiot on the earth.

But she's not the one I'm mad at.  It's Karma who's on my list now.

About a month ago, K decided that we should have a little night away together.  Without kids.  For those of you who don't live around grandparents and/or have recently moved, you'll understand how impossible it is to plan one of these nights.  But, K worked it out by having our house guests of the last few weeks come back for a night.  We all figured that would be a great thank you gift.  Although, we enjoy their company so much that we were sad to leave them here for a night.  Oh, and we'd miss the kids too of course.

So, how thoughtful of K to plan a romantic night away!  I don't think it was encouraged at all by the fact that I had complained incessantly for 2 months about how he gets to go to Hawaii on a business trip.  When he complained about having to be on the plane for so long I reminded him that he would be alone.  All by himself.  No one screaming in his ear.  No one sitting in his lap rendering him unable to enjoy a cold beverage.  Oh the joy of being trapped somewhere for 8 hours where all you could do was sit and read!  I would view JUST the solo plane trip as my vacation.  In-grate.

The place he found for us to stay was a mere 1 hour away in a town called Washington.  Not the D.C. Washington, but Little Washington; nestled on the foothills of the Shenandoah's.  You may have heard of this restaurant that kind of puts the town on the map.  It's rated as the number one restaurant in North America.  I don't even know what that means.

On Thursday evening as we were returning from Wegmans (my culinary Hobby Lobby), Max started to mope around.  Odd.  Then without being coaxed, he layed down on the couch and fell asleep.  This is very significant and means one of two things: the gravitational force of the universe has shifted causing alarming changes in tidal patterns and disturbing disruptions in the REM cycles of 4 year old boys, or he's getting sick.  And may I point out that the boy has not been sick once since we MOVED HERE.  Over a year ago!  Sure, he's broken an arm, acquired a tick or two, had a sniffle here and there, and fallen out of the swing a dozen or so times, but nary a major illness.  And this is where Karma comes in.  K and I haven't been away from both kids... ready for this?... EVER!  And the one time we plan a night away, Max decides to pass out on the couch with a fever of 103. 

I promptly broke out the Motrin and Tylenol which perked him up a bit.  I refused to feed him and banned all dairy products from his diet.  I've learned the hard way about dairy and fevers.  It's a bad combination.  By Friday morning he was still sporting a fever so I called my sister (we like to pretend that we're doctors in this family) and she told me to take him into the doctor to rule out strep with those quickie tests.  Her advice: rule it out or get the antibiotic, then you won't feel guilty leaving him for the night.  And that's exactly what I did.  The test was negative and the doc (who totally looked like THIS guy, by the way) said to keep the fever below 100 with Motrin.  Our friends were still more than happy to come over to our germified house.  And by the time we left that evening, Max and Clara couldn't have cared less.  Clara's response to us leaving was a big grunt.

K and I drove the hour and 10 minutes to Little Washington.  We sat for a while in total silence, not knowing how to talk to each other in the car without constant interruptions like "Let go of your sister's leg!" or "Stop spitting on the seat!"  We didn't even have to fight with the DVD player that for some insane reason does not have a Menu button on the main dash.  That means that if I'm not holding the remote, I can't skip through the previews.  In that situation, I might as well be forcing Max to gouge his own eyes out with a dull spoon.  The cruelty of it.

We decided to listen to adult radio, aka, the news.  We learned all about John Edwards and his little mistress, the impending Opening Ceremonies, and other grown up stuff.  We talked about things like sex and used lots of swear words.  Hey, there were no children within earshot and precious moments like these should not be wasted.

Once we arrived in Little Washington, it felt like we had driven for days.  Not because of time, but because of the drastic change in landscape.  I've always thought Virginia was gorgeous, but it keeps surprising me.  The town is so quaint and perfect in every sense.  There are just enough hills that you always have a view of the mountains (not mountains Utah style, but Virginia style) and everything is so green and lush and fresh.  We turned down a little street to get to our Inn.  And guess what the street was called?  Gay Street.  Isn't that cute!?  And guess what our Inn was called?  Gay Street Inn.  So cute!  And it really was.  A huge front deck and huge back garden.  It was built in the 1860's and had recently been renovated.  And our hosts, Jay and Kevin, were great. 

We ate that night at a little country pub.  It was a thoroughly blissful evening and night.  Except for the part where we worried about Max most of the time.  The next morning we were both up at 7am.  We looked over at each other and both said simultaneously "I wonder how Max is feeling this morning?"  Which only makes me realize (again) that parenthood isn't just a hat that you put on when you're in that mode.  It's more like getting hair plugs.  It's always with you and you can't take it off.  Damn that Mother Nature is smart with the whole parenting attachment thing.  I wish she would tell evil step-sister Karma to take a hike.  She is Mother Nature after all.

(oh, how I crack myself up)

     

 

Max and His Ladies

Who needs ice cream with all that sugar? 

Max is standing up well to a house full of women.  My ears... not so much.

Those Crazy Kids

Hello Internet.  Are you as hot and sticky as me?  Not hot in the good looking sense, but hot in the I'M MELTING! type way.  Because do you know what happened yesterday?  A chemical reaction formed between the weather and my legs, causing my jeans to become a pair of paste pants.  I was thinking that perhaps some surgical scissors could remove them, or maybe even some Goo-B-Gone.  But I bit the bullet and ended up cranking the AC and camping out on top of the vent.  Ahhh.  Sweet Relief.

We've been up to all sorts of summer fun this past week.  Our friends, who have just PSCed in from Italy, are staying with us while they wait for their house here.  Max and their little girl having become attached at the hip - much to the dismay of her father.  He keeps warning Max that holding hands is OK now, but NOT IN TEN YEARS YOUNG LAD.  He has plans to hang out on his front porch with his shot gun and rocking chair once his girls hit the teenage years.  I don't think we'll have to worry about that with Clara, because from what I've heard, demonic possession puts a damper on the dating scene. 

Last week at dinner, we actually considered calling a Priest.  A young one and an old one to be precise.  I had taken half a chicken breast and cut it up into pieces for Clara to eat.  I put it on her tray and before I could sit down, she had shoved every piece into her mouth.  K looked over at her and said sternly "Clara, spit all that out so you can chew."  She froze and started giving him The Stare of Death.  She was obviously embarrassed but didn't want us to know it.  And she certainly didn't want us looking at her.  She looked like a chipmunk; an angry angry chipmunk.  So I innocently reached over and pulled on a few pieces that were hanging out of her mouth.  And that's when the rage came.  She took her plate and threw it like a frisbee across the room.  It smashed into the window and food went everywhere.  I saw a grape half slide slowly down the window pane.  And I exaggerate not.  She started to screech and flail which alarmed me greatly considering she still had half a chicken in her mouth.  I pinned her down, jammed my hand into her mouth and started extracting chicken bits.  I yelled to K "My God man! Call a Priest!"  The whole incident lasted only a minute, but still... Hello Rosemary's Baby.

And to be fair to my little baby girl, she's the cutest most lovable little devil I've ever met.

Max has his moments too, although he's certainly more of a mommy's boy.  For instance, the other morning he came into my room at 7:30am.  There is nothing wrong with that, as long as he climbs into bed QUIETLY, turns on the TV QUIETLY, and exists QUIETLY.  We have an 8 o'clock for Mommy rule in our house.  And yes I know I'm spoiled that my kids sleep late and that kindergarten will be a rude awakening next year and that blah blah blah - I don't want to hear it.  Clara sleeps until I wake her up and I'm enjoying it while I can.

But the other morning, Max came bursting in demanding that I GET UP NOW!  Uh, no.  It wasn't eight yet, and I was having a very involved dream about Eminem telling me I needed to shave my legs so he could see my owl tattoo.  I told him to get in my bed and turn on the TV.  "GET UP NOW MOMMY!  I NEED A POP TART!"  (And on a side note, I loathe Pop Tarts and the way society has deemed them an acceptable breakfast - and if you agree with me please tell my husband to STOP BUYING THEM.)  I reminded Max of the rule and he left the room, only to come back in a few seconds later holding my cell phone and calling his father.  "Daddy, tell mommy to GET UP!"  At this point I was about ready to lose it.  I grabbed the phone and told K, who had been up since 5:30am, to tell Max that it's a rule that nobody can bug mommy before eight.  And since I know you're thinking it, yes, I did feel a little bad for acting like such a spoiled princess in front of my hard working hubby and 4 year old little boy - but only for about half a milli-second.  K, being the saint that he is, told Max that he wasn't to bug me until the clock said eight.  So Max hung up the phone, very dramatically, and stomped out of the room.  Before he was all of the way out, he leaned his head back in and yelled "Well FINE mommy!  Now I'm never going to let you wash my hair again!" 

That showed me.

         

You Should Really Take Parenting Tips From Me

(Thanks Rachel for inspiring me to write this down!)

In order to keep everyone in the house from going insanely psychotic in the late afternoon summer hours, we've been frequenting our community pool. The weather here has been extremely hot and muggy and I can't seem to walk outside for two seconds without my back turning into a Slip'n'Slide and my forehead turning into a giant reflective satellite beacon. It's gross and I swear it makes me really pity Civil War Soldiers who had to wear WOOL uniforms in this heat. Can you imagine the B.O.? If you dressed me in head to toe wool and put me outside in this weather I'd itch myself into a fuzzy puddle of ripped flesh. (And that previous thought shows how caring I am to think about our fore-fathers and their B.O. and stuff when I'm outside sweating my epidermis off.)

So for a couple of weeks now we've been heading to the pool to soothe our sweltering selves. It's really quite nice and is paid for by our Home Owner's dues, so I figure we should take advantage. The best part though, is the little kiddie pool that both Clara and Max really enjoy. I can actually sit and do a bit of sun-bathing sun reflecting while the kids play.

Max has had two swimming classes, but you'd never know it by the way he swims. And that is because there is some chemical reaction in his eyes that causes pool water to turn into burning acid every time it makes contact with his delicate baby blues. This means that he won't go underwater and that if he gets splashed, he has to jump out and extinguish the acid flames with his towel whilst screaming "My eyes! My eyes!" Once or twice I've thrown him underwater, but I had to spend 20 minutes in the naughty spot after that. So now I just let him be. Be neurotic, that is.

Well the other day we had a bit of a breakthrough. As the kids were playing in the kiddie pool, Max declared that he shall "stop and get a slurpee on the way home, OK mom, and don't say no or you're just kidding." I quickly decided that I'd use this as a bargaining chip and replied that yes, he could get a slurpee, but first he had to touch his forehead to the bottom of the pool. See, I really didn't feel like stopping at 7-11 in swimsuits and slippery thongs and I figured that would end the conversation since I thought there was no way in hell he'd put his face on the bottom of the pool. He looked at me and said "OK, but if I don't do it we'll still stop and get a slurpee because I'll have at least tried, and that's really good enough." Unfortunately for him I was in tough-love mode so I said, "You get a slurpee ONLY if you touch your head to the bottom of the pool."

Before you think to yourself, "Wow, you're making your precious 4 year old swim all the way to the bottom of the pool and push his head to the bottom? You mean mean wench!" remember that he's in a kiddie pool that is only MAYBE a foot deep, so I'm only kinda a wench. He's more wimpy than I am wenchy. That's how I like to justify things.

So I sat lovingly on the side of the pool and watched as my very determined boy, determined for a slurpee mind you, tried over and over to get the nerve to put his face in the water. He kept yelling "Now do I get a slurpee?" and all the other moms were looking at me with critiquing eyes I'm sure thinking something along the lines of: Nice parenting skills. Make your kid do something he doesn't want to do and then reward him with sugar. I wanted to tell them that not only do I reward with sugar, I also reward with caffiene and processed cheese products. Because there is nothing like a coke slurpee with a side of convenient store nachoes. I've come a long way, baby.

After a while, I suggested he put on his goggles and try because then he wouldn't have to jump out of the water every time and dry his eyes because of the burning horrific god awful pain that seems to inflicts only my son. The goggles were an instant hit and within about 5 minutes he was putting his entire face in the water. Hallelujah, Amen. I jumped on the the praise train and built him up so much that he was puffing his chest out and strutting around the one year olds in the pool (that had all been putting there face freely in the water) saying "I can put my face ALL THE WAY in the water!" The babies were a little less than inspired. From there he quickly worked up the courage to stick his forehead on the pool floor. Over and over. I really was proud of the boy as I watched him overcome his fears. He finally yelled to me "NOW do I get a slurpee?" and of course I said yes. But I did refuse to go before we got changed.

I hurried him and Clara into the car, all the while instructing him to SIT ON HIS TOWEL. The pool is only a few streets down from us, including one very busy street, so I like to drive. I also like my car to stay dry and Max knows to arrange his towel onto his booster seat. He's also a self-buckler. So as I was making the first turn into our subdivision I heard a THWUMP. I automatically assumed it was the stroller in the back that I must had left propped up and continued driving down the street. As I was making the second turn onto our street, I glanced into the rear view mirror only to see something missing in the back seat. That thing so happened to be my son.

I turned around only to see two flailing arms, two flailing legs, and an overturned booster seat coming up from the floor in-between the two back seats. OH! Max had fallen off of his seat! It was a 36 pound little boy THWUMP that I had heard! The look on his face was priceless. Shock. Horror. Terror. Anger. He was wedged, head down, between the two seats and hadn't uttered a sound. I quickly pulled into the driveway and yanked him out, all the while holding myself so that I don't lose control of my bladder because I am laughing SO hard that tears weren't going to be the only things streaming. OH the LAUGHTER! I couldn't contain it! I laughed and laughed and laughed at my poor boy, who apparently had forgotten to buckle his seatbelt and who apparently had forgotten to put his arm rest down. Oh, that THWUMPING sound! HA HA! And that fact that he was in so much shock that he didn't say anything! Oh, that made it even funnier! I continued laughing so hard that a neighbor came over. And I didn't even care that all I was wearing, as my body convulsed with cackles and chortles, was a swimsuit. Oh, I laughed and laughed until it hurt.

And Max? Yeah, he was NOT in the least bit amused by any of it. Especially the part with me laughing. The only thing hurt was his dignity, but when something is that funny, you have to laugh. I'm sure his future therapist will understand my side of the story.

He quickly recovered when he remembered that we were going for his slurpee after we got dressed. It took a little bit longer though because I had to call K and my mom and relate the story of Max falling. This also displeased him by the way. Sheesh. I kept telling him that I was laughing with him, but he wasn't really seeing the humor in it. Four year olds can be so humor-less sometimes. Life cheered up for him once he got his slushy icy coke slurpee though.

And if you're still with me, I'll do the hard work of picking out the take home lesson in this little story of mine:

Challenge your kids to conquer their fears. Do this with bribery. Specifically, promise things that contain sugar, caffeine, and/or cheese that doesn't need refridgeration. Use praise to encourage your child and inflate their ego. Use laughter and mockery to bring them back down to earth. This is called Good Parenting.

My Birthday Boy

Even though I'm not the sentimental type, I'd like to say something very sappy. 

"Happy Birthday My Love!  Even though you're in your late 30's now, you are still as sprightly and handsome as when we first met.  In other words, you'll always be a spring chicken to me.  Or I guess it should be a spring rooster?  Anyway, whatever domesticated fowl denotes the most youth and virility - that's what you are.  Oh, and sorry that I pretended that Clara's poopy diaper was a present.  That was mean."

 

All Because I Fell In Love With A Rug

It all started so innocently when on Sunday, I asked K if we could run to Bed Bath and Beyond to get some new towels.  The other day I detected a slight funk from my big white fluffy shower towels and let's just say, I don't do funk.  They will be soaked in bleach, washed on HOT, and then staked outside in the sun for 30 days.  Or something like that.  In the meantime, I thought we could probably use an extra set of white towels.  And I had a 10 off 30 coupon from BB&B that needed to be spent. 

We headed out to the store, all four of us.  Max was suffering from an unfortunate case of low blood sugar and my fun little trip turned into a frenzy.  Max was whining uncontrollably about wanting to buy a pumice stone, Clara was screaming just for the hell of it, and K was pulling out his hair.  So I grabbed some white towels... but wait!  Look at that cute bath rug!  It's my favorite color mix: blue, brown, and cream!  I need it.  But which bathroom should I put it in?  Definitely the main floor bath.  (I pause here to scream at my children in front of complete strangers to ZIP IT!  I FOUND A CUTE RUG!)

But at this point I have a bigger problem, other than wanting to sell my children.  You see, everything in the bathroom is the wrong color.  I quickly figure that I will need new towels.  Oh, and a new toilet seat cover.  Cool!  I step over Max, who is writhing on the floor at this point, and grab a cream colored toilet seat cover, and some blue striped hand towels.  Oh, and I even got a FANCY towel with decorative little branches on it.  I've never had a FANCY towel before!  I told K that he's never allowed to put his hands on it because it's for looks.  Kind of like my body.

We leave BB&B, and head directly to the first place we see to eat.  It's Chipotle which excited K until I remind him that they won't be serving jalapenos because of the salmonella and stuff.  Which is all for the good because the man loves jalapenos as much as he loves complaining about the BURNING GUT, MY GOD THE BURNING GUT 3 hours later.  The kids devour their quesadillas and calm ensues.  I decide at this point, mainly because I'm starting to get that special OCD feeling about redecorating the bathroom, that we need to stop at Target on the way home.  The plan is to keep the kids strapped into the car where they can't bother society and have just me run in and pick up a few things.  Because of course now that we have new towels and rugs, we need new hardware!

I run into Target and start gathering stuff up.  New towel ring?  Check.  New towel bar?  Check.  New toilet paper holder?  Check.  And all of this is in a lovely brushed copper finish.  As I was turning to head to the checkout, I heard a blood-curdling scream.  There is only one creature on earth that can make such a horrid noise, and unfortunately it is my daughter.  K has let them loose.  Sorry Target.

Clara comes running down the main aisle chasing after a ball that is about twice the size of her.  She's screaming because Max had kicked it away from her.  K is dragging Max by an earlobe and Max is yelling bloody murder.  I duck and hide in the Tupperware section.  I look over at this lady who is obviously appalled at those children and I give her the pursed lip and shoulder shrug obviously agreeing with her disapproval.  I said to her "hey, at least they're reminding us all to take our birth control." 

On the way to the checkout I pick up a very lovely on-sale mahogany shelf to go in my bathroom.  I was on a shopping high!

Once home, I beg K to put up the new hardware.  He starts, but before he finishes, I realized something very important.  The paint color is ALL WRONG.  And that needs to be fixed.  K looked at me and said "It's all yours honey.  I'm washing my hands of it."  Oh Good!  I love a good project!

So first thing Monday, I dragged the kids to Home Depot.  I let Max raid the paint card samples and he and Clara were happy campers.  I picked out a million samples to bring home... all in the blue family.  But!  As I was going to the checkout, I walked past the bathroom aisle, and like a light bulb had gone on in my brain, I realized that our faucet was SILVER!  Oh the horror.  All the other hardware was a lovely brushed copper.  So I picked up a new, and very hip, faucet for our sink.  At this point I was being very thankful that K loves me and that even though he's going to give birth to a ten ton brick of crap when I tell him he's installing a new sink, I paused to be thankful that I can always withhold sex until he does. 

On the way home from the store I called him and told him my deeds.  He was surprisingly OK with it, but I think the Senator my have been in the room.  Because he was all, "New faucet?  That'll be a breeze.  I had noticed that the metal friction, uh, washers, were uh, getting stripped and, yeah.  Good idea hon."  Huh?  At least he was cool.

Once home I quickly picked my paint color - Shale Blue from Ralph Lauren.  K got home pretty late, so his part of this surprise renovation was approved for weekend completion by me, the Project Manager.

So I bet you can guess what we did this morning?  Yep.  Went and bought the paint and all needed paint sundries.  And I bet you can guess what I did this afternoon (and during Clara's blessed 2 and a half hour nap)?  Yep.  Painted. 

And here I sit, sweaty, splattered, and high on fumes.  It still needs another coat, which will hopefully begin after dinner. 

And guess what idea I had while sitting here?!  A corner shelf to display my seashells!  OH!

The Good Kind of Crabs

Last night we discovered the most fantastic little riverside seafood joint.  You had to drive over the railroad tracks (very exciting for Max) and then along a gravel road (also very exciting).  I forget just how close we are to the Potomac River - a mere 10 minute jaunt.

So we arrive at the crab shack and see that all the tables are set up in the sand.  Max is wearing his Crocs, aka Summer Shoes, and as we are getting seated we have to diffuse a minor sand in shoe incident.  It unfortunately involved someone being told to Zip IT.  Whereas it isn't the hottest day we've had, it was still rather scorching, so we jiggy the table umbrella and secure some shade for the babes.

Our server is Jon, and I think he came straight in off his surf board.  He was SO cool.  I tried to be all hip and say the word phat and stuff (those crabs are PHAT!) and he related stories to us about how the crabs are soaked and steamed in beer once they're dropped off by the fisherman.  Oh, wow, that's SO rad, I commented.  Oops, do kids nowadays still say rad?  Oh well.  So I ordered the crab, with a side of dork.  K got the seafood platter deluxe extravaganza most expensive thing on the menu.  Because if there is a meat platter of any kind, he WILL order it.  You should have seen him in Bavaria.  It was sausage-meat-mania.  We ordered the kids some fresh fried fish bites and green beans.

My crab came and other than looking utterly delicious, it scared the children.  Tee hee.

Incidentally, I think that by eating crab, the caloric value is canceled to zero, simply because it takes AN ACT OF GOD to get all the meat out.  And Acts of God, are like worth 5 Weight Watcher Activity Points at least.  Cool Waiter Jon came over and showed me a few tricks on crabmeat extraction.  Whilst Max yelled "Mommy, you have crabs!"  I love my children.

After reluctantly tasting some of the crab, Max got really creative.

Look Mom!  It's a CRAB STRAW!  This turns your water into Crab Juice!  Doesn't that sound delicious?  Oh mom, this freaks me out SO HARD!

It was at about this time that we were begging for a nice Potomac breeze.

While the kids patiently (NOT) waited for me to finish extracting molecular size pieces of crab from the crab carnage, they decided that they'd do some peer gazing.  And Clara teetered on the brink of spontaneous combustion.  Do you see that red face?  K and I still feel lucky that despite our complexions, our children didn't end up with see-through skin.  We do use SPF10,000 though; otherwise they would spontaneously combust upon sun exposure.

So that's the story of all little family night out on the shore.  We sure do love them crabs. 

Max and Ruby. Not My Max Though, The Fat Naughty Bunny Named Max.

Life is very day to day in the summer.  There has really been no schedule for us which can be a good and bad thing.  The good: We're available on a whim and I don't have to get dressed or showered until at least noon now.  The bad:  We're getting on each other's nerves something fierce. 

Max has developed a new obsession ever since he's moved on from Cars cars.  He's typically not a TV watcher, but every since the cable box guy came and showed Max how to work the darn thing, he's become quite adept at recording and watching his own shows.  He's convinced that the cable box is capable of independent thought and higher functioning.  In other words, it's become aware.  Not really, but to a 4 year old, it's pretty miraculous.  We decided to add some channels to the cable box in our bedroom and it blew Max's mind.  HOW did it know to get Noggin (his favorite network) upstairs now?  Did the cable box talk to the cable guy?  Does the cable box use a telephone?  Is that red light it's EYE!  How how how does it work?!?!?! 

One show in particular that has become a favorite is Max and Ruby.  Maybe because of the name?  Or maybe because it annoys me to such great levels that I go into a brainless coma when it's on?  I don't know.  All I know is that he wants to watch it ALL day.  And I've decided that Max and Ruby, especially Max the bunny, are NOT good role models.  Max is a naughty bunny and Ruby sounds like she's overdosed on Paxil.  And WHERE are their parents?  Hmmm?  If I lived in the cable box, I'd be calling social services on that little situation. 

I've been letting Max spend an hour or so watching various episodes throughout the day.  He laughs hysterically when Max the bunny puts a popsicle in his shoe and even rewinds parts over and over.  He'll pause it so he can drag me over to watch this "freakin' funny part."  And because of this little precious Noggin' show, I'm losing my will to live.  I go to bed at night humming the theme song.  I'll roll over in my sleep and mumble "Max and Ruby... dum dum da dum... Ruby and Max."  K is worried.

He's always very happy to quit watching this show if I have an alternative.  He loves going to our swimming pool, going out shopping, playing with friends, and all the usual kids stuff.  But, if we are at home and I haven't engaged him in some other activity, on comes the TV.  And it is NOT worth the fight.  Tell me, come summertime, do you have your kids scheduled ALL day long?   

But when he starts acting like Max the bunny, that's when I draw the line.  Just yesterday we were sitting at dinner and Max says: "NOT going to eat it."  At bedtime he yelled: "NOT going to bed."  And then he yelled from bed "STILL up!"  Oh NO!  I am not raising an ill-behaved overweight cartoon bunny.  I spoke very sternly to him telling him that "You are not MAX!  And you will NOT act like him!"  And he says, "But I AM MAX!  I'm M.A.X.  ANd that spells MAX!"  I replied, "You are not a naughty cartoon bunny.  You are a human and you will talk and behave like one."  He gave me his acquiescent growl and gave up his brief life as a naughty bunny.

I do have one thing to be thankful for, and that is that Max and Ruby isn't exactly the most annoying show on Noggin.  That award goes to Yo Gabba Gabba (I dare you to click that link.  And I double dog dare you to watch this video).  I've affectionately started calling it Yo Droppa Acid, as that seems to be a much more fitting name.  Max knows that this show freaks me out and every time it comes on he turns it up and yells "Mommy, you're FAVORITE show is on!"  I think he may be getting me back for my Ikea Torture Technique.  Maybe we'll do joint therapy sessions when he's older.