Tag Archives: the kids

happy birthday, RADER!

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My baby boy turns 10 today. Weird.
He’s such a goof. The child doesn’t take a ‘regular’ picture. You know the kind with smile? No. He only takes funny face pics. But if we’re sneaky enough, sometimes we can catch him off guard and get a good shot.
He was a big baby. 8 lbs 6 oz…and 3 weeks EARLY. And he hasn’t stopped being a big boy since. He weighed 18 lbs at 3 months. My oldest son weighed that at 1 year! He’s almost always the tallest kid in his class and he’s almost always the smartest. For those of you who haven’t read my Rader stories, feel free to browse. They’re entertaining. My particular favorites are:

  1. Sex Education
  2. My Duck
  3. Inappropriate Conversations
  4. And of course, Licking Nipples

My child is special…there is no doubt about that.

Happy Birthday, Rader!

my baby’s all growed up

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Okay, maybe not all growed up, but close.

We had open house today at Catholic High. My baby is going to be a freshman in high school next year. I’m a little sad.

The dress code is slacks, button down collared shirt, and tie. So we made him wear the “uniform” to the open house today. His first tie. Awwwww.

He seemed to really like the school, despite his reluctance to communicate with words. I know that teens go through this period where the revert back to grunting Cro-Magnons, but I’m ready for us to move past the grunt and back to the land of words.

Maybe soon, we’ll see a real transformation. But right now, I’ll just have to be satisfied that we’re making forward progress. Here is a picture of where we are now:Mouth-breathing Cro-Magnon
Begin Transformation
Transformation stage 2
stage 3
End result. Gee, happy much???

oh noz, it’s the sleets!

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It spit a little sleet for about a minute and a half and the whole town has shut down. Good Lord. I do not understand. It’s not supposed to get any worse, and when you let the schools out, all the parents rush to pick the kids up and create gridlock.

It’s just a little bit of sleet. It’s not even sticking. The city workers can de-ice the bridges and overpasses if we’re not all on the damn freeway.

I bet money the stores have been wiped clean of their milk and bread. Because, as you all know, we can’t have sleet or snow without an ample supply of milk and bread.

Especially since it’s only supposed to be 54 degrees tomorrow. We may be stuck inside Forever. *rolling eyes*

weapons of math destruction

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better known as: how algebra brought Mel to tears…and not for the first time.

I have a hate, hate relationship with all things algebra… I consider algebra and anything related to it, a form of torture.

The first C I ever made was in 8th grade…when we started the unit on algebra. In 9th grade, I made my first D on a test…in algebra. I never failed but I can honestly say it’s the only class I’ve ever taken in which I felt like a failure.

Fast forward to college. If I graduated by a certain year, I wouldn’t have to take college algebra, only intermediate algebra. My guidance counselor and I worked out my credits, figured out what I would need to graduate without having to subject myself to a full semester of torture…and when it came time to graduate, I was 3 hours short. Which meant, I was 6 hours short because I would have to take college algebra to graduate.

It took me two attempts. I dropped the first class because the teacher didn’t teach it in a way that I could understand it. (okay, I STILL don’t understand it, but he never taught me to a point that I could at least fake my way through.) Finally, I found the right teacher, signed up, and made it through College Algebra with a C.

Whoot! May as well have been a 110% as far as I was concerned.

Fast forward to last night. Fishdog is in Oxford. My brother is at home 20 minutes away…and I’m here with Ian, almost in tears. He has 50 algebra problems (don’t even get me started on the amount of homework, which I believe is outrageous) and he was told that the homework counts as a test grade.

Yeah, I’m about to freaking cry.

I emailed my brother a sampling of the problems and he called me and tried to teach me how to do them over the phone. This is 8th grade pre-algebra y’all, and I was nearly having a panic attack. Every bad memory, every horrid feeling of inadequacy came rushing back. I felt like such an idiot.

Somehow, my brother finally helped me to see the light, so I helped Ian as best I could. We worked until 10:30 last night. Watching him was like watching myself. It’s a shame that I’ve passed him the anti-algebra part of my brain. We didn’t even finish half of the homework. I think we managed 25 problems.

So we got up this morning and did another 15. I sent a note to the teacher explaining that we did work very hard on the homework but we were unable to complete all 50 problems and I asked her not to write Ian up, give him a mark, or a warning, or punish him in any way.

How sad is that?

Thank God algebra was not in my life plan. I’m pretty sure it’s not in Ian’s either…

peter, peter, punkin eater…

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We’re headed to Hardin Farms in Grady, AR today to pick punkin, ride hay, tour haunted houses, get lost in the hay-maze, shop at the mercantile, and eat some down home country cookin’ from the Farm’s Restaurant.

Will post pics when I get back.

On the writing front, I got a lot accomplished yesterday on Bite Me! plus I heard back from Deidre, the wonder agent, and she loved my most recent proposal. Which is a good thing, because I love it, too. As in, I think I would’ve died a little if she hadn’t responded with pure excitement…because this story is just so fun. Anyway, I’m tweaking it this weekend in hopes that it will soon hit the desks of editors who love it enough to pay me lots and lots of dough for it.

Last night, we had a girl’s night out with my best friend from high school and three of my friends from college, because PamPam is the first in our group to turn 40. Yes, I know I’ll be there soon enough, but I am not next, therefore, I am very happy. Not that I dread turning 40, because I don’t. I just think being skinny and rich will ease the pain a little more, so I’m working very hard to make that happen…LOL We had a good time reminiscing about our old party days. (them, not me. I was an angel) I haven’t laughed that hard in forever. My God I had forgotten a lot. (on purpose? probably) All I know is, I am certainly glad there were no digital cameras around back in the late 80s early 90s.

So what are your plans this weekend? Punkin patches? Boozing it up? Anyone letting their naughty river flow?

In honor of PamPam’s birthday and for her brand new baby, I offer you this video. (Am I the only one in the world who misses Axl Rose?)

sex education by kids

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Last night, we were driving home from North Little Rock. Rader had a game at 5:00 (really, who schedules a game at 5:00? That’s ridiculous!) and he played a kick ass game but they lost by 3. Disappointing, to say the least. Anyway, after the game, we went to Rocky’s Pub to have dinner. Very tasty burgers and very cold beer on tap.

We had about a 30 minute drive to the house after dinner, which is always dangerous when the kids are feeling spunky. Apparently they were in a mood last night, having fun mouthing off and joking around and Rader decided it was time to ask questions about childbirth. He likes the fact that Ian was a C-section and that he wasn’t. So I retell the story.

Rader: You screamed when I was born. I remember it.
Me: Actually, I didn’t. I had great drugs.
Rader: I remember it, Mom. That’s why I had to get tubes. You screamed so loud my ears hurt.

Of course, I thought that was brilliant. Then he asked me: “Where did I come out of again? Your butt crack?”

Now, he knows the answer to this, but being a 9 yr. old, he of course thinks the word Vagina is the funniest thing ever. But I play along.

Me: You smell like you came from my butt crack, but no, you came from my vagina.
Rader: giggle VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA
Me: It’s not a bad word, Rader. You know that. It’s a body part. Like Penis or Eyeball.
Mark: Or elbow. Or sphincter.
Ian: I thought sphincter was an old lady without a husband.

Total silence. Then much laughter.

Mark: You mean spinster?
Ian: Huh huh huh. Yeah. That’s what I meant. I know what a sphincter is.

Name calling ensues. Each boy calls the other a sphincter. I finally put the kibosh on the body part conversation telling them I want a do over. I want to rewind 14 years and decide against having dirty, stinky, rotten boys.

Rader: That’s what happens when you put the hotdog in the donut.

OMG. I nearly ran off the road. That was the funniest thing ever. I have totally ruined my children. Much therapy will be necessary. But at least they’ll have plenty to talk about.

run ian run!

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My panic attack is well contained now. I wrote like the wind today, adding 13 new pages so far and will continue tonight after Rader’s soccer game.

Yesterday, Ian ran in his 3rd cross-country meet. They award the top twenty runners with ribbons and on his 1st meet, Ian came in 23rd. Close, but no cigar.

His 2nd meet, he kicked major ass, and came in 16th. Score a ribbon!

Yesterday, the track was a little longer and a little tougher. But not tough enough to keep that boy of mine out of the top 2o! He was 2oth and he walked away with another ribbon.

I’m very proud of my #1 boy. He’s never been a runner before. He’s now been running 3 days a week for about 6 weeks. He’s getting better and better. I hope he sticks it out.

Here’s a camera phone pic of my baby running toward the finish line.

do you understand the words that are comin’ outta my mouf?

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When I say the words “Please, leave your brother alone. Don’t look at him, speak to him, flip him off, touch him, poke him, or kick him under the table. And please, no more silent “I’m gonna slit your throat” threats.”

Do y’all understand me? Or am I speaking a foreign language? An alien language?

Something must be wrong with me because apparently, my damn kids don’t understand anything I say.

Not. One. Damn. Thing.

Speaking of damn, I’m heading to the Big Dam Bridge to walk it off.

Hasta la vista.

ETA the video. Was running late this morning (due to aforementioned children of the corn) and didn’t have a chance to find…

my duck…

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I’m taking a small writing break to share a story.

The Fishdog is a music madman. If it’s out there, he’s heard it. The more obscure, the more likely it is that he’ll not only know the song, he probably has it on his MP3 player.

This has rubbed off on our kids. It’s amazing to see these guys singing songs I didn’t even know they’d heard of. And we’re pretty wide open musically and honestly, there’s very little we don’t let the kids listen to.

But there is this one song on the MP3 player that I’ve forbidden for a while because of the subject…

Of course, you know what happened. Fishdog and I left the kids in the car while we ran back into the house to grab something we’d forgotten. And, as luck would have it, the song came on.

I discretely asked Fishdog if he thought they got the lyrics and understood what the song was about. He just laughed out loud. I mean, it’s hardly a subtle song.

Ian starts asking “What?” and Rader says, “Are you talking about that, My Duck song?”

Oh yeah, My Duck. That’s what the song says.

For those of you who are easily offended (why are you reading my blog?)or are at work without headphones, don’t click this video. Everyone else, please listen and try hard not to sing along saying “My Duck”…

friday, part the 2nd…

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I volunteered at the school today and they worked me over like a cheap hooker. Okay, maybe not the best metaphor considering the fact this is a Catholic school, but you get the picture. It was 5 hours of hard labor–without an epidural. Trust me, drugs would’ve helped, tremendously.

I had a good time despite the fact I was wishing for a hit of pain killers. I hung out with a cool Egyptian chick (been in America since ’68 so really she’s more American than Egyptian now…) anyway, Maggie is the mother of 3 beautiful girls. You know, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes…the kinda girls that will be called “exotic beauties” when they’re older. We had a great time. We spent the day moving and unpacking boxes and laughing at assisting the snooty other moms were also there to “help”.

So, this whole Catholic immersion thing is new to me. A: I’m protestant and a lapsed protestant at that. B: I think organized religion ruins spirituality C: What do you mean Mass doesn’t count except on Saturday’s after 4:00 pm and on Sundays? If it doesn’t count, why the hell are y’all going all the damn time? But I’m hanging in there and being as supportive as I can be for a heathen an uneducated protestant.

Sometimes I worry one of the parents will find my blog and my kids will be kicked out because their mom has had naughty thoughts about Steve from Blue’s Clues (honestly, can they forgive a naughty river?), has posted half nekkid pictures of hot guys, is writing a Vampire YA, and gets pretty hot and bothered when reading MMF. Could you imagine that conversation?

“But she’s in PTO. She can’t be all bad.”
“But she likes reading MMF sex! I bet she liked watching Queer as Folk… (I did. Hot naked guys for 1 hour a week. Duh.)
“She writes about the undead. She’s a sinner.”
“We could convert her…”
“Um. Do we really want to convert her?”
“Good point.”

Of course, this is my overactive imagination working overdrive ( I write fiction, you know?) The school takes our money and welcomes us into their fold. It’s been fabulous there. The kids like it tremendously and I’ve felt very welcome by the people who count. (actually, the majority of the school and administration has been more than welcoming. Just one or two moms have tried their best to make me feel uncomfortable. They didn’t realize I thrive on the challenge..)

Just because I feel like it, here’s one of my favorite scenes from Rush Hour (shut up, I like this movie). It’s not the scene I quote the most… (“Do you hear the words that are comin’ out of my mouf?”) But it is one of my favorite scenes. Enjoy, bitches.