My Morning — A Post-ette

7:40 a.m.  -  The time that I normally leave the house to drop the boys off at school.

7:42 a.m. -  The time we got into the car this morning.

7:43 a.m. -  The time that The Good One — heretofore known as The Son Formerly Known As The Good One But Based On All The Dip-&*it Stuff He’s Been Doing Lately Is Now Known As The One Whose Dingbattiness Is Getting On My Last Nerve — informed me that he had to take a sack lunch for their field trip today.

7:44 a.m. -  The time I ran back into the house and packed a lunch in under a minute.  It’s possible The One Whose Dingbattiness Is Getting On My Last Nerve is having a box of uncooked mac-n-cheese and a stack of post-it notes for lunch today.

Ask me if I care if he breaks a tooth on an uncooked noodle.

Hint:  I do not.

8:14 a.m. -  The time I got back home and contemplated putting wine in my oatmeal.

About Boys

Warning: Long post ahead.  Go grab a cup of coffee, maybe a snack.  You might want to get a Gatorade to replenish electrolytes.

If you regularly read this blog, you have likely discerned by now that I’m a female.

If you haven’t figured that out yet, then I question whether it was your cat or dog that helped you to get online to read this.

I’m starting out with the mean today.  Forgive me.  Or don’t.  I don’t really care.

Anyway, as a girl who grew up with four sisters, a mother and a father who likely sprouted a uterus the minute his last daughter was born, I know lots of things about girls.  It’s part of the reason I have so few friends.  Girls can really be kind of annoying.  Girls like to eat pretty food and post pictures of it, their cats and coffee mugs on Facebook.  Guess what?  That picture you posted of your “super-cute” coffee mug just sucked up a pixel of my brain’s available memory.  I will never be able to erase it and free up that pixel for other more worthy images. Thanks a lot.

If I ever post a picture of a mug that isn’t in some way ironic or a picture of a plate of food that doesn’t have an actual severed human thumb in it, you have permission to punch me.

While I do not do those annoying Facebook things, I’m annoying in a host of other ways.

Anyway, adopting two boys and being married to a boy, I was a little surprised to learn how genetically different boys are from girls.

I’ve been compiling a list of some basic boy truths that will help you navigate the raising of your boys.  If you have only girls, perhaps this list will give you some insight into why the moms of boys are always drunk.

You really need to print this out and save it for future reference.  You might consider framing it and giving it to all of your pregnant friends.  It’s so full of boy-parenting genius that I should write a book about parenting boys and get a Nobel Prize in Literature.  Maybe even a Nobel Peace Prize.  (They’re different things, right?)

Ready?  Here we go.

1.  Boys smell.  All. The. Time.  Sometimes they smell like outside.  Sometimes they smell like sweat.  Sometimes they smell like rancid feta cheese mixed with wet, mangy dog.  Sometimes when I’m doing the laundry, I will empty The Good One’s hamper to try to locate what smells like a month-old ham sandwich or maybe a dead rodent.  I never find anything.  The point is, boys always smell.  And it’s never like cherry blossoms and unicorn farts.  Usually it’s actual farts.   This leads to point number 2.

2.  Boys fart.  A lot.  And they find it hysterical.  They may say “excuse me” after they do it because you’ve beat into them that they need to have manners, but in reality they think the fact that they can expel air out of their butts is a riot.

3.  Boys will say the word “fart” and it will be their favorite word.  “Fart” is to boys as “shopping” is to girls.  Growing up in a family with 6 women and a father who sacrificed his Y chromosome at the altar of Tampaxia, The Goddess of Estrogen, we were never allowed to say “fart.”  We would say, “Did you gas?” or “Who tooted?”  These genteel phrases were Estrogen-approved.

However, the minute there is a boy child in the house, the word “fart” will become commonplace.

One of my sisters, Terri, originally had only daughters.  Then about 2 years ago she had a son.  Before her son really started talking, we were visiting and The Beast said “fart.”  Terri said in shock, “Do you let him say that word?”  And I said, “Honey, you have a son now.  I guarantee you that that word will be spoken in your house.  You can try to fight it, but even if you make that a no-no word, the minute you walk out of the room, your son will start saying ‘fart’ as if it’s the only word in his vocabulary.”

My advice here is to desensitize yourself to the word “fart.”  Otherwise, wear earplugs.  Maybe have your cochlea removed.

4.  To a boy, if a toy has wheels and can be sat upon, it is a bumper car.  If we’re in the driveway (or the kitchen, for that matter) and The Beast sits on his tricycle and I sit on the plasma car, It. Is. On.  You might say I’m encouraging the behavior by taking part in it, but I’ve watched The Beast play bumper cars since he was 8 months old.  Boys obviously have a genetic need to bang into things when they’re on wheels.  To me, telling a boy that it is wrong to play bumper cars would be akin to telling a girl that it is wrong to play with Barbie as if she were a fashion model and that instead Barbie should be played with as if she were a ninja assassin.  So my advice to you, should you not want to play bumper cars, is don’t sit on anything with wheels.

5.  If it’s round, it’s a ball.  It will be thrown.  This includes rocks, globes and roundish clumps of dog poop.  You get the picture.

6.  If it looks like a bat, it is a bat.  It will be swung.   You would do well to stay out of the bat’s way.

7.  If it looks like a gun, it is a gun.  This applies to sticks, branches, empty paper towel rolls, action figures, and . . . well, anything can be a gun.  You can choose not to purchase toy guns for your son, and I completely understand why many parents do this.  However, don’t assume that just because you’re not purchasing toy guns means he’s not playing with guns.  He’s got an imagination: He’s playing with guns.  You can tell him not to shoot at people, of course, but that crayon you just handed him?  A gun.  A wooden spoon?  A gun.  The dog dish?  A gun.

Or maybe my kids are just violent.  I don’t know.

8.  The having of a penis and the ability to change an empty toilet paper roll are mutually exclusive.  Fortunately, this genetic defect can be overcome with extensive behavior modification therapy. photoMy boys are obviously still in therapy.

9.  If they climb it, they will jump off of it.  This includes, but is not limited to, furniture, counter tops, tables, trampolines, play forts, swings, appliances, shelves, bathtubs and ladders.

10.  They have one speed.  It’s called running.  Walking is a skill they learn later in life after being screamed at repeatedly.  They especially like to run near moving vehicles.  Often AT moving vehicles.  They are dog-like in that way.  Lectures on becoming “Flat-[insert name here]” are helpful in this area.

11.  They eat dinner on the edge of their seats as if they are running late for a very important meeting.   You can tell them to sit properly on the chair, but within seconds they will again have approximately 1 square inch of ass cheek in contact with the chair.  My advice here is to save your breath.  After they fall out of the chair enough times, this behavior will correct itself.

12.  Dirt is a boy’s idea of heaven.  (Until he reaches puberty and then his idea of heaven will be boobs.)  Have you ever watched your son when he first catches a glimpse of a pile of dirt?  And then have you ever watched your son as you tell him he’s not allowed to play in the dirt?  His countenance will turn from one of excitement and euphoria to one of despair and confusion.  You will see in his eyes an internal battle begin to rage as he tries to resist temptation and obey your orders.  This will require him to overcome the desire to do what every cell in his body and synapse in his brain is telling him to do: play in the dirt.  It’s almost cruel to expect him to be around dirt and not let him play in it.

Is it convenient to have to bathe your son (or hose him off) so frequently?  No.  Wouldn’t it be nice if boys hated to be dirty like most girls do?  Yes, it would.  But if you let your son play in that dirt, he will be occupied for hours and will be utterly and completely happy.

If your son is reaching puberty, reread the above paragraphs and replace the word “dirt” with “boobs” and you’ll be getting the same sage advice.  (Actually, I just did that and the resulting advice is kind of skeevy.  “If you let your son play in the boobs, he will be occupied for hours and will be utterly and completely happy.”  While that’s true, it’s not really the best parenting advice.)

13.  To a boy, the only thing better than dirt is mud.  If your son is an adolescent, you know what “mud” is and I suggest a lecture on STDs complete with graphic photos.

14.  If you build it, they will knock it down.  You can choose to get angry about their destructive nature, or you can roll with it and make it part of the game.  However, choosing to get angry really doesn’t do you any good because they are going to keep knocking your crap down whether you like it or not.  My suggestion here is never to build anything of value near your son.

15.  They are happiest when they are teetering ever so slightly on the brink of disaster.  You can put them in bubble wrap and force them to stay firmly planted on the ground at all times, but they won’t be happy.  The Beast loves nothing more than to climb the rock wall to the top of our 8-foot-high play set and then lean over the edge.  He loves to climb on top of our 6-foot privacy fence and dangle one leg on our side and one on our neighbor’s side.  Both boys love to sit on cardboard boxes and slide down our steps at Mach speed.

I’m not saying that you should permit your sons to do whatever dangerous thing they feel like doing, but you should know that those moments are the ones that make them the most happy.  My advice here is to invest in high-quality helmets.

And there you have it.  This list is far from exhaustive, but I’m over 2,000 words and even I can’t stand myself enough to read that much of my rambling.

But I do have one last thought:  I think boys today get a bad rap.  Sometimes even by me.

Society’s idea of proper childhood behavior seems to be geared towards girls, and I think that’s because girls resemble adults more closely than boys do.  Girls are generally more calm and composed and not nearly as dirty and physical and loud as boys.  However, I don’t think that that means that the way girls play and behave is necessarily better or more right that the way boys play and behave.

If a boy and a girl are playing in a room and the girl is quietly having a tea party with her dollies while the boy is crashing his cars into his blocks or banging his army men into each other in a mock war, we say, “Oh, she plays so nicely.”  What that really means, to me, is “Oh, she plays like a calm little adult.”

We naturally appreciate that behavior because it’s peaceful and it’s how we as adults behave.  But that boy who is sitting on the floor crashing things into other things and making explosion sounds really is playing just as nicely as the girl.  We just don’t appreciate it as much.

And when a little boy and a little girl are playing together, and the little boy starts banging his toys together and making a ton of noise and the little girl starts to get upset, we usually make the little boy play differently (or at least I have always done that), and really, I don’t think that’s right.  Honestly, I think it makes more sense to have boys and girls play separately than to ask one of them to behave in a way that is completely against their nature.

Why do we (I) never ask the little girl to accept that when playing with a boy, there will be dirt and noise and a big, giant mess?  I obviously want my boys to grow up to be chivalrous gentlemen, but I also want to balance that with the understanding that boys will be boys.

My point here isn’t to offend you if you have daughters.  I pray that they are sweet and peaceful and smell of sunshine and unicorn farts.

But I hope that you’ll understand why I let my boys be gross, smelly, dirty, loud boys.

It’s part of who they are and I really wouldn’t want it any other way.

Now, go Ctrl-P this sucker and start giving it away.

As always, you are welcome.

This is why I drink.

A conversation with The Beast

Me:  Beast, it’s time to clean up your toys and get ready for bed.

Beast:  What are toys?

Me:  Toys are those things you play with, like your trains and cars.

Beast:  What are cars?

Me:  Cars are vehicles that people drive.

Beast:  What’s a vehicle?

Me:  A vehicle is anything that is used to move things around, like cars and trucks and airplanes.

Beast:  What’s an airplane?

Me:  An airplane is a vehicle that flies in the air.

Beast:  What’s air?

Me:  Air is the oxygen that we breathe.

Beast:  What’s breathe?

Me:  Breathing is when you take in air through your mouth and nose and fill up your lungs.

Beast:  What are lungs?

Me:  Lungs are organs in our bodies that help us breathe and stay alive.

Beast:  What’s alive?

Me:  Alive means not dead.

Beast:  What’s dead?

Me:  It means you don’t breathe anymore.

Beast:  What’s breathe?

Me:  Dear Lord in heaven, PLEASE DO NOT ASK ME ANY MORE QUESTIONS!!

Beast:  What’s heaven?

Whoever said that we should answer our children’s questions and do things to spark their curiosity is a top-notch Nimrod who evidently didn’t have a 3-year-old who liked to ask questions just to piss off his mom.

From now on, no one in my house is allowed to ask a question.  If you’re in my house and you’re curious about something, feel free to step outside onto my porch and ask Siri or Google, but if you ask a question I will punch you in the face.

Amen.

Ass Turned on the TV

If Virginia Slims Man (VSM) and I ever get a divorce I’m certain that the divorce filing will read:

Grounds for Divorce:  Husband turned on television while Wife was sleeping and woke her up, knowing full well that Wife is not able to fall asleep as easily as narcoleptic Husband.  Wife then picked up iPad that was sitting on bedside table and attempted to bludgeon Husband to death with it.  Wife seeks spousal support, child support and a new iPad.  Husband seeks restraining order and would like to press attempted murder charges against Wife.  Husband also requests that he not be required to purchase new iPad for Wife seeing as how he bought her the first one and she tried to kill him with it. 

I should have been a lawyer.  Or at the very least I should write for one of the Law & Orders.

In all honesty, Virginia Slims Man has been incredibly considerate of my relatively new sleep issues.  In the past, I could fall asleep easily and stay asleep, regardless of the noise and light level in the room.  But for some reason, I think related to the acquisition of children, the TV now drives me nuts.

I do sometimes like to watch a show in bed.  But my goal is to watch a show, start to finish, not to make myself sleepy so that I can then fall asleep in the middle of the show.  So I’ll go into the bedroom, turn on the TV, watch my show, turn off the TV and then fall asleep.  You know, how a normal human being does it.

Virginia Slims Man, however, sees the TV as a 32-inch, electronic binky that he uses to lull himself to sleep.  This process takes a little over a minute, but because the timer on our TV cannot be set for less than 30 minutes, I then have to suffer for 28 to 29 more minutes while waiting for the TV to turn off on its own, or I have to molest VSM in an attempt to locate the remote control to turn off the TV myself.

A few months ago I explained to VSM that either something was going to have to change regarding the TV or one of us was moving out of the bedroom.  We discovered that if I’m in a full, dead-to-the-world sleep, then his turning on the TV doesn’t bother me.  Or, if I’m wide awake when he comes to bed to watch TV, if he falls asleep within a few minutes, then it’s really not a big deal for me to find the remote (taking care not to touch him in his special places because if I accidentally do that it creates a whole host of other issues that interfere with my sleep) and turn off the TV.

The big deal is when he enters the room just as I’ve just drifted off to sleep.  I’m not in a deep enough sleep for it to stick, and if he turns the TV on and wakes me up, then I cannot fall back to sleep.

With that knowledge, our sleep issues have greatly improved.  He’s been very careful to make sure I’m either fully awake or fully asleep when he turns the TV on, and really we haven’t had an issue over the last few months.

But last night I contemplated throwing my bedside lamp at the TV and then strangling him with our sheets.

You see, The Beast’s sleep is all jacked up.  He says there are ghosts in his room.  I think he’s been watching too much Scooby Doo, but that explanation does nothing to calm him in the middle of the night.

Last night, at about 11:00, The Beast woke up and called for us.  I was already well on my way to being asleep.  Since VSM had just come into the bedroom and wasn’t yet in bed, he went to The Beast’s room and got him back to sleep.

VSM came back into our room, got into bed and didn’t turn on the TV.  I felt a wave of relief that I wasn’t going to have to kill him for waking me up completely, but then The Beast started fussing again.  Again, VSM got out of bed to calm The Beast back down.  All the while, I was in the semi-conscious state that occurs just before the wine completely knocks me out.

VSM got The Beast calmed down and came back into bed, only this time he turned on the TV.  Now, I completely get why he did it. The Beast has some sort of supernatural ability to sense the exact moment that you have fallen asleep, and it’s at that precise moment that he calls out for you.  He does this two or three times, spaced about five minutes apart, and then he falls back asleep for the rest of the night.

It’s infuriating and exhausting to get in bed, start to fall asleep and then hear him call for you.  In an effort to avoid this frustration, VSM turned on the TV so that he could hopefully stay awake so that when The Beast likely called for him one last time, he wouldn’t be woken from a sleep.  Then once he felt assured that The Beast was down for the night, he was going to turn off the TV.

I should disclose that most of the time my husband is a saint, because 9 times out of 10 when The Beast calls for someone in the middle of the night, it’s VSM who goes in to comfort him.  Part of this is that VSM falls asleep so much easier than I do, so even if he gets out of bed and is fully awake from walking to The Beast’s room, once he’s back in our bed, he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

The other reason that my husband usually gets up with The Beast is that the monitor is on my side of the bed and VSM doesn’t really hear it, so when The Beast wakes up and calls for either one of us, I kick VSM and say, “He’s calling for you.”  Yes, I lie.

Anyway, none of my husband’s generosity mattered last night when he came to bed and turned on the TV.  I truly have no idea what he was watching, but based on the flashing strobe lights, my closest guess is a documentary on Studio 54.

In my annoyance, I huffed and puffed and yanked my blankets over my head.  I lay there, cursing my husband under my breath for waking me up just as I was falling asleep.  I imagined all of the horrible things I wanted to say to him.  I was now completely awake, yet exhausted, but not able to fall asleep due to the discothèque (That is not even close to how I thought that word would be spelled) that VSM had invited into our bedroom.

After what felt like three hours, but was probably closer to three minutes, I grabbed my blanket and pillow and stormed out of the room.

VSM called out, “I’ll turn it off.”

I exited the room and yelled, “It’s fine!”

It’s never fine.

Since the guest bedroom is a disaster, I went to the couch and tried to fall asleep there.  And while I was no longer at risk for suffering light-induced seizures, I was now awake to stew in my anger. I imagined all of the horrible things I was going to say to my husband in the morning.  I fantasized about how I was going to set up my new room in the guest room.  I was going to make it perfect for me. There would be a wine refrigerator and possibly one of those margarita machines.  There would be a gentle sound machine playing.  There would be a TV, but it would play Psych and The Middle and nothing with Donald Trump or monster catfish.

Then I fell asleep.  I woke up this morning, confused as to why I was on the couch, but then I remembered the night before.  My anger had now dissipated, and I knew that VSM felt badly for waking me up.  I reminded myself that Virginia Slims Man is really a good guy and chewing him out for turning on the TV would serve no purpose.

Plus, I’m a little bit afraid that if I harp on the TV issue too much, he’s going to make me start getting up with The Beast in the middle of the night.

So, if I can overcome my fear of being strangled by it in my sleep, I’m going to get a sleep mask.  And some earplugs.  Possibly talk to my doctor about getting some sleeping pills and anti-seizure medicine.

That said, if you ever read a story in the paper about a double murder in a suburb in Texas where the husband has an iPad-shaped indention in his skull and the wife has a sleep mask wrapped around her neck, you’ll probably be able to surmise what happened. . .

Ass turned on the TV.

I can’t think of a snappy title for this post. It’s about a going-away party and making friends. Read it and then you tell me what you think it should be titled. I’ve got nothing.

You may or may not remember this, but I mentioned awhile back that our best friends were moving to Georgia because my best friend’s husband, Señor Tiny Junk, is a teat-suckling man-child who needed to move closer to his milk supply.

Too much?

If you don’t remember me mentioning this, couple things.  One, if you read all of my posts, you should get checked for early-onset Alzheimer’s.  Two, if you don’t read all of my posts, then you aren’t nearly as dedicated to me as you should be.  Kind of ticks me off.

Well, Audrey Hepburn and Señor Tiny Junk moved to Georgia in January.  We gave them a fabulous going-away party.  And by “fabulous” I mean sucky.  But we meant for it to be sucky.

Audrey Hepburn is all about classy parties with fancy dessert tables, color-coordinated party banners made with a Cricut and thematic tablescapes.  (Thank you, Sandra Lee.  You may suck at all things cooking but you’re pretty to look at and you gave me a word I like to use, unlike that hack Rachael Ray who gave us EVOO, but every time she says EVOO, she then says Extra Virgin Olive Oil so that we understand what she’s talking about and really she’s just wasting everyone’s time.)

Anyway, Audrey Hepburn likes class, so my other friend (Yes, I literally have two friends.  Shut up.) and I threw the Hepburn/Tiny Junk family a classless going-away party.  We used paper plates, and not the nice paper plates like Chinet.  We used the cheapest, flimsiest paper plates money couldn’t buy.  I can’t even guarantee that they were clean.  We used leftover napkins that I had in my pantry from Chik-Fil-A.  Also potentially used.

I made a crap ton of junky, preservative-filled food because it’s just what Audrey Hepburn hates.  And I made food labels.  But when you’re trying to demonstrate your displeasure regarding someone’s move, this is what your labels look like:

IMG_1626 (2)  IMG_4996 IMG_5724 IMG_6577 (2)

Here’s a picture of the tablescape:

photo

The cake:

Christmas Going away 129

The very non-Cricut banner:

photo (3)So we threw them this going-away party, and then the next morning we sent them on their way to Georgia.

Since that time I have made no new friends.  Making friends is incredibly difficult when you’re a 40-year-old introvert who never leaves the house. The fact that I’m not very friendly also doesn’t help.

And it’s even more difficult to make friends with a couple that both spouses like.  Usually I make a friend and VSM finds the husband to be a tool, or he makes a friend and I won’t like the wife because, I don’t know, she says “yummy” a lot.

We actually do have one other set of friends, a husband and wife with three boys, but they’ve lived here their whole lives and have tons of friends and family, so they need us way less than we need them.

I recently met the woman who moved into the Hepburn/Tiny Junk house, and I instantly knew she and I wouldn’t be close friends.

My mother, who happened to be visiting at the time, said, “How can you tell so quickly that you won’t like her enough to be close friends with her?”

I said, “I can tell within three minutes of meeting you if I like you enough to want to get to know you better.  You, Mom, are just lucky I was a baby and therefore incapable of forming opinions when I met you.”

I’m kidding.  I love my mother.

But while I’m sure this new neighbor is an absolutely likeable woman, I did know within three minutes that I wasn’t going to be close friends with her because in that initial three-minute period she made sure to tell me that her husband is the manager of something.  I don’t remember what he is a manager of.  Probably a porta-potty cleaning company, but she was bragging like he runs a small country.

I felt like saying, “Yeah, well Virginia Slims Man is a boxer-short wearing, narcoleptic business owner whose snores could guide ships into harbor in a thick fog, but you don’t hear me bragging.”

Then she asked, “Is The Good One in the gifted and talented program at school?  My son is in the gifted and talented program at school.”

“No, The Good One is not in the gifted and talented program.  He thinks that the largest chain of barrier islands in the United States exists somewhere in the completely landlocked Midwest.”

Sadly, that’s a true story.

So basically my problem with her is this: She presents with her crazy.  You need to hold some of that crap back so that people don’t flee.  When you meet me, it’ll take a good couple of months before you realize that an argument could be made for my being institutionalized, but by then you’ll be so sucked in that fleeing won’t be possible and the only way to escape me will be to move to a different state.  That’s how you make lifelong friends.

Anyway, that’s where I stand right now.

Still only have two friends: one here, one far away.

On the upside, I’m just as popular as I was in high school.

“I love your coat.” ~ “Thank you. It’s mutt.”

You know those people who in the midst of a crisis remain ethereally calm and unflappable; they never panic or question what they’re doing; they instinctively know on a cellular level what they need to do and the exact moment in which to do it; they are awe-inspiring to watch and provide a source of comfort to those experiencing the crisis with them?

Yeah, well, I’m the exact opposite of those people.

If those people are like cats — clever, never panicked and graceful  — I am like a Chihuahua — yippy, running around in circles and likely peeing on myself.

In fact, once, many years ago, I was driving my car back to Texas from Pittsburgh and hit an overpass that was covered in ice.  My car did a 180, went backwards down an embankment, and then I promptly wet my pants.

Super.  Duper.  Sexy.

Well, I had the pleasure of demonstrating this lovely facet of my personality to my children this week.

We live in a neighborhood that lately seems to be a haven for stray animals.  I do not know if people are dropping these animals off or if the animals are merely finding their way here from other locations, but lately we’ve seen lots of dogs that belong to no one.

Years ago, when I lived in the country and had 7 acres, Virginia Slims Man and I would take in these dogs.  This was back when I didn’t have children and actually liked animals.  Now, I dream of the day when my blind, deaf, odiferous (Does that mean smelly?  Seems like it should.) dog finally kicks it.

Kidding.  Kind of.  Not really.

Anyhoo, there is a trio of stray dogs that roams our neighborhood.  They are always together and they consist of a poodle-like dog, another dog that I’d describe as black, and a puppy.

I’m not going to lie, the puppy is crazy cute.  It’s little and fluffy and just all around adorbs, but I have no desire to add any animals to this family, so we just continue to drive by them every day.

Well, on Wednesday, The Good One, The Beast and I got into my minivan (If peeing myself weren’t enough of a turn-on, I also drive a minivan.  Seriously, how do I not have a stalker?) to take The Good One to his guitar lesson.  I was driving down the road when I saw two of the stray dogs crossing the street.  I slowed down so that they could cross safely and then I made a comment to the kids, “I wonder where the puppy is?”

I started to accelerate, and at that very moment, the puppy appeared from behind a parked car and darted into the middle of the street.

I screamed and slammed on my breaks, but unfortunately I was too late to stop completely.  I heard a thump followed by a squeal.  I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the two other dogs run to the puppy that lay motionless in the street.

Now, I think a normal reaction in this situation would consist of some initial panic and horror, followed by, perhaps, I don’t know, parking the car and walking back to check on the dog.

But that’s not what I did.

No.  What I did went something like this.  “Oh my god.  Oh my god.  Oh my god.  I hit the puppy.  I hit the puppy.  I hit the puppy.  What do I do?  What do I do?  What do I do?”

I had absolutely no idea what to do.  Should I get out of my car and attempt to help this dog?  If I do, my children are going to see a bloody dog corpse.  While The Beast, who is horrified by nothing, would likely find this intriguing, The Good One, who is all heart, would be destroyed to see the mangled puppy carnage that I had created.

So I sat there.  The Good One was on the verge of exploding in tears, and The Beast crossed his arms in anger, pursed his lips into a pout and asked me why I wanted to kill the puppy.

So I sat there some more.  Mumbling and taking the Lord’s name in vain.  Repeatedly.

Then the practical part of my brain took over and I started worrying about things like if I pick up the puppy and try to take him to the animal hospital, The Good One is going to either be late or altogether miss his guitar lesson.  I hate to be late.  And what if one of these dogs has rabies?  I don’t want rabies.  I walk the long way around dead things on the road so that I won’t get rabies from the dust of decaying animals.

I said to the boys, “What do I do?”

Yes, I asked a near-sobbing 10-year-old and an angry 3-year-old what I should do.

Mother. Of. The. Year.

The Good One remained quiet, horror in his eyes, biting his lip to hold back his tears.

The Beast kept saying, “I want to see the puppy!  Why did you kill the puppy?!  You’re a bad mommy for killing the puppy.”

And I sat.  And sat some more.  And then sat a little bit more.

Then, doing what Chihuahuas do when in a state of panic, I called a cat: Virginia Slims Man.

Me: Honey, I hit that puppy.  I don’t know what to do.  I’m afraid to turn around because I don’t want the kids to see the body.  Do I try to help it?  What do I do?

VSM: Can you help it?

Me: I don’t think so.  I’m sure it’s dead.

At this point I had decided that I at least needed to find out if the dog was dead.  So I went around the block and told the kids to close their eyes.  The Beast refused to close his eyes because he wanted to see the dog.  The Good One attempted to put his hands over The Beast’s eyes, but this just started a screaming match.

TGO:  Cover your eyes!  You don’t want to see the dog!

The Beast:  I WANT TO SEE!!

TGO: No, you don’t!  It’ll be awful.  Close your eyes!

The Beast:  I WANT TO SEE THE FLAT PUPPY!!!

And that right there, my friends, is a four-line conversation that perfectly reflects the differences between my two sons.

So we looped around the block.  I started rocking back and forth and continued chanting “Oh my god.  Oh my god.  Oh my god.”   My heart raced and I kept telling the kids to close their eyes.

We arrived at the scene of The Great Tall Timbers Stray Dog Massacre of 2013, but the puppy, somehow, was gone.

Did someone see me hit him, and in the five minutes that I sat paralyzed in confusion did they rescue the puppy?  Did the other two dogs drag him off somewhere?  Did he get up and walk away?  Was he raptured?  (It could happen.)

I had no clue.

We drove on to The Good One’s guitar lesson.  TGO barely said two words.  He was sick with worry about the dog that his mother likely murdered.   The Beast talked nonstop about the flat puppy that Mommy hit and repeatedly questioned whether the puppy would forgive me.  He also questioned whether I would forgive the puppy.

I think he doesn’t know what “forgive” means.

The Good One prayed for the puppy last night.

Then this morning, as I was driving to pick up The Beast from school, I drove slowly down the road and saw the poodlish dog and the black dog walking along the curb.

And right there next to them was the puppy, happily searching the neighborhood for food.

I can’t wait for The Good One to get home so I can tell him that I didn’t kill the puppy.  And I’ve decided that if the opportunity presents itself, I’m going to catch the dogs and put them in my backyard until we can find them homes.

Or until I can skin them for a mutt coat.

Kidding.

Kind of.

Note about previous post.

My mother just called to tell me that my previous post was good, except for the part where I called The Beast an idiot.  She found this offensive.

People, for the love of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, I’m kidding.

I do not now, nor will I ever think my child is truly an idiot. Actually, that’s not true.  There are some things I can imagine happening in his, and The Good One’s, teenage years that could potentially warrant the use of the title “Idiot.”

But have we not already established that he’s an evil genius?

He’s 3 and he says words incorrectly, and I use that for humor.  If I offend you, I suggest you find a way to deal with it, because I’ll probably call him, The Good One and Virginia Slims Man a lot more names before I quit this highly unlucrative blogging business.

And if you’re concerned about him reading this and being offended, don’t.  While he is a genius, he doesn’t read yet and I’ll be sure to shut this baby down before he ever gets wind of my concern that he might someday concoct a nefarious plot to take over the world.

But honestly, what parent hasn’t at one time or another thought that their kids are idiots?

I feel confident that my parents thought we were idiots most of the time, because we were.  We nearly killed our family by using paint thinner in a poorly ventilated garage.  We made gifts of “perfume” for our friends by mixing 72 varieties of toilette water, and instead of providing anything resembling perfume, we provided the gift of raging headaches to our entire household.

We were idiots.  All kids are.

What is the world coming to when we can’t even joke about our kids being morons without people getting their knickers all sucked up their butt cheeks?