Zane Rules



1. My Big Toe is correctly referred to as my Thumb Toe.

2. If I have been waiting more than two minutes for anything to occur, I have been waiting a million hours, a million days, or at the very least, sixteen years.

3. Everything I dislike "stinks like a piece of trash."

4. The amount of time a new toy is whined, begged and pleaded for is not equal to the amount of time I will actually play with it. It is also not equal to the time it takes to build, break, lose or deface the new toy. It is, ahem, for you non parents, considerably SHORTER.

5. I am installed with a Parental Embarrassment-O-Meter, and it comes with a warranty that expires when I turn forty. It will automatically assess all situations with the potential of making my parents cringe; including but not limited to, restaurants, grocery stores, doctor's offices, churches, and virtually any public place that is made known to me in advance to be a venue where I must be "on my best behavior." My subconscious will then force me to use my OUTSIDE VOICE, demand all candy within a five mile radius, hone into and then touch all germy surfaces, and reveal the latest family scandal to the nearest old lady.

6. Burping in any social setting is a great way to make friends and influence people. Fart, and you are the life of the party.

7. Sugar (bubblegum) in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at suppertime. The perfectly sound diet for every human.

8. Grow ups (yes I said Grow Ups) are rather boring. They "work" and "do chores" and "read" and "type on the computer" when they could be playing. Also they "talk to each other" when clearly I have crises every five minutes, such as needing more bubble gum.

9. To keep things lively around here, I like to surprise my parents every day. On Monday, I will eat my oatmeal and thank Mommy for buying me the kind with colorful Dinosaur Eggs in it. On Tuesday, I will be shocked at the very existence of something called oatmeal, and cry big tears at the absolute injustice of all the kids on tv enjoying Marshmallow Candy Sugar Not Cereal At All. On Wednesday, I will show my parents what a big boy I am and brush my teeth all by myself, willingly. On Thursday, I will rebel at the thought of yucky toothpaste and require blatant bribery to keep my teeth from falling out of my mouth, Pre Tooth Fairy.

10. The most important Rule of all: I love my Mommy and Daddy more than anything in the Universe, and show them all the time, just to keep them from going over the edge. No really, it is wonderful to love when you are loved. It just kind of happens, you know?

And now.....*BURPPPPP*

(That's my way of thanking you for reading this. Everyone likes bodily explosions, right?)

The Blame Game

We, as a family, have a nice little way of letting each other know where we stand. If anything goes wrong we are adept at looking sideways, upways, and downways to see if someone else could possibly be at fault. And it works.

It is also called "The Ghost in the House Did It", as well as, "A Neighbor or Stranger Sneaked In, and Unbeknownst to us all, spilled milk/juice/ beer and peed on the carpet, and then ran off into the night with a nevermaycare laugh".

Currently we are searching high and low for the game pieces to a Search and Rescue Game. Z swears to a court of law (which would be me) that he put them all in a Zip Lock and for God's Sake, why did I not keep track of them? Zane is enjoying the chase and I am being questioned.

Did you check the fridge? (Huh?)

What about the garage? (After all, they could have been misconstrued as pool toys.)

Under all beds? Yes.

Under and over and inside all cabinets? Yes.

Did you use them for makeup? Uh, no.

z has lost interest in the search for the game pieces which would allow an actual game to ensue. It was fun within itself for him. However it leaves Z and I befuddled, bewildered and bepissed.

Really, WHERE THE F DID THEY GO? Z swears he put them all in a ZipLock. I agree, because I saw it. Now they are gone.

GONE.

Not that Zane cares, he is happily asleep now, dreaming of toys to be. Meanwhile, we are on our knees, searching.

Searching.

Stop fucking with me, you took them, didn't you?

Yes, Virginia, There are Nice People in the World



I found this gift on my doorstep yesterday. Isn't it beautiful? My wonderful friend, Melonie (Z's cousin's wife), made it for me. I had admired her bracelet which featured her children's names last October, but never imagined she would go to such lengths to make one for me, just because.

Excuse me while I feel loved. Thanks, Mel.

Kegel's Are For Pussies

WARNING: Female Subject Ahead. (Bye, Bye, male readers....unless you are really brave.) Just kidding, I know that some of you would be genuinely interested in what your wives and partners go through. Around here, no choice is given to Z.

No, I am not looking to increase my hits, even though my comments have been few in number lately. I just had this thought cross my mind as I made my 100th trip to the potty today. Yes, we officially call it the "potty" in this house. According to the contract, it cannot be called a "toilet" until Zane is at least 10.

When I became pregnant with z, I of course read every book and joined every website available that addressed buns in the oven and how to properly preheat, bake, and then remove them with the best mitts available. I learned of all the fun little tricks nature plays on women when they gestate, and then progressively, give birth. But the education was noticeably lacking when it came to AFTER BIRTH.

I'm not just referring to colic. Or spit up. Or sleepless nights and days. Or worry. Or well meaning, yet insulting, relatives and relative strangers. Or how long it really takes to lose baby weight without the benefit of Sarah Jessica and Madonna's personal trainer (they didn't gain any baby weight to begin with, anyway....I think they gave birth to a little bean, literally. The rest was airbrush).

HoNo, I am talking about not being able to go twenty minutes without the urge, real or imagined, to pee.

I am, and have always been, the person the commercial jingle, "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now..." was written for. I was the little girl who accidented in her snowsuit/desk/photobooth at the mall. I have been fighting a losing battle to begin with.

Oh, I know all about Kegels. The well meaning moms at the preschool breakfast don't have to tell me. I am even aware that Kegel's are a good thing PG or no, just to please your man. And that is our common goal, yes?

But Kegel's make me nauseous, really they do. I suspect, as with most things gynecological, that they were made up by an evil male doctor in some equally evil era who, in an opium induced haze, got the great idea of women everywhere going through an unpleasant exercise with the end result being; not better continence, but harder labor with their next child. (Not to mention, increased you know what. Yes, you do.) Well you say, who could blame the good doctor? He meant well, after all, it is for the greater good!

But I know I cannot be the only woman who suffers, by the sweat of her brow, to prevent natural functions and if all else fails, to stop mid-stream. That uncomfortable look you see on the normally well composed lady on the street? Kegel's. The girl behind you in line at Starbuck's who looks like she just (oh but in a lady like way) passed gas? Kegel's. The frown on your wife or girlfriend's face as you buss goodnight? Kegel's. Your secretary suddenly takes a deep breath and stands up straight, as if the president has unexpectedly entered the room? Not company loyalty, my friend. Kegel's.

Now that you know me so very intimately, I must excuse myself. You wouldn't want to read this knowing I was standing in a puddle, now would you?