Dog food.

One of the tougher aspects of back surgery is that when you drop shit it just has to sit on the floor until someone comes home to pick it up. As I type this I await the return of my husband so that he can get the lid from the jam, which is now sitting butter side down on the kitchen floor.

This has caused the greatest consternation for me since on bed rest, namely that I would manage to drop something rather important (such as a percocet) and the Dog or Captain might happen upon it before I was able to have the Deviant Dad collect the offending item. In most instances I've kicked the matter to the side of the room or under the kitchen cabinet so as to avoid any mishaps.

Then there was the other thought, which was what if something important fell on the floor that I couldn't just kick under the counter. And that is just what happened yesterday when the dog walked to the middle of the room and started wretching. My first instinct was to chase her off the rug and my second instinct was to chase her into the garage, where she stayed until the Dad got home. But I was left with the more pressing problem, namely, a pile of dog puke in my living room. Talk about helpless.

I did all that I could do, which in this case involved dropping paper towels over the nastiness. In truth, it was sort of a fun little game. But it was a few more hours until the Dad returned from work, which meant that I had to live with a pile of this stuff in my living room until his return.

Since being on bed rest I've become acquainted with all manner of handicapped accouterments, but as it happens they do not have a device for cleaning up puke. Where in the hell is Ron Popeil when you need him?

Business casual.

Tomorrow a good friend is driving me to my office to play a little catch-up and bring some work home that I can do horizontally (no, not that kind of work, I don't think I'll be doing that kind of horizontal work for some time). I'm a consultant and the work environment is fairly casual, but not so casual that I can wear the drawstring sweats I've been living in for the last month. I can wear nice jeans to work, but my doctor reprimanded me for wearing them when last I saw him; my incision is exactly at waistband level.

So until I'm all healed I'm somewhat at a loss for what to do with my wardrobe. Apparently, they do not make drawstring business casual slacks or jeans. And as for wearing a skirt...well, with the Deviant Dad as my designated leg shaver let's just say I'm not eager to show off my legs (not to mention the big orthopedic shoes I'm sporting these days). So all of this has led me to the dark place. Yes, I'm hitting the maternity clothes.

There is something vaguely demoralizing about throwing maternity clothes back on again. I remember about 4 weeks after I had the Captain I pulled out my most comfy maternity t-shirt, contemplated putting it on, and had to say enough is enough. But this back surgery has led me into fashion depths that I have not previously known. Even when I was pregnant I was wearing shoes that were somewhat uncomfortable and likely inappropriate. I have walked miles in heels (probably how I got myself in this mess to begin with) and worn wool in the spring. Yes, my fashion owns me and I love it.

At the moment, however, my options are few. I concede that I don't want to invest in a pair of pants for the sole purpose of waiting for my incision to close up. Of course I worry, too, that by just throwing on maternity clothes I'm tempting myself down the dark path once again. I have too many friends that are pregnant or trying to conceive for me to take just a nibble without desiring the entire cake. Let's just say it's a good thing I'll be laid up for so long. And in all likelihood any temptation will be quashed by a few more bad episodes with the Captain. At least for the time being.

Sexual Harassment - it's not just for grownups anymore.

I married something of a self-proclaimed cad. Let's face it, you don't get a name like Deviant Dad if you're not at least a little bit of a cad. So I don't know why I was surprised yesterday when Captain Kid demonstrated what is likely the first of many such odes to his genetic legacy.

We decided to go out for a change of scenery and hopefully to find some non-sweats drawstring pants for me to go into my office for a brief meeting later this week. On the way we decided to stop off at our local burger joint for a quick bite.

So our waitress is a very cute and very blonde 16 or 17 year old girl. Long hair, skinny, the kind of girl you hated in high school. Well, apparently the Captain takes note of this, too, because when she comes over to take his order he smiles sheepishly and introduces himself:

"Hi, Baby," he coos in his sweetest and most flirtatious voice.

I don't know who was more shocked and amused, the 16 year old stick or Mom and Dad. I quickly grilled the Dad, did he teach him this behavior? The Dad quips back, I only wish I had.

How does the word baby, which we've only every used to describe a child smaller than himself, suddenly become descriptive of a cute cheerleader? It led me to one conclusion, some behavior is just innate. That or I'm now paying for all the Sex in the City I watched when he was a baby.

Hit me baby one more time.

I held my breath as the Captain returned to school this week, hoping upon hope that his new fabulous behavioral idiosyncrasies (euphemism for bad toddler, no cookie) would stay closeted. Day one was perfecto. Day two he apparently whacked another kid. He followed it up today by knocking over my neighbor's 1 year old. Who knows what deviant behavior lies ahead.

And so I'm sure I can add this to the parent-teacher itinerary for the spring. I know that this is really typical tot behavior, but I'm also convinced that this is all coming out as an homage to his frustration with his Mediocre Mama.

I generally feel useless in the disciplinary department right now. Since I can't lift him I can't throw him in time out. And what's worse is that he's learned to work the system. It used to be that when he was bad he was only eligible for parole by promising to be a "good boy." Those words were the height of humiliation to him so if I managed to drag them out I knew it was lesson learned. Well, he has since learned the lesson...the lesson that the words "good boy" get you out of a punishment. So that effectively went out the window. Next, we moved the lesson to the word "sorry." At first he resisted this one, too. It didn't take long, but now he puts on the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen and loudly declares, "Sorry, Mommy," "Sorry, Daddy," "Sorry, Doggy." He may even give a kiss or a hug to boot. This is generally followed by returning to the horrible behavior within mere seconds.

So without an arsenal of physical punishments I can impose, the verbal punishments have become somewhat useless. Truthfully, he's just too smart for me and has become the master of verbal manipulations himself; I'm once again losing my edge. There's something almost sinister and adult about how he does it, too. And it all comes down to this - my Kid can manage to get us to fork over a cookie like no other. I'm sure you'll think we're pushovers, but I assure you that we are not the only ones to fall victim. He's just too darn good at it.

It goes something like this:

Captain Kid - I want cookie.

Me - You want a cookie?

CK - Cookie? Okay!

Basically, he brings up the item he desires (generally in a somewhat garbled voice so that you have to confirm what he's saying), gets you to repeat it, and then pretends it was your idea all along. Like, what a nice thought, eating a cookie. I'll do it Mom!

Okay, he's either aiming to be a politician or a lawyer because I've never seen a kid his age twist words like this. But I figure if he's capable of doing this at the tender age of 2 that the Dad and I are ultimately screwed; I think in the game of terrible 2's we're losing 2-0. And I'm beginning to think that all I've got left over him is spelling words to the Deviant Dad (is it time to give him a B-A-T-H?). But what with the fact that he's going to this fancy school and all, I'm sure they're bound to teach him to read any day now and then I'm totally fucked.

Hopefully my back will improve soon so that I will once again be able to grab him and throw him in his room against his will as a punishment. But for the moment, the back situation is going nowhere. My doctor put me on 3 more weeks of bed rest (major thanks to all those who've e-mailed, dropped by, sent-food). Until I am well, all I can do is try to rationalize with him. Why do I think I'd have an easier time getting Britney into rehab?

Gimmee More

Awesome.

Happy Poo Year.

I somehow turned around and the clock turned to 2008. The many weeks I've spent convalescing gave me loads of time to reflect on 2007, flip through my old blogs, and watch full seasons of "Project Runway" and "The Biggest Loser" (thank you Bravo TV and the Writer's Strike).

I started this blog back in April, when the Deviant Dad was working 30-40 days straight, during a period of boredom, loneliness and a general feeling that motherhood had gotten the best of me. Ironically I've ended 2007 during a period of boredom, loneliness and probably some of the best mediocre mothering I've ever performed. Back in April I punctuated long days of boredom with the Captain with trips to the park, walks to the market, some trolling for lousy babysitters, and an occasional trip to the chiropractor. Now I just watch, let him come to me, and try to stay awake to pay attention to him between the pain and percocet, which I've charmingly begun to refer to as my Pez (frankly, I would fill a Pez dispenser with percocet if only I could find one with Britney's head on top).

For the first few weeks of my recovery the Captain was just great. But after several weeks of having surrogate parents around, no school, and a very overextended Dad (playing the role of caretaker, chauffeur, father, mother and breadwinner), I fear at times he's had enough of me (yes, both the Captain and the Dad). I can't say as I blame him; last week was the breaking point when he entertained himself by dumping milk on my coat and jumping up and down on my bad leg as I lay on the sofa. Throw on top of that the 8 days of Hanukkah, a Christmas Day Celebration, grandparents and family in town spoiling him with toys and affection, and his Mediocre Mama spoiling him with TV and meals in the family room, he for sure hit the height of bad-ass toddler behavior. In happier news he's spending time on the potty these days and speaking in full sentences. But I can't help but worry about some of his other behavior issues that have cropped up from all this mediocre mothering and how they will play out when he goes back to school; Teacher is not going to tolerate this bullshit with hitting and pushing.

As for me, it's just all been so...isolating. I missed every holiday party this season and spent both New Years and Christmas curled up on a friend's sofa. I've been out of work for a month and with all my doping it's been kind of hard to focus on anything more substantial than a magazine. I walk with a limp, cannot bend or lift, have numbness all over my foot and terrible nerve pain in my leg, and lets just say I've got some junk in the trunk from sedentary living and comfort eating. Add to that some grim facts, such as the fact that I've burned through all my vacation time for the next year and that I just don't know when the pain will subside, going into 2008 doesn't give me that "starting anew" feeling that one hopes for come January 1. This January 1st is starting off with a lot of baggage.

As I enter 2008, the only resolution I can make is to get well because it's the only thing in my sight. As for the rest of the year ahead? My Magic 8 ball is pointing to "Outlook hazy. Ask again later."