Note to self...

Memo - the next time I'm tempted to let the Deviant Dad cut the Captain's hair, please reference previous posts on how bad the Dad is at giving haircuts. Should previous posts be unavailable, look outside at the freshly cut, uneven lawn with long sprouts sticking out here and there and none of the edging work done.

--Mediocre Mama

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?

Poops and pail and puppy dog tails.

That's what little Captain's are made of. I don't even know where to start about my shitty afternoon and all the shit that ensued, but I guess I'd best start with the backpack.

Every day when the Captain arrives home from school, I am tasked with the daunting job of emptying the backpack. It's with great trepidation that I pull the baggie from his bad for fear of the contents inside. Will it just be a wet T? Or will it, like today, be 2 pair of totally pooped up underpants?

Now, to me it's a game of what's grosser than gross. You remember the old game. What's gross? A pooped up diaper. What's grosser than gross? Pooped up, hardened, cold underpants. I hate it and I hate cleaning it out. It usually amounts to a stifled gag reflex and a lot of breath holding. Which is how the events of this afternoon transpired.

So while I'm cleaning out the shitty pants, Captain kid decides it's Naked Time. I see the pants and diaper come off and the diaper gets balled on to the floor. But now he's running around the house and his tushy is covered by his t-shirt, so there's really not much I can see. All I know is that my hands are deep in shit and I can't very well chase him in current state. So I finish cleaning out the underpants and grab some bleach and a sponge to disinfect the sink. If anyone out there has a better method I'd appreciate the feedback.

Anyway, seeing as how I'm holding my breath, it somehow escapes my attention that within the balled up diaper is a balled up turd. And even if I had been breathing in the air from the cruded up underpants, naturally shit is a natural mask for the odor of...shit.

So now I finally spot aforementioned turd in the diaper and it dawns on me that he's been running around nude for the last 5 minutes. I don't even know where to start. First stop, swab down the toddler, which he's none too pleased about. Then I run off to assess the damage. But where to start? Thank goodness for Dog, because like pigs sniffing out truffles, she's on the case. I follow her nose and (hopefully) clean up all the skid marks around the living room. But...

Now it dawns on me that I've forgotten about the toddler. So I return to the bathroom and he's picked up the bleached up sponge and is swabbing out the garbage pail (oh thank you Montessori). I clean him up, put away all the cleaning products, and turn around to rinse off the sink. Still with me?

While I'm rinsing the sink it gets quiet. Too quiet. And now I look and he's standing out on the patio holding...a can of cement glue and a power drill. Deviant Dad gets a serious Memo award on that one, I manage to shove the toddler in his crib for some much needed R&R (you know, for me), and now I sit here blogging away and dreaming of being in a nice cozy office next week, away from shit and poop and smart ass toddlers that make me look so goddamn mediocre.

And now...the entertainment portion of our blog. Thank you for reading...

Enter stage right.

Recall months ago when I lost my shift key. Think back...it was May 2007. Lindsay Lohan was not yet in rehab (this time) and Britney Spears was in a downward spiral (oh, wait). For oh these many months I have become an expert left-handed shifter for the sake of clarity, grammar and so that I can make FUCKING EXCLAMATION POINTS1 for your amusement and for the sake of posterity. Honestly, these days I have trouble working on a normal computer with two shift keys. Yup, my computer has gone ghetto. But I do believe these days are over. It's time to grow up and use some of that soon-to-be-earned income for the sake of a new keypad. Why, do you ask? Well, think hard. Could there be something missing in my work with this current keypad? I'll give you a clue. When I was a little girl sitting in Mrs. Smiley's (I swear to you that was her name) 5th grade class we learned a very important lesson about division of thoughts and ideas into separate and distinct paragraphs. Not only does this provide the reader with some clarity it sets the tone of each individual thought and assists the reader by dividing out separate ideas into small blocks of content. Without paragraphs it would make the authors thoughts blurry and difficult for a reader to grasp each idea. If you don't remember about paragraphs and the important role they play in both fiction and non-fiction, feel free to check out this entry in the wikipedia. Now I love my little Captain, but he does have the ability to be trouble. I am also very pleased to announce that we found our Mary Poppins to watch him when I return to work. She's young, she's willing to pick him up from school and she's a mom herself. But Poppins brings her tiny tot, the Captain's new First Mate, along to watch the Captain during the day and I'm afraid to say that this is where the trouble starts. Now Mary Poppins is not sure who savaged my keyboard last night, but it's safe to say that it was either the Captain or his First Mate. I have my suspicions, but as both of them are under the age of 2 and difficult to bring in for questioning, it's just impossible to say. And for that matter, it doesn't really matter who did it, does it? All that matters is that I am once again searching for alternatives to give the reader some clarity and hopefully won't have to wait too long before I get my new keyboard. Otherwise, does anyone really give a shit what Mrs. Smiley taught me?

Emily Post, eat your heart out...with a dull spoon.

Last weekend the G'parents threw the Captain a little birthday partay on account of his upcoming 2nd birthday. It was fun, though he was more interested in playing in the swing than anything else and I daresay he was afraid of his birthday cake. No, really, he swatted at it, got a handful of icing, and then was horrified at the idea of eating it.

So being that I am returning to the workforce in less than 2 weeks, I decided to be on top of things and get my thank you notes out immediately, seeing as how I'm notoriously mediocre at sending out thank you notes. I pull apart Deviant Dad's still yet-to-be unpacked office, find thank you cards, address labels and...10 thank you notes for the Captain's BIRTH 2 years ago that I handed to Deviant Dad to be addressed, which, obviously, are still waiting to be addressed.

The whole thing was just so sad. They were filled out and stamped as of 2 postage price changes ago. So now I'm faced with the prospect of sending 10 sheepish mea culpas out to various friends and family. Yes, I know what you are going to say, why not make the Dad do it? Ummm, please reference previous paragraph for more information on why that's never going to happen!!!

And as a sidebar, Captain Kid's speech is developing by leaps and bounds. Baby's first swear word? Bastard. Awww. Thank you Fat Bastard for making it happen.

Punk rock.

It's always an endearing moment the first time your child paints his hair purple. But today I think Captain Kid completely revolutionized the hair tinting industry. Teacher was both amused and shaking her head today when she described the events that led to his foray into punk rock. She documented his technique as such:

1. Start by painting a picture.
2. Get bored of painting picture and look around for something more interesting to paint.
3. Spot hairbrush and remove from hairbrush bin.
4. Paint hairbrush bristles.
5. Get bored of painting and decide instead to brush hair with aforementioned hairbrush.
6. Rinse.
7. Repeat.

Now after reading this, don't you feel stupid spending hundreds of dollars on expensive highlights?

A little "act of god."

Whatever insurance genius coined the term "an act of god" got it right. For only god could have known how much I hated the Deviant Dad's Miata. Owning up to this in full terms, I must confess the following thoughts have flickered through my brain over the years:

God, I hate this Miata.

God, I feel like an idiot riding around in this thing.

God, he looks like a 16 year old boy or an early mid-life crisis in that car.

God, I wish he would get rid of this stupid matchbox car!.

And so, it seems that She may have been listening. Saturday night a wild storm broke out and a large branch took out the side mirror, the windshield and various other bits of said Miata. The thing needed so much work to begin with that totalling is not out of the question. Now, of course, I don't have a job and it means buying a 2nd car we weren't prepared to buy. But no one was injured (thank god!) and it means we wouldn't have to put any work into fixing the car up to sell.

So...can I get an Amen?

The Barber of Devil-le

Thanks to our earlier haircut traumas and suggestions from the peanut gallery in our comment section, Deviant Dad and I decided that it would be wise to invest in a trimmer and cut Captain Kid's hair ourselves. Kiss it up to the gods of "it seemed like a good idea at the time," but I can now attest to the fact that the Captain looks like he gave himself a haircut.

It wasn't so bad at first. Nice even buzz all around. But I suppose we got cocky and decided to clean up the edges. And of course he struggled and bucked . So now the edge are a mangled mess, colored by patches that are buzzed and some that are not, and, of course, the random stray hair just poking out of bald patches. And it just kept getting worse. Every time we'd go too far and even it up it seemed to look more and more ridiculous. Now he has no sideburns and a hairline that is about even with his forehead all around.

With the first day of school only a couple of weeks away, I'm praying for a miracle...or perhaps some chia hair.

Note to self...get a job and then get a new camera.

I feel that ever since my camera broke en route from France back to Spain that I am missing out on both documenting and sharing my most mediocre of moments. Tonight's mediocre highlight? Childproofing the cabinets. This one goes to the Dad.

Now, we've never had to do this before. Back in Spain the kitchen was in lock down mode and we had all the confidence that he couldn't bust in there, what with the broken doorknob and all. So I grant you, we are in new territory here. But today, after the Captain reached into a drawer and grabbed the items nestled next to the steak knives; I knew it was time.

I should mention that our house is old. Dirt old. And the cabinet work? To describe it as piecemeal would be charitable. In fact, it is actually hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why as Deviant Dad pulled on that thread the entire cabinet began to unravel. There were many swear words uttered and lots of loud noises. To be sure, the best part was the "oh fuck" that came after a bit of drilling. Not only do we now have a broken piecemeal, piece of shit cabinet, we have a counter top with a hole in it from the Dad's drilling.

Oh, it's all good fun. And honestly, we do need new cabinets. But we are a long away from redoing the kitchen, so all I can do is admire my punctured Formica and look at kitchen and bath magazines like they are porn. Amend that note to self...get a job, get a camera, get a new kitchen. Crud.

I'm about 10 cm's.

There's nothing like trying to check your e-mail/blogging when you've been fully dilated. In my case, I had to drive a good hour in this state, fully cognizant of the road signs yet not so certain about what my dashboard was displaying. This all after driving a full hour to my doctor's appointment in, I kid you not, a hail storm. No, I'm not so mediocre as to have done this with the Captain in the car. But I did leave him with an unassuming girlfriend who has a toddler of her own and managed one of the most dumb ass displays of my life in her presence. For the record, this did not occur while my pupils were dilated, which makes me feel like an even bigger dork for doing it. But long story short, I kicked the rocking horse, totally by accident, with the possible consequence of a broken toe. I don't know for sure yet, mostly because I need to wait for the throbbing to stop and, more importantly, tonight I guzzled down a bottle of this stuff to kill the pain:




.
There was a purpose to this story? Other than an utterly irresistible opportunity to squeeze a line in about being blinded with science. Oh wait, I remember. First, I think I owe my readers an apology:

1. I hope I haven't given any false expectations about my ability to blog. We have Internet, but no computer (still en route to the State's). Technically this is my husband's office computer. Which is also deeply cutting into my porn hobby, but such is life.
2. My blogging is going to be severely hindered by my job search, because any five seconds I get with a computer and an Internet connection must belong to my prospective income or lack thereof (naturally this ad seems tempting - ADULT NIGHTCLUB #1 Club in Maryland seeks Dancers up to $1000.00 Nightly. Flexible hrs, must be 18 yrs or older. Also need Announcers & Floor Staff. McDoogals 410-437-2834 - but honestly I am not that good a dancer).
3. Finally, I just want to state for the record that my ability to double shift should in no way be misconstrued as something you should rely on. My computer will be here shortly...please expect additional misplaced exclamation points soon.

So, the point of it is this...when one is so drunk, in pain, and so blind that a job search is not an option, blogging suddenly becomes feasible. I would suggest to all my loyal readers that you not try this at home, but hobbies and creativity can flourish in the most dire of circumstances. More blogging to come, I promise, but it may require a lost finger or partial-brain lobotomy to keep up my former pace. And I resent any insinuations that I've already had one; admit it, you were thinking it.

I see grownup people.

It seems to me that Captain Kid has a sixth sense whenever we, his parents, become complacent or let our guard down. Which is why the snowball (or poopball, if you will) of yesterday's disasters seemed that much more sinister, somehow.

First, to set the stage:

• The Dad "conveniently" had to be out of town for a "business meeting" - oddly, somehow this meeting inovolved sailing. Weird.
• The Captain had a case of the runs on Saturday, so we went through two changing pads, had none left, and had a load of laundry on deck. We left the changing pad naked. And just to review, we live in Spain, land of the washer and dryer, hold the dryer.
• We had also changed the sheets on Saturday and Dad decided to pack up all the rest of the bedding. So we had two sets of sheets, one dirty and one on his bed.

Okay, the scene is set. So it must be time for the Captain to show me just how stupid and mediocre I am. Mediocre Mama is blogging away during the Captain's nap and suddenly hears crying. I take a few minutes to follow up and when I get there the Captain is covered head to toe in poop. I move him to naked changing table and this stuff has been stuck on him a good long while because it will not come off, except when it sticks in the grooves of the naked changing pad. I remove my good white shorts and jump in with both hands. It's bad. His legs, his back, his hands, around his mouth (which brings up other horrifying images). I ultimately dunk him in the tub and he's going mental (can't say as I blame him).

So now, in addition to packing, thanks to the Captain's 6th sense and my general overzealousness in packing up his room, I can add to my list of chores for the day cleaning the bedding, his clothing, my clothing, scrubbing down the changing pad and crib, cleaning out the funkified diaper pail, washing out the poop laden tub, all with the Dad at his "business meeting" and me with a cracked toenail.

Maybe the Captain is just smarter than I am. Or maybe it just highlights that for all the control I try to exercise the truth is I have no control. Even if I weren't such a Mediocre Mama, you can think life through on a worst case scenario basis, pack everything under the sun on a road trip, you can be prepared for anything, but shit happens - again and again.

So, I leave you with this - mostly because I can't think of a good way to end this entry, but partially because I'm just cute like that. Just a few song lyrics from one of my favorites by Tom Lehrer -

Be prepared! That's the Boy Scout's marching song,

Be prepared! As through life you march along.

Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well,

Don't write naughty words on walls if you can't spell.

Be prepared! To hide that pack of cigarettes,

Don't make book if you cannot cover bets.

Keep those reefers hidden where you're sure

That they will not be found

And be careful not to smoke them

When the scoutmaster's around

For he only will insist that it be shared.

Be prepared!

Be prepared! That's the Boy Scouts' solemn creed,

Be prepared! And be clean in word and deed.

Don't solicit for your sister, that's not nice,

Unless you get a good percentage of her price.

Be prepared! And be careful not to do

Your good deeds when there's no one watching you.

If you're looking for adventure of a new and different kind,

And you come across a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined,

Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared.

Be prepared!

Crack.

Is the noise my toenail made when it broke half-way down, only half-way through, as I stubbed it on Deviant Dad's flip flop while walking behind him at a local mall. I'm sure you are wondering how one cracks a toenail on a flip flop, but naturally he has the most rigid bottomed flip flops so as to support a bottle opener on the bottom of the sole:

It does beg the question, why on earth would someone use a bottle opener on the bottom of a shoe? And after seeing all the dog shit on the sidewalks in Valencia, I'm pretty sure I'd have to be pretty drunk and desperate to open a bottle with the bottom of a shoe.

In the meantime, we've taped up my toe because it was bleeding pretty badly and there is no way this toe nail is coming off easily. The Captain seems to think the bandaging is a toy and wants to pull it off. I'm more depressed at having to put off shopping for a new pair of Campers for my birthday. I'm considering getting extremely drunk so that I'll have the courage to rip the rest of the nail off. Maybe I'll need the Dad's flip flop after all...

Crash test dummy.

I don't get what the big deal is about being diapered. I mean, he knows he's uncomfortable, he asks to be changed. So why is it that the Captain can struggle so hard that he and the changing pad nearly went careening off the table today?

From the tender age of about, oh, 3 weeks, we've been forced to use the safety straps on the changing pad. As evidenced by other tales of his restlessness, clearly this kid doesn't like to sit still for much of anything. So I'm not quite sure how this happened but it somehow involved pushing his foot off the wall whilst I held his other foot for changing him and thank goodness I was holding it because the next second he's just dangling there by his foot. It begs the question...is it illegal to duct tape a toddler to a changing table? It made me ponder the possibilities...

It also presents another issue. Should I lug his changing pad with me around Spain and France over the next month? Diapering him freestyle is nearly impossible and requires the power of 2. We are driving, so it's not out of the question. But it is bulky and a pain in the arse to pack. Our latest travel plans have changed and now we're flying back from Seville to Valencia (saving us about 8 hours of driving - yipee), but I don't know that I have room in the luggage and I really hate to pitch it on the way home because it cost us $40. Not to mention there does come a time where you have to say enough is enough on crap you lug with you. Right now our packing list for the Captain looks like this:

• 1 pack n play



• 1 bath seat (because it's like giving a bath to a cat otherwise)



• clothes



• regular diapers and wipes



• swim gear (including swim diapers, floaties and additional floatation devices)



• beach accouterments (pale, shovel and whatnot)



• books



• toys (soft ones that he can't make too much trouble with, so therefore they are plusher and bigger than regular toys)



• baby pillow



• baby blankets



• stroller



• folding highchair (because restaurants don't have their own)



• harness backpack (why do we even bother?)



• car seat

All this is fine and good for driving, but I feel like we're pushing that 20 kilo limit for air travel hard and fast. If I were back in the states I probably wouldn't be pushing it with everything I'm bringing, but I (a) don't want to pay to use a travel crib at 10 euros a night in some places and (b) don't want to rely that their equipment is in good condition, what with our experiences on various sleeping deathtraps throughout Italy. See my Top Ten list for a brief refresher.

Yes, I realize this all seems rather "alpha mom" of me, but my hands are tied. This is why I had a fabulous idea months ago about a baby supply rental place that will never come to fruition because I'm too much of a slacker to get off my ass and start a company. Maybe the more practical idea would be to bring all the baby stuff and ship the baby.

shift happens.

today we're going to talk about capital letters and punctuation. why is that, oh mediocre teacher? because without two shift keys it is hard to make many of your capital letters and equally a pain in the arse to make particular punctuation.

Observe...

the girl exclaimed loudly, "what an asshole1"

My e-mail address is meciocremama2hotmail.com.

I've lost 35 of my total body fat.

You see. definitely reduces clarity. which is why I was so pissed that the captain felt the need to swipe it off my machine in a desperate fit of...boredom. every time the little bugger doesn't get my attention right away he runs over to the computer and makes a point. such is the problem with the dog being gone and, therefore, the dog crate being gone where my computer cleverly sat, protected from swiping fingers and other unnecessary assaults on my machine. Not the first time he's busted a key off, but the first time he's busted it off permanently. Now we've got a large tv box tied to the tv stand, the new home of my computer, but it seems to have some lacking anti-child qualities.

I was fine yesterday, but the little green nub that's left which allows me to still shift has now fallen off too. the end result is that I CAN'T TYPE A MOTHERFUCKING EXCLAMATION POINT1

Buzzed

It has come to pass that the Captain, in addition to being afraid of doctors, nurses, chiropractors and bearded men, is now also afraid of the barber. He had always been a bit wary, which is both why I waited 3-1/2 months to get him a trim and why we were contemplating getting him an audition for a baby Beatles tribute band…




So when the Dad finally got a day off last week, we decided it was time. We brought him to the local mall, plopped him in the little kid’s haircut seat and then faked my way through the most painful conversation in Spanish that I have ever had.

Just cut it short, I tried to explain in broken Spanish.

The hairdresser was afraid. Suddenly he disappears and pops back with style books.

No no no. He’s a baby, just short, don’t worry about style, I whined in English, all the while noticing the Captain was getting antsy.

This guy must have thought I didn’t like the style, so he brought out another book.

Now the Captain was getting crazed, so I just belt out Cut it Now!

He does. Gets perhaps 3 snips into it when the Captain goes ballistic. I take him on my lap and just keep telling the guy to cut.

So he gets in maybe 4 more snips and the Captain is completely hysterical. Dad and I look at each other, knowing full well what’s inevitable. Dad points at the electric trimmer and that’s how the Captain joined the army.





It does bring up some logistical issues. First of all, the Captain was so hysterical that he couldn't even finish the haircut, so it's sort of like a crew cut with long strands around the edges. Second, the Captain refuses to wear a hat and in this hot Spanish sun I’m not exactly sure how to handle it. I bought a spray on lotion and tried to spray it on his head, but pretty much all it did was stick to his hair, giving him a grayish sort of hue. Third, the bigger problem is that as scared as he was before of the barber, he’s now got barber phobia and I think it will easily be another 6 months before I have the courage to get him in the chair again. The Dad wanted to buy a flowbee, but seeing as how he’s as afraid of the vacuum as he is of the electric trimmer I’m just not sure that it’s a good solution. That and every time I vacuum the floor he’s going to go running the other way. …

Ah well. There's always that baby Beatles tribute band.

"Captain Chunk"

The Dad has secured 2 whole days off from work, which is why I've been somewhat out of writing commission the last few days. We took a great drive to the beach, followed by a horrifying ride back. After a day of hot dogs, milk, eating sand and running on the beach, it was inevitable. A mere 5 minutes from home, the Captain projectiled all over the back seat of the car.

For me, the worst part is avoiding that compulsion to run and hide. Kid or no kid, no one wants to be anywhere near that. I remember back in college I had a particularly bad bout of food poisoning and had to funk up the bathroom I shared with 5 girls. I taped up a skull and cross bone on the door and put up a friendly message. Stay away, but if you could just occasionally open my bedroom door and make sure I'm not dead that would be great.

So last night our entire evening off turned to disinfecting and fabric cleaning. And try though I might explain to my in-laws that the only thing that will get the odor out of the car is time, they are still on a vigilante mission to disinfect. Like I hadn't already tried that.

This is not the first time the young Captain blew his chunks, but the last time ended with a rage and prayer for the downfall of Iberia airline. Back in November, the Captain and I had to return to the East Coast to spend some time with my grandmother before she passed away. A dear friend had been visiting me and accompanied me on my travels back. Though the Captain is a handful, he was incredible on the 8 hour flight and over the first 6 hours had managed to enchant all of coach class. But two hours before landing the vomiting started and it just went on and on.

After the first round of vomiting I brought him to the back of the plane to change his clothes, where I was greeted with a friendly flight attendant who asked me to take my seat due to light turbulence. I mean, what the fuck, can't I just clean my child? They refused to let me clean him or myself off and made us take our seats, puke covered and all. Then it just continued and he got sick 4 more times. Dear Friend graciously removed her shirt from under her vest so that I would have something less funky to wear and I changed right there in my seat. As for the Captain, I changed him out of his outfit 3 times until I had no more clothes. We had airline blankets covered in his puke and carry on luggage had cooties. Finally, friendly flight attendant made his way back over to me. Noticing the desperate situation, he did what any friendly flight attendant would do and flung a stack of airsick bags at me. What the fuck am I supposed to do with these, tell him to aim it?

In the end I dragged the Captain off the plane and had him wearing nothing but a diaper and an airline blanket. He spent an additional 4 hours throwing up, miserable and shaking and I naturally caught the bug 2 days later. But upon leaving the airplane, I blissfully left 4 puke covered blankets on the floor so that when they said, "You have a good day now," I could reply, "Oh, I will."

Another pooptacular day.

Though I'm sure you won't believe me, I really was going to post about something else for a change. Really, I've had a draft regarding playgroups and play dates in the works for about 3 days now. But sometimes you gotta strike while the iron is hot, or in this case, the poop.

There's really no way to sugar coat this one, so I'm just going to come out with it. 2 words, baby...bathtub poop. It was a first. Truly, poor baby obviously wasn't feeling well. Truly, Mediocre Mama isn't feeling so great after cleaning it up, either.

I have decided to spare you the awful details and attempting to leave much up to your overactive imaginations. Trust me, not only do I not want to write about this one, I am considering partial brain lobotomy to get rid of the memory myself.

But I do pose but one question. How do you soak bath toys for disinfecting? If you say put them in a basin with water and ammonia or bleach, you'd be wrong. You see, that's what I thought, too. But think about it...these toys are inherently designed to float. So even if you do soak them, really you're only cleaning half of them. And try though I might to turn the rubber duckie upside down, that cricker just kept popping up for air.

Note to self, invest in rubber gloves. Alright, going to contemplate throwing up now.

Poops, I did it again.

I do realize that my loyal readers (all 5 of you) are going to think that I'm obsessed with poop and shit, but it's been an over the top week of poop. And sometimes, when you just think you've gotten a handle on this parenting thing, it all goes to shit.

On Tuesday night, during a rather unremarkable dinner out in the Old Town with Dad and the SIL, the Captain started getting agitated and began tossing his dinner roll and throwing cutlery. He suddenly tipped to his side and went all red in the face. Although we knew the Eagle had landed, we let him sit for a few more minutes as he happily picked up his bread and began snacking away. As a sidebar, I find nothing grosser than pooping and eating; but I digress. We finally took the Captain out of his booster seat and his pants were fairly soaked through. Dad and I cowered on the floor of the bathroom and alternatively dealt with his hand/shoe dipping into the mess. Course, we felt like bone heads because we haven't carried spare clothes in months. The Captain had to suffer the indignity of a trip home in a diaper, sneakers and a jacket. Pretty much a scandal in the town where babies wear linen suits to play in the park.

...but that wasn't the best part.

Yesterday, I put the Captain down for a nap in his diaper and a t-shirt. As I was writing yesterday's entry, I didn't respond straight out when he started yelping for me to come. Finally I go and he's standing in the crib, no diaper and a little puddle next to his leg. I pulled all his bears and blankets out of the crib before anything gets peed on again and suddenly notice a 3 inch turd sitting on the mattress. The little man actually managed to drop the bomb within the 20 seconds it took me to clear away his sleep accouterments. So I pick him up and note it's all over his legs too. Long story short, I clean him up, clean the bedding, no harm, no foul.

But there's an epilogue. Oh, it wasn't over for your friendly narrator. Not by a long shot.

An hour or so later I decide to take the Captain to the Corte Ingles, a fairly upscale Harrod's-type department store in Spain. I was dressed nice, but not flash, and I was most intrigued by the number of people checking me out. Frankly, I find it odd when anyone checks me out with a child in tow, but Spanish men really don't care so I just figure it's not unusual. I spent about an hour roaming before I picked up an outfit to try on. And suddenly, I spied myself in a mirror.

Now, have I mentioned my enormous breasts? They are quite large. So large that they could, say, shield my view of anything in my waist area. And so, while you would think that I would have noticed the large shit stain smeared across my shirt, it seemed to have narrowly escaped my view. Sadly for me, most of the shopping clientele at Valencia's Corte Ingles do not have large knockers blocking their view.

So the lesson Mom's and Dad's? Parenting should never be so time consuming that you can't do a last minute check before walking out the door. Words to live by.

See where all this gets me?

Today my low key method of parenting seemingly bit me on the arse.

Alright, repeat after me: Glass and marble floors do not mix. Rinse. Repeat.

And so my Venetian glass necklace met said fate today when I didn't wrestle it from Captain Kid quick enough. To be honest, I thought the thing was unbreakable. It's hit the marble floors before. Apparently I wasn't accounting for the fast ball the Captain was throwing when it hit the ground.

What pisses me off is that it is quite literally irreplaceable. Deviant bought it for me as a surprise when we traveled to Venice back in December and it was so meaningful to me. I definitely didn't deserve it because I obviously didn't care enough about it. Really, it's so my fault. I'm obviously not mature enough to own a Venetian glass necklace.

Which brings me to another point of discussion...Venice and strollers do not mix. I was going to save this for another day, but since I'm on a roll and crying in my own glass mess, I should probably tick this one off my list.

Deviant and I took the Captain on a 3 week trip around Italy in December and we learned the hard way about all the steps in Venice. See, I knew there were bridges everywhere, but somehow that didn't scream "big-ass-staircases-to-get-over-the-bridges." So as it turns out, one should have neither children nor a handicap if they are living in Venice. On the plus side, I ate like a pig and didn't gain a pound while I was there. On the negative side, the Captain was hardly able to grab a nap what with the constant up and down on the steps, making for some rather stressful and grumpy meals while we were there.

Alright. That's all for now. Going to spend the rest of his nap scoping the Internet for a suitable replacement necklace. Perhaps I will replace it with a Venetian plastic necklace instead...