Liar, liar, pants on fire! plus video!

Help! I need the blogosphere's sage opinion.

Last night B lost his 2nd front tooth. Well, as I've mentioned before, B is a proud possessor of the Portuguese Packrat Gene. So, of course, he always wants to keep his lost teeth and NOT give them to the Tooth Fairy. This has always surprised me. It seems in direct opposition to his love of money. In this case, however, genetics must win out. The need to horde completely worthless items is so strong that the Tooth Fairy has only managed to lay hands on one of four baby teeth.

Daddy-O and I may have made a fatal mistake with the last baby tooth that came out a few weeks ago. It was an upper front tooth. An important tooth. (We tried to shoot it out with a Nerf gun but B chickened out. We did manage to make it work for the one he lost last night but that is another story. ) At any rate, he really, really wanted to keep the tooth for sentimental reasons. Bah! Only my kid! So he wrote a note to the Tooth Fairy & explained very poignantly how important it was to him & asked if he might not keep the tooth & still get paid. And the Tooth Fairy stupidly agreed.

Back to last night. Be actually managed to NOT chicken out on the launching of his loose tooth. We tied a string to said tooth. Tied the other end of the string to a nerf dart which was then placed into a Nerf gatling gun. B then shot the dart into the front door. The offending tooth was ripped out of his mouth! It was AWESOME! And all caught on film. Which I will post tonight for your viewing pleasure. No. Please don't thank me.

As you can imagine, though, being his first gatling-gun-shot-tooth, there was a higher-than-normal amount of sentimental attachment to said tooth. So, once again, he penned a letter to the Tooth Fairy asking to keep his tooth. He's obviously got her pegged as an easy mark by now and thinks to keep the tooth and score some loot. I tried to warn him that she wasn't going to let him keep getting away with that. But B just shrugged it off.

So, I went to bed without any clandestine visits to the Bunkbed From Hell (you just try to get under a pillow on the top bunk without waking a kid when they collect C-R-A-P next to their head. Lesson: Don't move your kids to a bunkbed until they have lost all their teeth.).

B gets up this morning & tells me that, indeed the Tooth Fairy had left him his tooth AND a dollar and some change. Imagine my surprise! I know it wasn't Daddy-O because he has been in bed with the flu since Monday night. (Ugh! My home life sucks in so many ways right now! But that is another post!) Unless there really is a Tooth Fairy, my child out & out LIED right. To. My. Face.

My question to you, blogosphere, is this: What do I do about it?

Do I just ignore the lie & let the Tooth Fairy persona live on?

Do I call him on it outright & blow the whole Tooth Fairy thing sky high?

Do I call him on it & say that somehow the Tooth Fairy let me know that she didn't give him any money?

It goes completely against my grain to just let him get away with a lie - particularly a blatant one! But I also don't like to prematurely dispell childhood illusions... I am so torn. Daddy-o, in typical man fashion, is no help and has simply deffered to me. So I will deffer to you! Ha!

Help me Blogiwan! You are my only hope!

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As promised earlier... video of B shooting his tooth out with his Nerf gun.




Isn't that cool!!??? Totally ignore Daddy-O in the background. He's on my list right now.


After talking with people all day about the Tooth Fairy Incident my friend at the pharmacy came up with a great solution. She suggested having the Tooth Fairy write B a letter claiming knowledge of the lie. Genius. Pure genius!!!

I had someone at work write the note so as not to have my handwriting recognized. And here it is...



So what do you think??? I'll put it on his bed tonight. Now for the real question...

What in the hell will I do if B DOESN'T confess his lie???

Happy Birthday, Daddy-O, Thanks for the buzz!

Pardon the posting while buzzed... but today is Daddy-O's 41st birthday. We just got back from a great dinner and drinks with friends we don't see often enough these days. There were about 20 of Daddy-O's friends from his soccer days. I always love to see them. But one particular guy, Chris, is not so much a friend of Daddy-O's as a friend of his friend's... and also a guy I used to work with.

We were just acquaintances when we worked together... we BS'd when we ran across each other & talked smack/flirted with a marked lack of seriousness. Then I was diagnosed with cancer... I had no idea he had connections to my non-professional life at the time. When I ran into him as a groomsman at a good friend's wedding I was pleasantly surprised. Actually, I felt a bit on the spot when his fiance (that I didn't know existed) came upon him partially undressed while showing me his tattoos. Actually, it's pretty incredible that he has a worthy (where worthy = life-altering) story behind each and every one of them.

So, at any rate... Chris was there tonight. And after I had a few glasses of wine he confided in me that my attitude when I was going thru chemo is what helped him thru his grandfather's death from cancer. I guess his grandfather (who was more like a father to him) was dying about the time I was under treatment.

I was really too buzzed (yeah for me!!!) to catch all the details of the story (so sorry, Chris). But the general gist was that I (where I= my general attitude) was an, encouragement, help, amusement, whatever, that helped him get thru those trying days. Whatever, I'm so glad I could help.

I love hearing things like that. It makes me feel like my chemo was all about them. And that's not as bad as it sounds. I prefer that it was about them than me. I guess I'm too buzzed, does that make sense?

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Daddy-O,

You are still the best gift receiver I've ever met. I think that's why I married you. We are the perfect marriage of a gift-giver and good-receiver. Thanks for always making it a great time for all.

A letter to my body

As usual, I'm a day late and a dollar short. But I just couldn't pass up this opportunity to address some issues that have long been neglected. Blogher has asked people what they would say in a letter to their body. This is a project I can sink my teeth into.

Dear Body,

You are my oldest and dearest friend. You have always been there for me from those first hesitant steps to my sure stride of today. Yet I have not proved as faithful.

In my childhood I didn't spare a thought for you. I took you for granted. I ran, played and lived in ignorance of illness beyond the cold or flu. In your strength I was afforded that luxury. As an adult I can see what a true blessing that was.

As I got older I was not pleased when I looked in the mirror. Well, not really true. I was pleased enough with what I saw in the mirror. I was displeased with how you, Body, compared with those of my peers. I thought you were not thin enough. Not really fat - just too big. Your breasts were too big and developed too early. I didn't like being singled out as one of the few girls who wore a bra in 5th grade. Who knew how much of my self-image would be tied to those breasts of yours later in life...

Once I discovered boys and their, er, toys, I reached an uneasy truce with you. By this time I had learned to appreciate your finer physical attributes. But I had never had reason to think beyond looks. Ignorance is bliss. And youth is cocky. I sorely abused you. I am so sorry.

I poisoned you with drugs. At first I didn't think about what it could do to you. Ignorance again. But after years of using and becoming "educated" in the process I knew how bad the drugs were for you. I knew they were made of toxic materials. I worried about your future health even as I looked in the mirror & poisoned you once again. Eventually, I came to my senses and stopped that madness... but at what cost?

Finally, when I got pregnant, I truly began to appreciate you for your many talents. You proved fertile and well-suited to pregnancy. I took great pride in your accomplishments. I loved you and the baby you made! Ugh! But I hated the fat I saw everywhere. I dismayed at every being thin again. I was disgusted by the gigantic engorged breasts! Ridiculously large! Why hadn't I appreciated the normal large they were before?

A few years passed & I felt you had failed me again with a late miscarriage and an ectopic pregnancy. I'd lost that earlier pride in your strength and fertility. And then you came through again. You gave me another baby. All was forgiven.

I think this is the time that I really fell in love with you. After working with you so long to get pregnant I finally had a true appreciation for your beauty, your strength, your wondrous capabilities. I had never felt more beautiful in my life. Those pregnancy months were blissful, halcyon days in our relationship. I reveled in your power to create life. Wow! How awesome!

Then I found out you had cancer. Breast cancer. Yet, even then, at your weakest point, you were strong. You fought through the chemo. You had incredible reserves! You barely even got sick. I am in awe of you! Then the radiation in conjunction with more chemo. I weep for the abuse you took. But nothing kept you down. You rock!!!!!

Today you have survived massive reconstructive surgeries, cancer, years of drug use and just plain owner neglect. You look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. I can't believe how strong you are! I just really want to say, thank you.

Thank you for always being there. For going the extra mile, for standing a little straighter and holding out a little longer. Thank you for my babies. Thank you for your incredible recuperative powers. I promise to never take you for granted again.

Your life partner.

I love an outing!

Having kids is wonderful. They are little versions of ourselves with all of our best and worst traits magnified 1000x. This very quality makes us love them beyond comprehension - so much that we could just squish them from the sheer intensity of that love. And also, just makes us want to SQUASH them on general principle. It's a conundrum to be sure.

But here's a well-kept secret. You know what one of the best reasons to have children is? You get to relive your own childhood. Not the bad parts, either, like eating your vegetables or going to bed early... but the cool parts. Things like Easter Baskets & Valentines Cards with scribbly writing (and one from that special girl with a small stash of extra Xs & Os that no one else in the class got). And also, birthday parties. How awesome are those??? Plus, school field trips. Yeah! Those were great!

Well, I get to go on B's class field trip next week. I'm fairly giddy with anticipation. Of course I have to drive. I don't get to ride on the school bus. Dang! But still. Dude, we're going to the Scitechatorium!!! I don't even know what that is, but I know with that kind of name it has got to be one fantastic place.

I did look it up... look at a quick list of things we will see and do:

• See an Anaconda skin that is over 22 feet long !!!
• Hold a 65 million year-old dinosaur bone
• Get "electrified" by a Van de Graff generator
• Touch a meteorite from outer space Neat!
• See a rock that will float in water No Way!
• get VERY close to your favorite snake or tarantula Uh, I'll pass on that one, thanx!
• Feel the sharpness of a Piranha's teeth
• Take a walking stick for a walk
• Compare the size of your teeth with the teeth of a T-rex
• Put your head in a shark's jaw Cool!
• Exercise a 10-inch millipede...on your arm Maybe...
• Handle a piece of tile from the NASA space shuttle
• "Talk" through a laser

Squee! How much fun is this going to be??????

The free ride is over

No one told me that living with a 7 1/2 year old is a sneak-peak into the hell that is raising a teenager. With the exception of car key requests, staying out past curfew and daily hour-long showers B has every other tell-tale sign of pubescent angst. He talks to Daddy-O and I as if we are not only the enemy, but a not-too-bright one at that.

I knew that eventually B would think I didn't know anything... I guess I just figured he'd be older than 7, and maybe know his times tables before it happened. And how in the world did my boy (and most every other kid under the age of 25) end up with such an air of entitlement? Like everything is owed to him from dessert to Pokemon cards to as many Scholastic books as he wants every few weeks when the order form comes home. I hate to sound so old over here... but when I was a kid I was lucky to get ONE book once or twice a year from the book orders. It was a big deal! I got most of my books from the library.

Well, the free ride ended this weekend! We started a new Token Program for him where he gets to earn tokens for doing the things he should be doing just because he's a human being and lives in our house. Things like eating breakfast, clearing his place at the table, rinsing his dishes, getting dressed, brushing his teeth & combing his hair... the catch is he has to do it all without being asked by us. It relieves us of the burden of being the bad guys all the time. I hate to nag.

So far, this part is working wonderfully!!!!! B fairly runs to the chart at each time frame looking for a way to earn tokens. In fact, he gets bent if I've done something that he should have gotten a token for. Success is sweet! The second part is the Reward System. He can save his tokens and trade them in for common items.

Here is our Reward Chart:
25
Have dessert
Play game with Mom / Dad
One candy bar
Mom / Dad reads story
Chocolate Milk with Dinner

50
One hour on computer
One hour of video games
Go to Skate Park
Go to Nat. History Museum

75
Rent Movie / game
Bike ride with Dad
Choose own dinner
Ride Bike to school

100
Stay up past bedtime
Bake something
Small pack Pokemon cards
Special after school snack

150
Roast Marshmallows
Exempt from one chore
Have play date
Go to Nat. History Museum

250
Have friend sleep over
Go to movie
Go to beach
Go to Shell Shop

PENALTIES
Talking Back -2
Sneaking Sweets -1
Being Told More Than Once -1
Lying -5
Complaining about food -1
Not eating all of dinner -2
Interrupting -1
Saying Bad Words -2

I have such high hopes for this system. I don't want to parent a teenager before I have to. I am too young to lose all my "cool" already!!!

A plague upon Ourhouse

The snot is still with me. And yet, I am at work. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

I couldn't stand Daddy-O a minute longer. He is just beginning to get sick, you see. So, not only is everything I have done to rid myself and children of this plague wrong, but it borders on medieval in it's ineffectiveness. "What? You're only using Tylenol Sinus, Dayquil, and chest patches? Have you dosed the children? What no antibiotics?" Forget that they don't have ear or sinus infections so there is no reason for anti-biotics... You'd think I was applying leaches.

My MIL insists on giving me the life history of every soap opera character on TV. Really. I HAD to go back to work out of self-defense.

D has turned into some sort of toddleresque version of Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde. He's apparently learning his negatives - you know, "don't", "I do not", etc. So he has whiningly demanded his drum, only to scream invectives and "DON'T!" when presented with it. Replace 'drum' with 'cookie', 'milk', 'water', 'juice', 'milkjuicewater', 'buttons', various CDs, etc and you get the picture of the day in Ourhouse.

B is not sick enough by half and is b-o-r-e-d. He was sent to school today to spread the plague willy-nilly amongst the villagers.

Nobody wants to eat yet I still have to cook. That's just BS of the finest sort.

The MIL is here to help... yet see all of the above.

So. I am back to work where I at least stand a chance of being left alone to get some rest.

Snot and other things that annoy me.

Snorckle. Snorf.

Excuse me while I empty my head of the vileness that has taken up residence in that space that once housed my brains.

Aaaa-Hem. Arrghughpgh. Hork. And my lungs.

Ourhouse is not a happy place to be this week. There is snot-a-plenty, though. And my little man, D is a very happy sharer. We are up to our weepy eyeballs in moist, productive "coughees" and sore throats. Also some low to moderate fevers but I can't say how high because someone has done something heinous to the ear thermometer and it has not been seen since. The other thermometer is not near as reliable; beeps willy-nilly just to get out from under an armpit and has been known to completely disregard searing baby skin while belligerently reading 97.8.

Our WonderSitter also has the pestilence so the MIL is in the house. Note: Please, do not take any of this as anything other than the rantings of an overworked, ill mother who is tired of being tired. Also of snot and medicine and cooking for kids that won't eat and having to cook at all when I'm sick, damn it! Why is everything a competition between a MIL & a DIL? Is it destined to be so?

If I cook something that she also makes I have to hear all thru the meal how SHE cooks it & how much Daddy-O loves it that way. If she cooks dinner... well, then the whole meal is a colosol fishing expedition heavily seasoned with exaggerated tales of other "fish" caught with her food.

If Daddy-O refers to me as "Mom" he is met with an indignant co-answer to my own and an explanation that SHE is his mother and how was SHE to know he wasn't talking to her.

I know. I know. But I honestly can't imagine myself acting that way with my own boys when they are grown.

Maybe I won't feel this way when the fog clears...