Score: Teeth -10, Broken Toes - 1

I am in obvious denial...I can't possibly have been slacking this long.

Well, one of the more fun things that I've done in March was to show up in Mom's classroom on her planning period with the Roo in tow...my plan was to just mess with her head for the rest of the day, and the surprise visit worked pretty well. Her jaw hit the desk, and she almost dropped her ridiculous dog (Yes, Truffles the demon dust bunny is the official English class mascot)...then, without a word, she got up, handed me the durfy beast and took my son. "I'll be right back." she called over her shoulder as she marched proudly out of the room to show him off. As the door shut behind her, I was subjected to a barrage of frantic nose-licking from the beast that didn't subside until Mom and boy returned about twenty-five minutes later. I should have known better, I suppose...but I have had an epiphany of sorts...When next my mother leaves me to the tender mercies of her drooling lint dog and makes a mad dash with my boy, I fully intend to have purple, pink and green food coloring in hand...and when she returns, the ridiculous animal will look like something out of Dr. Seuss. I mentioned this to Mom in passing and she felt that an Easter Egg beastie would be evil. I just think she has no sense of humor.

* * * * * *

Jonathan Swift once suggested that the Irish eat their children as a way to keep them from being a burden --I think by the same token, small children should be made of racquetball rubber, so I can bounce Josh off the wall to relieve stress, and he wouldn't suffer any ill effects. After careful consideration, I feel that small children should be made of racquetball rubber as well as the material in the old STRETCH ARMSTRONG toys...then you could just tie them in a knot and they would stay put. You could hang them off of a bed knob...make elaborate bows from their legs and arms could be the new fad decoration ---Martha Stewart could show us how to make ruffles out of them. My husband questions this logic, but pointed out how proud he was that during the latest teething ceremonies, I did not go with my first instinct (as he is quick to note that, as yet, the boy is NOT actually made of rubber and springs)..."Well, I couldn't go with the next three instincts ,either."I grumbled. "We have three more walls in the living room."

* * * * * * *

Lately, the Dance of the Sleeping Boy has been much trickier lately. One of Josh's favorite games now is to go through the toys in the living room and throw them up over his head. Then, he will wade through everything and place every toy, one at a time, in my lap. All of this is well and good, but as the best time to beat a path is when he's down and out (because, it will be right back out there if I don't wait), I am left to step on every hard, knobby, chunky piece of plastic there is as I try to get him to his room for the night. The dance begins with me attempting to throw myself out of the much-abused and increasingly ancient couch (imagine a walrus pulling itself onto an ice flow with its tusks and you'll know the depth of the grace involved). Then, with the be-coma'd boy in tow, I proceed to the door, inevitably running into and setting off every single one of his loudest toys. As I get to the hallway door, after landing a final step on to not one, but THREE squeaky duckies, I then have to wrestle with the child-proofing cover for the doorknob, while maintaining a level boy at all times. The next obstacle I face is four feet of the creakiest, loudest, most complaining floor in the house. If I'm very, very lucky, the boy will stay asleep. If I'm not, he awakens with the "Oh, Mom, I'm so scared and alone and abandoned-by-all-who-know-me" wail, and he pads clumsily to the crib rails with his arms outstretched, and the tears already working. We are learning to stay by the crib, and pet his hand or his foot or his back to help him settle into his crib...We never quite got into the "put-him-in-his-crib-drowsy" routine suggested by all of the experts. Josh usually fell asleep nursing or being held by one of us...but this means that he hasn't learned how to really settle himself in without those crutches, and some of the bedtimes tend to last longer than others now. So, we are trying this. I have found that my best bet is to wear my black robe and have all of the lights out in the house, so that he can't see when I leave...unfortunately, I can't see anything either, and about four weeks ago, I was ambushed by a chair that simply came out of nowhere. My smallest left toe was at a 90 degree angle to the other toes, and I didn't think that was a good thing, but when you break (and actually, I think I didn't just break the toe, I sheared it at the joint) a little toe, you are rather limited where the remedies are concerned. I did what I could...I taped it, I iced it, I took some advil, and most importantly, I whined about it. Incessantly. To anyone who would listen and many who wouldn't. Slowly, it began to heal...and then I broke it again...and again. And again...And THEN I stoved it twice for good measure. For a long while there, anytime I was changing the tape, my little toe felt more like a minnow flopping around on my foot than an actual part of me. Josh was very helpful as well. A taped toe was a new thing...he likes to explore new things. When he wasn't trying to tug on it, he was stepping on it, or tripping and landing full on it. Don't worry about me, though. I have nine other toes.

I'm going to try something new this time, gang. As many of you know, the deal with the "Stay-At-Home-Mom-ness of Kim" is that I get back to writing again. The blog is part of that deal...but I've also become a part of a really wonderful writers' group. In the group, we get many challenges to kick us into gear, but some of the challenges, while fun, are not always likely to be published in the mainstream. I hate writing something that will just sit in my computer and gather dust, so I have decided that I will occasionally post my responses to some of the writing challenges on the blog, just so it is out there and being read. If nothing else, it makes it look like I've put a lot more work into the blog than I actually have. I am limited somewhat by the constraints of the blog, so the formatting will be off. Sorry. Comments -- especially the glowing, rave-review kind- are appreciated. Thank you. --- K
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THE GREAT LIE -- MY WRITERS' GROUP APRIL PROJECT COPYRIGHT April 2007
premise: begin with "You would not believe what happened to me." The next sentence must be truthful. The rest of the story must contain waves upon waves of complete brown stuff. End with "and that's why I didn't have anything written to bring in today."


You simply would not believe what happened to me...

It all began with the bumblebee that I found in my kitchen the other day. The bumblebee would have had my immediate attention, even if it were not three feet long, dressed in a tailored suit, and speaking to me in a New Jersey accent.
“I am deeply sorry to have to trouble youse.” began the Bumble. “But I am here on a matter of some importance.”
“Oh? How can I be of assistance?” I stammered, trying to remain calm. All the while, I tried to nonchalantly locate a plausible weapon in my peripheral vision. A run-of-the-mill flyswatter was not going to work on this boy…but it was just possible that I had left a shovel by the adjoining dining room door.
“Youse have a Honda, right? A red Honda?” I nodded as a sinking feeling in my stomach told me where this conversation was going. “On the day of April, ah,” He consulted a small notepad that he had pulled from his double-breasted pocket. “April first, in the year of two-thousand, seven…Youse were seen leaving the scene of an incident involving one Jimmy the Monarch.”
I recalled seeing the orange and black triangle reflected in the rear view mirror as it bounced on the pavement behind me, but that hardly seemed an appropriate conversational point.
“Jimmy the Monarch? But that was a complete and total accident. He came out of nowhere. He hit my windshield at top speed. I couldn’t stop.”
“Jimmy was prone to hitting the nectar hard, and he could be somewhat erroneous in his judgment after a fresh patch of clover.” mused the Bumble amicably. “But that’s neither here nor here. The Family has demanded restitution of youse. I am here to pull off five of your legs.”
“The Family? You mean to tell me there is actually a Butterfly Mafia?” I asked, not really registering his last statement.
“They prefer to be called the Honorable Order of the Lepidoptera.” stated the Bumble. “Now, about those legs, please.”
“Gee, buddy, I’m afraid that I’m gonna have to pass.” For all of his Goodfella bluster, the Bumble had seemed a fairly polite and straightforward bug, and I felt really bad that I could not be more cooperative. Of course, I did not feel nearly as bad as the Bumble did when my shovel sliced him cleanly in half. The blade snagged only briefly on his pressed, silk shirt before leaving him in a divided state of being.
“I shall convey your sentiments to the parties involved.” sighed the Bumble as the top eighteen inches of its body crawled out of the door. Its multi-faceted eyes bore no malice, only a look of tired resignation. The Bumble looked down at itself and shook its head sadly. “Damn, that was my favorite shirt.”

* * * * *

They must have come in from every state in the Union. For days, Moths and Butterflies of every size, shape and color besieged my house. My lawn looked like an elaborate Indian tapestry. They were no longer delicate little creatures flitting from flower to flower…no, no, no…palpable menace dripped from every fluttering wing. The air became yellow and hazy with dust created from those wings. I could take it no more; I walked to the door and stepped out onto my porch. Millions of eyes watched my house and waited. What happened next was inevitable…and it was their own damn fault.
The first sneeze that erupted from my nose cleared bugs for thirty feet. The rapid succession of blasts that followed rattled windows eight miles down the road. The dust began to clear, and all that remained of my improbable enemy were the remnants of torn antennae and the occasional thorax. One solitary, snot-covered wing floated gently down from the sky.

I slumped onto the porch, exhausted and wished vainly for a Kleenex.
It was over. I closed my eyes, allowing the throbbing in my head to eventually subside. When I opened them sometime later, I found a hawk sitting in front of me, rolling a cigarette around in its beak.
“I hate to trouble youse.” said the Hawk as it pulled out a small notebook from its Armani jacket. “However, in the course of recent events...” Here the Hawk gestured at my lawn with one wing, before going back to its notes. ”Jonny the Jay was knocked completely out of his place of residence, I.e. his nest, and every single one of his feathers has been blown off. As an additional sadness, he received a knock to the head, and he now believes himself to be Don Knotts. On behalf of the entire Corvidae Family, I am here to seek restitution…”

…and that is why I did not have anything written for today.