I’ll save you the boring shit that has been my life for the past several weeks. After Jenn emailed me a few days (ok, if we’re going to be truthful and shit, it was more like a week) ago asking if I was alive or dead, I realized that it’s been a shitload of time (again) since I bloooooogged.

Honestly? I’m feeling shit-ish and depressed and bitchier-than-thou lately. I’m healthy now, but my house looks like fecking animals took over and my Hubs looks at me like I’ve grown a pair of antennae from my nostrils when I ask him to lift a fecking finger and help out. Gads. I’m seriously considering getting a job just for the purpose of paying someone else to clean this shit hole.

Case in point? There are wrappers from Halloween chocolates under a table in my family room. Little Man doesn’t eat Halloween chocolate (it may have been contaminated, you see) and I am more than capable of putting my wrappers in the gar-baw-ge.

This leaves but one culprit. The Hubs. Fecker.

I mean, gaw-wed. The guy is a gem in so many ways, but he’s a pig’s arse when it comes to cleaning up after himself. I almost went postal on him yesterday. He looked at me with the “Are you pms’ing again?”  question in his eyes. KILL. KILL. KILL. Oh, and yes. I am. Whose business is that exactly, anyway? Postal. Epic-ly postal.

Fecker.

Anyway, I’m buying a new dishwasher as a result of my rants yesterday. So see? It does  pay to whine and bitch and throw shit around complain.

Or something.

Tae Kwon Do. We read in several places over the past couple of years that martial arts are very good for kids like Little Man (i.e. with Sensory Processing Disorder and/or OCD). Who knew? Sometimes “they” are right. We had Little Man try out a couple of classes at a local club in July and he’s loved it (Perhaps obsessively, but who’s counting? Or checking? Get it? Counting? Checking? OCD? Oh, never mind.) ever since! In fact, we’re at the club 4-5 days every week. He loves it that  much.

Seriassly, doooooods. If you’ve read that it might be good for your kid, it probably would be good. We can’t get over the change in LM’s confidence and physically fitness and coordination since he started. He’s already advanced in rank and just today his instructor told us he would like LM to try the class with slightly older kids in it. It’s that  good for him.

Anyhoo, I’m off to bitch at Hubs some more. I’m on a bit of a roll here. Does anyone know how many calories I can burn if I throw approximately 3 dinner plates, 2 water glasses and a pair of mislaid sunglasses, all at the speed of light and one right after the other? You know, just for the sake of conversation???

Kia

P.S. Remind me to call my doc. I think I need my meds adjusted. Just a thought.

P.P.S. Here’s a Little Man-ism for you. In the car, driving home from school one day last week, LM made a suggestion: “Mommy, I think we should put a big sign up on the outside of our house that says, “(Insert LM’s real name) lives here.”" I asked why. Duh. He replied, “so that when I’m rich and famous people will know where to come when they want my autograph.” Bah. Dum. Dum.

I have bronchitis. I also have an inhaler and codeine. Colour me sleepy and yet high.

Little Man has a snotty nose today. Colour me a shitty weekend.

Well, kinda. Sorta.

Dooooods and doooooodettes, I’ve missed you. Not enough to, well, you know, like, pay attention to any of you or anything, but enough to wish that I had something new and exciting to say.

Which I don’t.

At all.

Really.

Well, except for the fact that Little Man is doing mostly well at school except, except, for not eating, like, anything, and for erasing his written work over and over and over again (totally NOT prepared for that one, by the fecking way – thankyouverylittle) and he’s an absolute ((bi)-polar) bear when I pick him up at 3:30 on M,W and F’s.

Fun fecking wow, chicks and chicklets.

Oh, and I have been coughing up brain matter for going on a month now and the only response I get from the doc is an ever-so-mind-numbing – settling “It’s a virus. Get lots of rest and take cough syrup.”

Really? Really? Why didn’t I think of that. Oh, right. I did. Feckers. Just give me the gee dee antibiotics and wash your bloody hands of me for feck’s sake. Zeus.

Sidebar anyone? Taking a dose and a half of Nyquil after consuming copious amounts of red wine will knock one out sufficiently to secure almost an entire night’s sleep. Or so I’ve heard.

Little Man is ok. He’s ok. He’s going to be just fine. He’s good. He’s ok. I’m not. He’s ok. (Picture Kia rocking back and forth slowly, eyes almost closed, legs crossed Koom-bye-fecking-yah style while she repeats this mantra.) (Laugh.)

I’m loving the fact that LM’s teacher is so openly communicative with me. LOVING. IT.  As I said, he’s apparently used up the entire class’ supply of rubber erasers for the whole school year (that bill shall be lovely, no doubt – I kid) already and it’s only the middle of October. I find this fact somewhat amusing because why the FECK can’t he be that way about his room?! Whatev’s, it means he’s spending way longer than he needs to on his worksheets and the teach wants to know what to do about it.

Cue Dr.Psych.

Incoming!

See? I told you she’s wonderful. Dr.Psych, that is. She is. Wonderful.

She is also coming to visit Little Man at school on Friday of this week to observe and hopefully offer some suggestions to help him get through his days with less perfectionism and more lunch. We shall see. I’m actually doing surprisingly well with NOT stressing to the max about Little Man’s school happenings. (Pssst! Lean in close. Closer. Ok. Shhhhh….The reason I’m not stressing to the max about his school day? It’s because I’m enjoying the HELL out of my time to myself. Ahem. Or something like that.)

So there we be. We’re ok. He’s ok. We’re going to be fine.

Doooood lost another tooth on the weekend. Wah. My baby doth grow up too much. Oh, he protests quite a bit too (much).

I’ve missed you, my loverlings. Truly. I’ll try to drop by and visit this week. Pinky swear (with my toes crossed behind my back). (Quite the visual, non?)

Out!

Kia

Little Man lost his first tooth at dinner tonight. I gagged a bit at the sight of the blood and the tooth with a bit of flesh still attached  got all excited and took pictures of the gaping hole in his mouth. I made him call Hubs (who was out with the boys – arg!) and then my dad to spread the exciting news!

Little Man took it all in carefully. He didn’t cry, he didn’t jump for joy. He held a (white! ack!) dishtowel to sop up the few drops of blood. He talked calmly about it to his daddy and to his papa. He wrote a letter to the Tooth Fairy asking her to leave his money and  his tooth. (“Mommy, is the Tooth Fairy a boy or a girl? Is it even real? Oh yeah? Well how does she get into our house without setting off the alarm then?!”)

After the phone calls, I sat with him and (gaw-wed, I’m such a geek) spewed on and on and on (for the love of God!) about how proud of him I am and how he’s growing up and this is an important part of life.

He looked up at me, his eyes full of woe and worry…

“Mommy?”

“Yes, bud?”

“I don’t want to lose any more teeth.”

“Why not, sweetie? They are  going to fall out eventually, you know.”

He sniffed and played with his fingers. I put my arm on his shoulders and pulled him close. I pushed ahead carefully.

“Little Man, what’s worrying you?” (Loaded question, idiot Kia.)

“Mommy, I don’t want to lose more teeth and I don’t want to grow up because then I’ll die. And so will you.” Real  tears now, peeps.

Feck.

Feck.

The death topic. It’s been coming up regularly for the past couple of months. He wants to know everything about it; when it will happen for each person he loves, what happens to the bodies, where do we go, why do we die?

First off, I don’tfeckingknow!

Secondly, Idon’tfeckingknow!

Thirdly, ask your father.

So this is one of the topics of conversation between Little Man and myself, at least 2 or 3 times per day lately. I don’t have any answers. I lie a lot and pretend that I have the answers. I tell him that neither he nor I nor daddy will die for a very long time. I tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about dying because it won’t happen until he’s an old man. Do I know this for certain? Of course not. None of us knows when our day will come. It’s just so wrong, though, that my five-year-old spends so much of his time worrying about his death and the deaths of those he loves.

More and more, I am noticing just how sensitive Little Man is. About almost everything. My father has always said that he’s an “old soul,” and that he’s “been here before.” I’m starting to believe it. Little Man is like a wizened old man, knowledgeable beyond his years, sensitive beyond reason.

This concern about death…is it “normal?”  Do your children ask about it daily? I just don’t know how to help him not worry about dying.

Because I don’t feel like delving into the deets about Little Man’s school yet, I’m going to share some of his wonderfulness with you, my boiz and gerllzzzz in the bloggyhood. He really is very entertaining even when I’m plotting ways to escape the grips of hell’s half acres. Or is it the loony bin? Whatev’s. The doooooood’s awesomely awesome. Truly.

Case in Points (Or is it Cases in Point? Or Cases in Points?):

1. We’ll call it Gah-Welf:

“Mommy, I’m scared!”

“Of what?”

“The gah-welf.”

“The gah-welf? What (the feck) is a gah-welf?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a frigger of speech.”

“Ah, I see. I should have known that. My bad.”

2. This one shall go down in hizzz-tory as Getting Laid:

Little Man comes running to me, large stuffed dog in one hand, small in the other…

“Mommy, mommy! Look!”

“What’s up, bud?”

“Look!!! A dog just got laid!”

(Snort. Deep breath.) “Wow! That’s awesome, Little Man. I’ve never seen a dog get laid before!”

Let’s leave it at that for today. For those who are wondering, school is somewhat fine and somewhat feckered up the arsehole. Last week, we had 1 good day and 1 feckered day. This week, we’re at 1 good one so far. Any wagers on tomorrow? Anyone?

Love you all, (Ok, not really. I’m just not that friendly. Or loving. Actually, I dislike more than half of the people I know. Hmmm…)

Kia

P.S. Anyone want to make bets on how many Googles I get about humping dogs this week?

Uniform? Check.

Cocky attitude? Check.

“Aw, Mom, I look stupid in these clothes…” comments?  Check.

Loose front tooth? Check.

Meeting with psychologist, principal and teacher all present? Check.

I guess we’re ready for school next week.

Kia

P.S. WTFeck?!! Really? In this pic my kid totally looks like he had a rough day at the office and just stopped into the pub for a pint or two.

P.P.S. Let’s have a Caption This contest. Prize to be announced when I decide who the winner is. Go for it. Caption my kid.

P.P.P.S. Little Man’s latest obsession is the clock. Minutes. Seconds. Seconds in minutes. Hours in days. Etc. Fecking exhausting. His teacher is going to LURRRVV it. Ba hahahahahahaha!!!

From Little Man’s psychologist today, after a discussion about school,

“The good news is, kids with OCD very often are able to ‘hide’ it all day at school. The bad news is, when you get him home at the end of the day, it’ll be concentrated and wicked bad.”

Oh gooooooodie! I’m so fecking lucky. And so fecking blessed.

**********

Thankfully, Little Man seems to have recovered from his latest Sicks. He did manage to pass it on to me before he was completely done with it, though. I’m thinking I should take out a 900 phone number while it lasts, as I have a great phone sex voice today.

Ach.

Who am I kidding? Talking about sex would require thinkingabout sex, wouldn’t it? Sigh. Also, I think that, in order to be a phone sex mistress, I would have to take up smoking cheap ciggies and wearing stretchy shorts with Crocs, no?

Wow. I can only imagine the Google list I’ll get from this post…

So what do you think my Phone Sex Mistress name should be? What’s yours?

Remember, about 3 or so weeks ago, I told you that my gorgeous Little Man was sick with a (finger quotes) “cold?” (end finger quotes) Well, as always when he comes down with a virus of any kind, he had a cough. Surprisingly, this last time, the cough didn’t seem (at least for the first week) to develop into anything too gastly. I think I may have even thanked God for it.

Apparently that was a mistake.

For about 3.5 weeks now, Little Man has had a cough. It was a mild, asthma-ish-y one for most of the past 3.5 weeks. Over the past 5 days though, it has developed into something horrid and ugly. We’ve been to two different docs and neither one thinks that Little Man is suffering from anything other than his asthma.

Feckers, though, peeps. His cough has never been quite like this before. How do I tell the doc(s) that my mom-stincts tell me this is something more? How do I make them understand that the ventalin and new-higher-dose-Flovent aren’t working the way they usually do? See, his typical asthma cough is quite dry-sounding. This one is wet. And weirdly wet, ’cause there’s no snotty nose or red cheeks or fever to accompany the wetness of the cough.

Our own doc is on vacay for two weeks now. Little Man’s been on the higher dose of Flovent for 24 hours and it doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Honestly, I’m so fecking sick of  The Sicks (as Little Man refers to his neverending array of illnesses) around here.

I know, I know… it could be so much worse.

You know what, though? You never tell a self-pitying, woe-is-me-ing, tired out mama that it “could be worse.” You also never tell her that things will “get better.” Or that she’s so “blessed.”

I’m just so gee damned sick of trying to make my kid better. It seems like, no matter what I do, he’s always sick.

Woe.

Is.

Me.

How’s your week been?

Little Man and I were swimming at a friend’s house this afternoon. My girlfriend’s daughter proudly exclaimed, as she pointed at her baby sister,

“That’s my sister! She’s a girl!”

Little Man looked at her, looked warily at the baby (he hates babies), then looked back at his friend. He made a weird, confusion-expressing, hand gesture, then asked his friend,

“How do you know  she’s a girl?”

My girlfriend and I looked toward each other, trying to stop our pre-teen-esque giggles at bay. I then turned to Little Man and asked him,

“Well, bud…How do you know that I’m  a girl?”

Little Man thought. Then his eyes went wide and he got a grin that only a boy can get when he proudly ponders his manliness. He then grasped his crotch and gleefully exclaimed,

“You don’t have one of these, Mommy!”

Boys.

*******

Hubs was out this evening, so after Karate (I must, must, MUST  tell you about our wonderful discovery of this outlet for Little Man) I got take-out Swiss Chalet (if you have to ask what Swiss Chalet is  then you can never even visit  Canada) for Little Man and myself. We brought it home and sat down to eat. Little Man, looking out from behind his barrier (he sets up a barrier so he can’t see my food, which is apparently offensive), asked why I wasn’t eating the skin off my chicken. I replied,

“The skin is fatty, dooood. If you eat too much of it, it’ll make you fat.”

Little Man, always honest if nothing else, looked confused. He tweaked his left eyebrow then stated,

“You’re already fat. Just eat it.”

You know the drill, peeps. Play along. I dare you.

48534532 The number of times I looked at the Falls in Niagara.

3 The number of times I found them interesting or fascinating. Huh. Who knew? I’m not such a fanatica of the wonders of nature.

12 The number of the 24 pounds lost that I have managed to put back on since mid-May.

1 Day of new “diet.”

0 Number of pounds lost so far. Yeah, I can dream.

489573761234 Number of times (in the past few weeks) I’ve worried about Little Man starting full-day kindergarten the second week of September.

489573761234 Number of times I’ve said, “Holy shit! School starts, like, fecking soon, dooooooods,” (in the past few weeks).

486023234 Number of headaches I’ve nursed/drugged/drunk (or is it drank?) away as a result of said worrying. Turns out Head On is really expensive when you use it like cherry Chapstick.

0 Number of girls I’ve kissed (see above reference to cherry Chapstick). If you don’t get this reference, you’re either really, really old or living under a rock. Come on out. You’re missing out on a bunch of shit.

1 Number of Little Man’s “stuffies” (stuffed dust-collectorsanimals) that went missing while in Niagara F. WTF? Really? Yes, really.A new one has been purchased on Ebay and is (insert finger quotes) “coming in the mail because the hotel found it for us and is mailing it, though it may take a couple of weeks to get here and it also, by chance, might look really new-ish and have a tag attached because the hotel fairies like to take stuffies and turn them into New Stuffies, but don’t worry, it’s definitely YOUR stuffie.” (end finger quotes)

1 Number of my cheap, WalFart flip flops that also went missing from said hotel room. WTF, Hilton? Really?  Couldn’t you have at least made them both disappear?

1 Number of Coach purses purchased for myself at the Coach outlet in NF.

1 BILLION. Number of times Hubs has reminded me of his generosity.

1 BILLION. Number of times I’ve told Hubs to shove his generosity up his royal arse as he knows that when he “allows” me to purchase big ticket items, it results in an equal amount of frivolous dollars being spent on his stooooooopid  charming hobby.

1 BILLION. Number of times I’ve looked at my new bag and sighed as though I just had my first kiss.

2349582342113 Number of tranquilizers I think I’ll probably need to take before Little Man starts school in order to curb my ridiculous obsessing (yeah, looks like OCD IS contagious – I kid, I kid) over every detail. Will he eat his lunch? Will he pee? Will he starve to death or just come home every day with a horrid belly ache due to non-food-consumption? Will he get some kind of infection from holding in his pee from 8:30am until 3:30pm, 3 days per week? Will he hate me for sending him to full-day kindergarten? Will he be able to actually function in all-day kindergarten, because, God, I need a fecking break and really, really want him to go to all-day kindergarten? Will he be an outcast because he likes to collect garbage? Will he…?

I’m tired.