You should pick your study buddies wisely.

"Mom, I can help you with your math when we get home if you want" Motormouth announces from the backseat as we drive home from the video store. Maybe he sincerely wants to spend time with me, maybe he is feeling bad that the movie he just rented was $5 and he is finally starting realize how long it takes to save up $5 and he feels he owes me something in exchange for me shelling out the money for his rental. I don't have the heart to tell him that I was happy to spend the money, it is a cheap babysitter so I can have an hour and a half to myself to do my homework without "help". "That's okay bud, I can do the math part of my Chemistry homework all by myself, but maybe I'll let you help me study for my Anatomy class. I am going to have to know all the bones in the body and there are hundreds". Motormouth as been working on making a three dimensional skeleton constructed completely of white paper and tape. Why? Who knows, this is what the kid does for fun. "Hundreds of bones?" Motormouth worries, "mine doesn't have that many....and we are out of tape" Trying to avoid a trip to the store, I assure him that his skeleton looks great just as it is. "Mom, you don't need to worry about all the bones, it will be easy. Just remember: the foot bone is connected to the leg bone, the leg bone is connected to the......other leg bone, the other leg bone is connected to the body bone...."

He looked so insulted, but it felt good.

G called to inform me that he got orders today. Scared me half to death, thought he was getting stationed someplace else. No, he finally got his orders for his promotion to from Sergeant to Staff Sergeant (hooah for pay raises). G comes home and says the following:

G: Man, my chest hurts.

Me: What?! You had your promotion ceremony today? (*if the thread of this conversation makes no sense to you I have provided an "Army for Dummies" footnote*) Without me? That's nice.

G: I've been wearing the rank for a while now, just didn't have the orders. It wasn't really a ceremony, we sort of skipped all of that.

Me: and went straight to punching you in the chest? Fantastic. I would like to actually go to one of your promotion ceremonies someday.

G: I'm sorry babe, would you like to punch me in the chest?

Me: *sulking* no..............yes.



*Here's a brief explanation of a little piece of Army lore for those of you who don't readily know what a promotion ceremony consists of. There is a stuffy little ceremony, some higher up says a few words and reads whatever is written on the certificate they give you. Your spouse is invited and they take some pictures. THEN everyone takes a turn pounding your rank onto your chest. This was a little more barbaric when the Army had pin-on rank. G came home after making Specialist with multiple puncture wounds spaced a half inch apart set inside the ugliest bruise I've ever seen. Now the rank Velcro's to your shirt and it isn't as fun for all those who are the 'pounders'. So to compensate they just hit the 'poundee' harder.

You didn't earn THAT many bonus points.

Motormouth: Mom, the TV is on the same channel as it was this morning. Either you watched cartoons on Boomerang or you didn't watch TV at ALL today.

Me: Which do you think is more likely?

Motormouth: Awww, man. you didn't watch anything. That sucks.

(We will skip the conversation we had about how that word isn't going to fly in this house, my heart wasn't really in it, since halfway through I realized my love for the word. Motormouth showed some real restraint by not pointing out that fact, and he gets some major points for that)

Me: yeah, poor me. How did I ever survive?

Motormouth: (sincerely) I'm really sorry mom, that must have been really boring. If I have a snow day tomorrow you can watch TV in your bedroom all day.

Me: yeah, that's the way it will go.

A guest post, for the nine people who read this.

This is a post from a blog I have fallen in love with in a very short time. I happened on her by accident and am so grateful that I did. I often read her posts and wonder how she has access to the thoughts in my head and can put them into words far better than I ever could. Please, go straight to the source:

http://prayingtodarwin.wordpress.com/2009/12/20/maybe-a-girls-best-friend-just-not-this-girl/

A word of warning, this is an actual 'big girl blog' with links and photos and video clips for you to enjoy, not just the snippets of conversation that a sleep deprived mommy finds hilarious and feels the need to subject you to. Please, go wander around her site a little, I doubt you will be disapointed. If you happen to find her letter to her sons school teacher, you just may wet your pants. I would link it for you, but would probably screw it up. Enjoy!!

Maybe a Girl’s Best Friend. Just Not This Girl.
December 20, 2009 by Ginny
I accept some things about this time of year.
Religious folk are going to get up in arms when you wish them a Happy Holiday, insisting on “Puttin’ the Christ back in Christmas.” (All the while, ignoring the fact that they totally co-opted Yule from the Pagans, but whatever.)
Small children will exhibit sickening greed and extremely touching acts of altruism. All at the same time.
And the stores are going to play hardball.
I know that I’m going to be bombarded with advertising. I know that stores are counting on this month to bring them anywhere close to being profitable, especially in a recession. I get it.
But there was an ad on the radio the other night, one that literally made my jaw drop, and (although I didn’t see it, I’m pretty sure it happened) steam come out of my ears.

A diamond company here in town started their radio spot acknowledging that 2009 sucked the hind one. Then, in a twist of logic that was waaaay past 360 degrees of twist, they proceeded to say that the horrible economy meant that as a man, you needed to spend more money on your woman than ever before. And I quote:
“Be the hero she needs you to be.”
Oh nameless diamond store, I know you were aiming this ad at men. Poor, delusional, led by their penises men. You were trying to let them in on the “inside info”, let them know what us broads are really thinking.
Men, this is horseshit.
I’m a woman. I know how some, maybe a lot, of women think. So please listen.
Because do you know what my hero would do?
My hero would make sure the mortgage gets paid. My hero would read “Goodnight Moon” for the thousandth time because it’s a little girl’s favorite. My hero would step in, speak up if he saw someone being hurt. My hero would check out strange noises in the night. My hero would leave his ego out when making decisions that affect his family. My hero would open doors for ladies, and teach his son to do the same. My hero would be a decent, stand up guy, even when that’s the hard way.
You know what my hero wouldn’t do?
Piss away thousands of dollars on a damned piece of jewellery.
Don’t believe the hype, men.

Oh yeah, NOW I feel the spirit of the season.

I am standing outside of Macy's the Sunday before Christmas with Monkey, shivering. He's crying, I'm ignoring him, and G is nowhere in sight. How did I get here? I'm glad you asked. Frankly, I am getting tired of blaming Autism for these predicaments, so I am torn between blaming Motormouth and his ill-timed Christmas spirit, for Macy's and their charitable donation campaign, mail slots too small to stick your arm in, and Santa Claus.

Let me back up. Yesterday Motormouth decides that he should probably get around to mailing that letter to Santa before it's too late. G and I were a little relieved to find that we had managed to buy about half of his wish list all on our own, so he won't be too disappointed come the big day. Unfortunately, I forgot to have G take it with him when he mailed out the Christmas cards and Motormouth noticed. In what I thought was a flash of genius, I announced that we can take it to the 'Special Santa Mailbox' at the store, so it will be sure to arrive on time. I convince Monkey that he might like to write a letter too and help him write it (for those who care, rest assured that Monkey still wants a blue jingle bell for Christmas). We seal it and take the letters to the store.

Motormouth marches right up to the shiny red mailbox and drops his in. Monkey is unsure. Well, not really. He is sure he doesn't want to be in the store. He is sure he wants to be at home right now. He is sure he wants to keep his letter. "Don't you want Santa to bring you presents?" Motormouth asks. Monkey does. So he wavers. Not quietly. He doesn't want any part of the mailbox but he doesn't want to mess this up. We are starting to draw attention. At this point, I don't care. Leave it, don't leave it, it will be fine either way. Monkey makes his choice. He takes his letter and drops it in the slot. And immediately changes his mind. Things escalate quickly. Within seconds G and I are trying to scoop a thrashing, yelling Monkey up off the shiny tile floor. Note to self: Winter coats slide remarkably well across the entry way of Macy's. After several false starts G manages to get Monkey up and hangs on to him until we get out the door. The parking lot poses a whole other issue. Monkey has no intention of getting in the truck. It's like trying to stuff a cat into a coffee can. I am uncomfortable with the amount of attention we are still getting so G and I agree that G will leave with Motormouth while I stay behind and let Monkey work stuff out.

So here we are. Monkey is settling down and realizing the consequences of his actions. We both know it's going to be a long afternoon with no computer or video games. I'm not really sure who is dreading that more. G eventually returns and we all head home. Monkey apologizes and if the amount of giggling is any indication, finds something hilarious to think about all the way home. I only wish I could do the same.

I shudder to think what other lies are out there, just waiting to rear their ugly heads.

The stress of the holidays can get to you. It doesn't take much. You are running and shopping and mailing and baking on top of all the usual craziness and it doesn't take much for you to feel out of step. Miscommunication has been an issue for G and I lately. It goes in cycles in our house as I am sure it does in every family. Sometimes you click, you are in-sync, sometimes you are...not. It happens more when things get busy, and I don't worry about it too much. Until the other day, when I stumbled upon a realization that shook me to my very core. When I learned that something I had considered to be a fundamental truth was false. My marriage is based partially upon a misconception. It turns out...


that G






doesn't like







Pot roast.





That's right.





Pot roast.



Not a big deal, you say?




Sure, I can see why you would think that this is frivolous.




I mean, after all, it's. just. pot roast.




Pot roast. The easy, simple, impossible to screw up, throw-it-in-and-walk-away dinner. Except for the fact that I can't make it. That's not entirely true, I can indeed make it, it just isn't very good. My pot roast is one of those meals that when served, I am praised as if I am 12 and this is the first meal I have ever cooked. Oh, sure, people eat it, because it's rude to come to dinner and not eat what is served, not because it is delicious-just-like-grandma-makes-it. Now, please understand, I am not begging for your recipes and tips for delectable pot roast. The truth is that I can't stand pot roast. The vegetables are smushy and everything tastes the same. I'm not even going to get into all my particular issues with this meal, just know that it makes me gag a little just thinking about it. That's not the point either. The point is, that my husband likes pot roast, and gosh-darnit!!! I am going to make my man pot roast. No husband of mine is going to wish for his Mama's homecookin' no sireee! So, every six weeks or so (for the past 12 YEARS!!!) I stare at the roast in the meat department and decide that THIS TIME will be it, that I will conquer the beef and my husband will declare it the best dinner. ever.

So imagine my surprise when we are discussing possible meal options for the upcoming week and he mentions his indifference to the roast.

Turns out, he thought I liked it.

It's a world gone mad.

That's what I thought.

Motormouth comes home from school and is retelling his day to me, in order of importance to him, which means I hear a lot about the 6th grade girls that sell crafts at lunch time and the snow fort he built and who farted during snack and not a lot about what he actually learned or if he teacher has a message for me. When pressed for more information I got a minute by minute breakdown of his daily schedule complete with a little song about how he does the same thing every day and it is boring. Booooorrrrrring!!!!! I know I shouldn't stifle his creativity and that I should have more patience but I listened to his monologue for five minutes and then the highly repetitive song for another 2 minutes before I interrupted. Which is monumental for me since the word boring or bored is a hot button for me. You cannot possibly be bored if you have an active imagination, which this kid clearly does. Find something to do or I will find something for you to do. So I interrupt with the following suggestion. If you are bored with your never changing routine that consists of school, playing, eating, home, playing, eating and more playing how about you change it up a little by scrubbing the kitchen floor? Motormouth doesn't miss a beat (literally) No mom, I love my boring routine.