Cotton Candy for Dogs

Diapers are the doggie equivalent of cotton candy. Once shredded, they even look like cotton candy. Yellow cotton candy. All over the bedroom floor. Yum.

Speech Racer

We CAN'T WAIT for Speed Racer to be released. According to my three-year-old son, we are going to see PEED RACER. Apparently, he's incontinent, but fast.

Cows

We went to the circus, which was AWESOME! 7 motocycles in one big ball! So cool! And, though my son feared it so, the tigers did not growl at or eat him. Mmmmmm, cotton candy, Homer Simpson drool...

So, here it is in rough, kinda really bad form, (actually it sucks) the text to Why There Are No Cows in the Circus. Some of you remember this from years ago (the book I never wrote).

Cows are not world-renowned for performance art.
They are neither frighteningly obscure nor unstoppably cute.
They are not at all flexible.
No contortionists here.
They do not ride bicycles.
They do not balance on the backs of goats.
They do not stand on their hind legs and twirl in circles.
They do not catch Frisbees.
They do not gallop and allow their riders to perform feats of skill.
Their ability to balance on the high wire leaves a lot to be desired.
Cows have difficulty jumping through rings of fire.
They are no good at riding motorcycles.
Hooves can’t grasp the handle bars.
Cows on bikes would just fall over.
No one fears them.
No one hangs on the edge of the seat in dreaded anticipation as the trainer stands in the cage convincing cows to do tricks.
Nowhere does anyone worry that the cows in said cage will attack and eat the trainer.
Cows chew cud.
We would not pay to watch them chew. No spitting contest will ensue.
Who would pay to watch a good milking.
That, my friends, would be a good bilking.

Best Birthday Ever!

So, birthdays come and go, but nothing beats yesterday, and it will live in my family’s memory for a good long time.

I was soooooooo sick all weekend, but when I woke up yesterday, I felt significantly better—for all of ten minutes. Then I felt like crap again. I proceeded to awaken my daughter for school. Normal morning: liquid breakfast for the girl (heaven forbid she actually eat solid food), left late because I couldn’t get myself together, fought traffic, made it to school. Halfway to school, my daughter remembered my birthday, which was so sweet. Five minutes later, she said her stomach felt awful. I told her she was not allowed to throw up on my birthday, told her to tough it out and see what she could make of the day.

Once school began, every spare moment was taken by students, but that’s why I’m there, right? I did not even get the chance to go to the bathroom until 4:00. Ugh. I hate days like that. I was going to make cupcakes for my homeroom, but I was too sick, so we bought grocery store cupcakes. As I was getting ready to pass them out, one of my girls tripped and hit her face on the bookshelf. She then refused to see the nurse. I hope she explained that to her mother. It kinda ruined my lunch, which was noodle soup—in hopes of feeling better. I tutored a student after school, rounded up my daughter (who said she was ok), and headed off to pick up the boy. See, my work really begins once the school day is finished. That’s when we do homework, “fight the good fight,” in other words. We also try to make dinner, prepare clothes for the next day, get showered, and get to bed on time. Where’s the fun time? Summer. Anyway, my weeds are RIDICULOUSLY tall, so I decided I would go out to cut them while my girl started her homework. I really do not want the civic association to complain to me that my yard is in violation. I already have them thinking I am an insane psycho woman from hell. So, I ran upstairs to change, and when I came downstairs, my poor girl had thrown up all over her homework. All I could say was, “Oh, no, now we have to do it all again!” She so sweetly told me this was not her birthday present for me. I giggled a little. I told her it was ok, and at least she would never forget this birthday.

We ran upstairs for her to take a shower. The boy yanked off his clothes and insisted on a bath. Then, the girl wanted a bath, which she got because she was sick. Many minutes later…Dinner was cold and interspersed with little girl vomiting. Cake was the same, and my weeds are still tall.

Among all of this retrospectively funny chaos, I can find benefits: my girl and I got to have a fun-filled, slightly pukey sleepover on the air mattress (good idea to all of you with children: it can be taken outside and hosed off). Both of my children are clean and do not need another bath today. I also have time to make tonight’s dinner. We all get new toothbrushes, which is soooo much fun because I bought ones that blink! My students figured out that I am somewhere between 29 and 103 years old. I’ve gotten to the point where my mother no longer remembers my age. My husband couldn’t remember it either. I have more cake to eat because my girl thinks everything smells and tastes like vomit—perhaps she should put that toothbrush to use! I can’t wait to see what next year brings!