I told Luca to say “Don’t drink and drive, my peeps!”
He decided to change it up a bit…
And, because we really don’t want you to kill yourself or someone else, here’s one more…
Seriously, don’t be an asshole.
Take a taxi or pass out where you are.
Everyone wins!
Or you could just stay home and get drunk…like me!
In any case, have fun and be safe, friends.
Love most of you you all!
xo
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been referred to as the baby of the family. Fitting, considering I am, indeed, the last born between me and my sister. Also fitting because my behavior growing up did mimic that of a baby. I cried a lot. I craved attention and acted out at times to get it.
My sister, the first born of the family, on the other hand, cried less, acted out less and was the more obedient one of the two of us. She made better grades and excelled at most everything she did.
I made terrible grades and great jokes, always one to try and make someone else laugh. I was, and still am, way more sensitive than normal. Also, I have the attention span of a housefly. I’ve had to work on myself and my confidence very hard over the years. I always felt insecure as a child and used jokes to mask it. You would think I am the most outgoing, least shy, person on the planet, when in fact I get terrible social anxiety. I’m just pretty damn good at pushing it down or using other distractions to hide it.
My sister bubbled over with self confidence. Head cheerleader, most beautiful, homecoming queen. You name it, she won it. She rarely got in trouble, while I was rarely out of trouble.
We do share many similarities with each other, and as we’ve gotten older, these have grown. But, in our youth, our differences, and the way we reacted to situations and outside influences, was blatantly obvious to those around us.
Were our personalities and character traits all a product of our DNA or is there more to than that? According to psychologists like Kevin Leman, our birth order has as much to do with our personalities as our genes do, if not more.
Leman, author of Birth Order: Why We Are the Way We Are, has done extensive research into birth order and how it affects who we are.
For example, he suggests that first-borns are reliable, cautious, and over-achievers. They excel at most things they set out to do and are diligent in their endeavors.
On the other hand, last-borns are outgoing and attention seeking, always wanting to be in the spotlight. They tend to be the most irresponsible of all the siblings, financially and in other areas. They can be manipulative and spoiled. In other words, the baby of the family usually acts like just that, a baby.
Middle-borns, Leman offers, are the more secretive of the birth order. They often feel looked over and ignored, leading to greater independence and a tendency to keep to themselves. They also tend to be the most entrepreneurial of the bunch, paving their own road in the world and doing things their way.
Only children are like first-borns times a thousand. They tend to seek perfection in everything they do and are often as responsible as the adults raising them.
Interestingly enough, my husband is a last-born with all the characteristics of a first-born. Possibly because there are many years apart between he and the next older sibling, his childhood mimicking more of an only-child at times.
I find the birth order theory fascinating. Not only because I’m a psychology major myself, but also because the way I fit into my family, and this world, is textbook last-born. According to Leman’s formula, anyway.
Where do you fit in your family? Are you a typical over-achieving, diligent first-born? Or a spoiled, attention seeking last-born? Or, perhaps, you don’t fit the mold at all, and are a middle child with last-born tendencies.
Do you believe your order in the family has made you who you are today? Or do you think Leman’s theory holds no credibility and our DNA is solely responsible for who we are and how we relate to those around us?
I was flying solo all weekend, stuck inside the house with a sick toddler and a constipated baby.
And, let me tell you guys, shit starts to get pretty weird when you don’t leave the house for 48 hours.
(At least it wasn’t me.)
**********
Also, in case you missed it, we had a very not-constipated Elfie around these parts.
I’m pretty sure I lost a few friends.
And gained a few blog trolls. Fun!
*********
In other news, we are going through a bit of an emotional time around here, with the news and all.
I can’t thank you enough for all the messages. I know this time of year can be hectic, it’s nice to know so many of you thought of us.
Word.
I love you guys.
**********
Between, the toddler with a cold, the constipated five month old, a pooping Elf, and the death of a namesake, we’re all pretty damn tired around here.
Fingers crossed for a lot more of this in the next few days.
**********
Finally, Levi made his Happy Whatever The Hell Floats Your Boat Can We All Stop Being So God Damn Sensitive cards.
I think they came out great.
He’s so photogenic.
**********
Happy, happy Monday, my friends. Hope you have an amazing week! Don’t stress out too much and try to remember what the true meaning of the holidays are…food and wine and shit!
Thanks for stopping by.
xo
Oh Yes I Did.
It’s 4 a.m. and my kid has already seen the Elf, because, of course, BOTH of them decide to wake up at this time, on the weekend my husband’s out of town and I’m navigating this ship on my own.
So, what else is there to do, but bring them both into bed with me?
As we reached my room, the only light was the one shining from my MacBook, prompting Luca to glance at the screen. It was then he saw the photographic evidence of yet to be seen Elfie – on the potty – that I’d already shared with all of you who live in my computer.
Yep, you read that correctly.
Elfie was on the crapper.
The John.
The Loo.
The Commode.
And there were poop props, you guys, thanks to my sicko friends.
At 9 pm, after three not small glasses of wine, I’d never heard a more brilliant idea! I ripped open a plastic candy cane full of Hershey kisses, that I’d stashed for Luca’s stocking, and ran into the guest bathroom to execute the poop plan.
Perfectly, I might add.
Hollywood needs to hire me as a poop prop-man. Prop-woman, for all you feminists out there.
Oh yeah, Luca, I totally forgot to tell you where I just found Elfie! On the potty! Pooping! I took a picture in case he moved before you woke up, but now that you ARE up, let’s go see if he’s still there!
And that’s when it happened.
In the eyes of my three year old son, I became the coolest mom ever.
We laughed and laughed and ewwwwww’ed and laughed so more.
Mind you, it’s now around 4:30 in the morning.
But, just as I was about to put on my mean mom hat, and start demanding everyone go back to sleep, I thought about how much fun we were having. And reminded myself that these moments are few and far between, and one day I’ll be begging for such sweet shenanigans.
So, I went with it. And before I knew it, Luca and I were eating bananas, Leo was drinking from his bottle, and all of us were giggling uncontrollably. In my bed, in the almost-dark.
I was in baby boy bliss. Also, probably a touch delirious.
Then I came back down to earth and remembered I needed to get some sleep, since I’d be parenting solo the rest of the weekend.
So, I clicked on BabyFirst TV nighttime programming, which is totally trippy and makes you feel like you ate some funny mushrooms or something.
What’s this show, mommy?
It’s a special show that makes people super sleepy when they watch it, baby.
Twenty minutes later, both boys knocked out, I was reminded how strong the power of persuasion is.
*Now, I think that pretty much qualifies for the Inappropriate Elf Contest. Don’t you?
Likes: bottles, fake sneezing, shitting his pants, world domination
Dislikes: naps, solid foods, being told no, wet diapers, not dominating the world
His favorite saying: Don’t fuck with me or I will make you my bitch.
His goal in life: To rule the world (and stop shitting his pants).
*Thanks for voting guys. You’ve done your job and done it well! You, like, don’t even have to vote for the President or any stupid shit like that anymore.
**Mussolini (il duce) came in a VERY CLOSE second.
Oh. Me. God! Is it really that time of year again? It seems like only yesterday that I was accepting this coveted award.
But, here we are again.
It’s all so exciting!
I’m so nervous I could puke. But, I don’t want to ruin these fancy three year old maternity pajamas I slipped on for the occasion.
Deep breath. Here goes.
The 2011 Top 100 Mom Blogs are…
(ummmm, can I get a drum roll up in here?)
1. Some bitch that bumped me out of first place.
2. Me.
3-100. A lot of other bitches.
To those that didn’t make the list this year, please don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only because you suck at life and no one knows you exist.
Chin up.
Unless you live under a rock, or have hidden me from your Facebook or Twitter feed (entirely possible and, really, who could blame you?), you know that we have lovingly nicknamed our first born son Kim Jong-il.
Why?
Because three year olds are tiny baby dictators that rule our lives, of course.
And then, there was Leo.
Little baby Leo has been teething like a mofo in the past week. With the teething has come some major five month old attitude.
This is where you come in.
It’s time to anoint Leo with his dictator alias, and I want your help!
Don’t let this face fool you. He means business.
Below is a list of the nominees. Simply leave your pick for best baby dictator name!
* * * * * * * * * *
And last, but certainly not least…
* * * * * * * * * *
Voting will be open through Tuesday.
Thanks for playing!
If you haven’t figured it out already, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Kids are weird. And they do say the darnedest things.
I’m just hoping Luca doesn’t say some of his latest gems in public.
Let me explain.
No, really, let me.
HEY, YOU IN THE BACK, SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND LET ME EXPLAIN.
Anyway.
In true boy fashion, Luca is obsessed with toilet humor. He loves to replace the words in songs and everyday conversations, with some of his favorite words.
Poop.
Pee.
Bugs.
Pompies (a Spanish term of endearment for bottom).
Examples…
Rudolph the peepee reindeer.
I want some bug soup.
Replacing the word Caillou with poopoo, in the opening song. (I can’t really argue with that, Caillou is a total shithead).
Twinkle, twinkle little pompies.
You get the drift.
And I know, boys will be boys. But, his new favorite word is starting to stress me out a little.
PENIS.
Clearly, the obsession starts early on in life.
Truthfully, I don’t have a problem with it. I taught him these words. I’m as straightforward as his age allows me to be, so when he asks me what something is, I tell him the appropriate word for it.
Penis.
Vagina.
Pimple. (This one I regret. Yes, dear, I know mommy has a pimple. You’ve told me 47 times today.)
And so on.
Wait, where was I? Oh right.
PENIS.
Luca has been replacing words with penis a lot lately. Like, a lot a lot.
And my first reaction is to crack the fuck up, because I’m 12 and, WHATEVER, it’s funny, you guys. But, I’m starting to get nervous about stuff like this coming out when I’m not around.
Like some of these nuggets he’s randomly blurted out at home this week…
I LIKE BIG PENISES and I cannot lie! (Don’t ask why my kid knows the opening lyric from Baby Got Back.)
Singing along to a kids song, “Everybody’s good at something, Leo’s really good at shaking his PENIS!”
“What would you like for lunch, Luca?” A penis pie, mommy!
Sigh.
I’ve chosen, so far, to ignore it all together, in the hopes he will gradually move on to some other inappropriate thing.
But, I’m pretty freaked out about how this penis thing may go down (HA!) at school.
Will he ask another student, at snack time, to, “Pass the penis, please.”
Or tell his teacher that mommy’s favorite thing to eat is a penisdog?
Or ask if he can sharpen his penis?
The penis possibilities are huge and endless (BAM!).
So, I’m really, really hoping he gets over this soon.
I mean, there’s only so much penis this mom can take. (ZING!)
And, apparently, so has my hair.
Since it’s pretty believable, I feel the need to clarify that the last picture is not really me.
Yet.
I’d never heard of the Elf on a Shelf until this year. Maybe it’s because my kid is just getting to the age where he is into Santa. Or maybe it’s because it’s been so in my face, via social networking and television.
Initially, I thought the idea was super creepy. It’s bad enough that the kid thinks a fat man with a beard is watching every breath he takes. Wait. That’s The Police. Whatever. My point is that Santa can be a real creeper.
But, so many people were getting them and talking about them and posting pics of their elf and OMG MY KID IS THE ONLY ONE WITHOUT A DAMN ELF, that I caved.
Peer pressure. It’s a bitch.
I still felt kind of uneasy about the little guy, because I didn’t want to turn Christmas into something stressful for Luca and, knowing his personality, the Elf was liable to do exactly that. So, I decided to tweak the Elf’s mission a bit, to make it less freaky.
Luca’s been cutting out pictures from magazines, of toys he wants, and pasting them on construction paper. Busy work for the win! So, I sat the Elf up to look like he was checking out the toys L had cut and pasted. Like, old school cut and paste. None of this cyber bullshit.
I told my husband last night that I pulled the trigger on the Elf. In return, I received an enormous eye roll followed by some sort of man grunt. He has thought the whole thing was weird and creepy from the moment I told him about it.
Fast forward to this morning….
Me: OH MY GOD LUCA! The ELF! He’s HERE! And he is sitting on the table looking at your Christmas wish list so he can go back and tell Santa all the things you want!
Luca walks over to the table with a very concerned look on his face.
Me: And he brought a book with him, so you can get to know him better!
I open the book and start leafing through the pages.
And then, my son, my amazing, funny, pensive little boy slams the book shut and matter-of -factly says to me…
I don’t like that guy.
And walks away.
I’m not sure I remember the last time I laughed so hard. Even when I got the “I told you so” look from my husband.
A little while later I was putting shit in the toaster cooking breakfast for Luca when he walks up to me and says,”Mommy, I don’t want that guy in our house.”
Touche, little guy, touche.
No one likes a narc.
