What a Crappy Day. . .

. . . and I mean that in the most literal sense of the term.

I must have the two poopiest sons in the entire world. Truly. I don't know how in the world two children this small can produce this much feces in a 24-hour period. And we're not talking a little turd here and there. No. . . we're talking diaper blowing, back-creeping, sting-the-nostrils calliber craps here.

Let me start with Pudge. . . my 3-month old. Pudge (and no, his real name is not Pudge. It's Christian. . . but if you'll kindly take a look at the photo in this post, you may see why we call him Pudge) tends to blow out diapers at least three times a day. There are times that the velocity in which poop comes out of his tiny-hiny truly startles me. . . like this morning.

During his morning feeding, Pudge stopped taking his bottle. This is not typical Pudge behavior. Removing a bottle from this baby's mouth before every drop of its contents are safely in his belly is a huge no-no. . . and he will certainly tell you about it. So, when he stopped taking his bottle, I became concerned. I thought maybe he had a locked up air bubble and needed to burp - but he wasn't crying. When I moved him to burp him, I saw his face turn a light shade of red. . . and I saw "the look."

(For those of you who are not mothers, let me quickly explain "the look." "The look" is the face your child gets when he or she is about to make a mess in his or her diaper. I've noticed that all babies have different looks when this is about to occur. . . and when you see "the look," you should prepare yourself to change a stink bomb.)

"The look" only lasted a moment. . . he pushed as if he was trying to push out some gas, and then I heard an awful sound: "POP!" The sound. . . the horrible sound. . . was the sound of the back of his diaper exploding under the force of the poop that literally shot-gunned out of him. What did Pudge do? Stopped pushing and went back to eating his bottle. Yep. . . one push, one "pop," and he was good to go. Mommy on the other hand? I was completely and utterly shocked and grossed out.

This is the second time this has happened in the morning this week. Yesterday, he actually shot me with his poop. Yes. . . shot me. I was changing his wet diaper. . . he passed gas. . . and that gas was quickly followed by a shot of liquid matter that landed all over my hand, the changing pad, and the wall.

Throughout the rest of today, I believe I changed five poop-filled diapers. And every time, Pudge simply smiled at me. . . that silly smirk of his. . . as if he was saying, "Aw, thanks for wiping my butt Mom. Since you like it so much, I'll see if I can muster up some more for you to clean up later." And he never fails to deliver. . .

And then we come to Julian. Julian will be three next month. . . we are in the middle of potty training, and he's doing extremely well in the first department. But when it comes to Department Number Two, he's lacking in the are of control. Now, the moms out there who have boys (and maybe even some with girls) will understand: when a toddler is playing, he or she does not want to stop to go to the bathroom. They'd much rather do their business in their pants and have Mom take care of it later.

My darling toddler has no qualms about telling me just that. Last night I put Julian in the bathtub and started folding some towels in the hallway. (Note: my linen closet is right outside the bathroom. . . he was in my sight and earshot the entire time.) All of the sudden I hear a little voice say, "Mom. . . there's dirt in the bathtub."

I walked into the bathroom and casually glanced down into the water. There - floating around my clean child - were some unwelcome visitors. Visitors that seemed to have escaped from Julian's rear-end. Yes. . . Julian pooped in the bathtub. (I had nightmares about this for the first two years of his life. . . of course he does it as soon as I stop thinking about it!) I grabbed Julian from the tub, placed him on the potty, and proceeded to clean (and clean, and clean, and scrub, and clean) the bathtub.

Once I was certain I had removed every poop particle possible, I asked Julian, "Why did you poop in the tub? The toilet was right here. . . all you had to do was tell Mommy you had to go." What was his response? "Because I wanted too. I was busy with my toys."

Today, my favorite little hurricane was riding a little train around my parents' house. On his third lap through the dining room, I heard my sister say, "Okay! Who pooped?" My nephew - Luke - is always completely honest and said, "It wasn't me." So, my sister turned to Julian. . . who was sitting on his train, smirking up at her. Needless to say, he was off the train within seconds and swept into the bathroom for a huge clean-up job.

I don't know what this child could have possibly eaten. . . I don't know how he could possibly hold that much feces in his little body. . . but oh my, was it a mess!

After five Pudge diapers and this one monsterous Julian diaper, I chalked today up as one of the crappiest days on record yet. I don't doubt that this won't be my last. . . but I do have a question: do they have corks for this kind of thing?

Wait. . . that's probably not a good idea. At the speeds Pudge is able to shoot his poo, a cork could likely turn into a deadly weapon.

Oh well. . . until next time. . .

I'm Just a Girl...

Ah, men. Fellas, sometimes I wonder if you've made it to the 21st Century yet.

There are a few things you need to know about me (and likely, the majority of the women you know) before you start assuming I'm helpless. . .

First and foremost, I am not an idiot. A little insane at times? Sure. Suffer from momentary lapses in judgement? Of course. Forget things on occasion? Who doesn't? However, "dumb" or "ignorant" are words that I would never use to describe myself. In fact, I'm much smarter than you give me credit for. . . and I use that to my advantage.

Case and point: the other day, I called the car dealership where I purchased my SUV. I have been having a few little issues with the vehicle "shuttering" and not accelerating the way it should. Not a huge issue. . . it runs, it hasn't broken down, and after it runs for a little while, those issues resolve themselves. But, since I am attempting to sell this vehicle, it is only fair that I get any and all mechanical issues resolved before turning it over to a new owner. Since this vehicle is still under warranty, any of the issues that may be occurring should also be covered at no cost to me.

Anyway, I spoke to the service manager at said dealership. He asked me what issues I'm experiencing with my vehicle in an attempt to diagnose (presumptively) over the phone. I explained the shuttering to him, expecting that he would simply schedule a time for me to drop off the car, and he would look into it further. I was wrong. Surprise. He began to try to explain to me what he thought may be wrong with the vehicle. . . and the way he was explaining these issues to me made it clear that he thought I was just an ignorant little girl who knows nothing about cars, how they work, and what needs to be done to fix them.

Something Mr. Service Manage does not know about me: I used to change the oil in my car. I've changed the shocks on my car. I've given my car a tune up. I've changed headlights. I've worked for two different vehicle maintenance retailers. I used to read Hane's manuals to pass the time at work waiting on customers. I am not ignorant to the inner workings of a vehicle.

Generally, when people patronize me the way this gentleman was on the phone, I like to play games. I'll put on the "I am as stupid as you think I am, and I know nothing, and please take advantage of me" act and try to see just how far that person will go to try and pull one over on me. In this situation? I was in no mood to play games. (When you have a toddler throwing toy trains across the kitchen trying to get them to ricochet off the counter and into the sink. . . sitting on the phone isn't exactly a priority.)

I (kindly) explained to the service manager that 1) I am not your typical housewife. . . I do not need him to explain to me what he thinks an issue is as if I'm a child. He can use "big words" with me and I'm pretty sure I'll get it. 2) Telling me I may be behind on standards maintenance and could be liable for the work that needs to be done is not going to fly with me. First of all, I've had the vehicle since November. I've put less than two-thousand miles on said vehicle, therefore, I don't need an oil change. . . I don't need a tune-up. . . and I don't need a tire rotation. Second of all, none of that would be causing the "shuttering" I referred to earlier in the conversation, nor would it affect my acceleration. 3.) I was going to ask him to do all of the said maintenance on the vehicle while it was in their possession. . . but, after accusing me of not knowing how to take care of a vehicle, I didn't think it would be in my best interest to have him handle that for me. And finally, 4.) I asked him to just schedule the damn diagnostic test. . . FOR FREE. . . so I can be on my merry way!

Deep breath.

After stuttering an apology to me, Mr. Service Manager scheduled an appointment for me to bring my SUV in to be checked out next week. He assured me the diagnosis would be free and that any and all work that would likely need to be done would be covered under warranty.

Thank you for telling me what I already knew.

Why do some men think that women are fools when it comes to cars? I'm not just talking about how they run, or how to take care of them. I'm talking about buying them too. Why do guys think they can easily take advantage or pull one over on a woman? It truly boggles my mind.

(Yes. I have another story to tell here. Surprised?)

On Sunday, I went to a car dealership to see a van - in person - that I had seen online. I have never seen one of these vehicles before, nor have I read too much about them yet, so I wanted to see for myself if they lived up to the hype they were given online. The moment I pulled in, a younger sales guy came to the door and waited for me to get out of my car. (Please note: my mother was in the passengers seat, my father was sitting between the two car seats in the back of the SUV, and I had both of my children with me. My intention was simply to glance at the van in question, get a business card, and be on my merry way.)

I asked Mr. Young Salesman where the van I was looking for was located. He walked me to the vehicle and began giving me a speech on how wonderful this van is. . . showing me all the bells and whistles that I could honestly care less about. He showed me how to (and this is not a joke) open the glove box. He showed me how to open the automatic sliding doors. He showed me how to adjust the seats. Apparently, I give off an vibe of complete ignorance when it comes to vehicles. Why else would he assume that I didn't know how to open a door?

Once again, I don't take well to being patronized. But this time, I decided to play my game with Mr. Young Salesman. I acted completely and utterly dumbfounded by the features of this minivan. My mouth gaped at the amazing multi-disc CD changer. I "ooohed" and "ahhhed" over the built-in sun shades. I completely let him show me every inch of this luxury kid-hauling machine.

Then, he pulled out the pitch: "It's the last day of the month! Make me a 'ridiculous' offer, and I will accept!"

Oh, Mr. Young Salesman, you said the wrong thing. Little did he know I was giddy with excitement over the opportunity to play this game with him. I asked for his card, willingly gave him my phone number and name, and told him he could call on Monday after I "discussed" this with my husband.

Please be advised: I had absolutely no intention of purchasing a vehicle that day. I need to sell mine first, or, pay it off, before investing in another vehicle. I even explained that to this eager salesman, but he seemed to have forgotten that part of the conversation. I left him on his "last day of the month," without a sale. . . and the assurance that he would be calling on Monday.

Sure enough, my phone rang Monday morning. Mr. Young Salesman asked me if I had gotten around to speaking to my husband. I told him I had, and that we had decided to wait until we unloaded our SUV before investing in a van. What did he say? "Our incentives run out today. Please, make me a 'ridiculous' offer, and I will accept. I promise."

Funny. I thought your month ended on Sunday? Didn't you tell me to make you that "ridiculous" offer yesterday? Amazing what 24 hours will do for a person's brain when it's already mush.

I humored him, and listened to his pitch again. . . and I made him the "ridiculous" offer he was begging me to make:

"Okay (name has been removed to spare this guy the humiliation), I'll make you an offer. You give me the top Blue Book value on my vehicle upon trade-in, knock the difference off the price of the van, and throw in free oil changes for the life of the vehicle, and you have yourself a deal." I laughed to myself. . . as I knew this wasn't exactly the "ridiculous" offer he had been expecting.

After some tripping over his words, and the usual "I'll have to run it by my sales manager" speech, he came back to say that this was impossible and asked me to come in to discuss it further. This is what I had been hoping for.

"(Again, sparing humiliation. . . so no names), you promised you would accept my ridiculous offer. Now you're telling me you can't? I'm hurt. I cannot do business with someone who is dishonest with me. Thank you for your time, but I will be taking my business elsewhere."

I hung up.

The lesson here is simple: Fellas, please do not patronize the women in your life. . . even if you truly are convinced that they don't know what they're talking about when it comes to a subject you are more than savvy on. Because chances are, what they lack in knowledge about that subject, they make up for in spite and wit.

Hurricane Julian

Call me crazy (you wouldn't be the first), but I didn't think hurricanes hit the Midwest. But I found out today that my assumption was horribly, terribly wrong. Now, I'm not referring to your normal hurricane here . . . no high winds, sheets of rain, or uprooted trees. In fact, you may be surprised to hear that the damage caused by this hurricane was confined only to my home . . . in my living room. And that hurricane's name is Julian.

Yes. My two-year-old, cute-as-a-button, blond-hair-and-blue-eyed miracle child has turned into a half-pint destruction machine.

Let me explain.

Julian is generally a wonderful child. He's happy, he's smart, he's cheerful, he's funny, and he's charming. The child I got out of bed this morning was not. From the moment this miniature version of my husband hit the living room, he was on a mission . . . a mission that involved terrorizing the dog, bouncing off the furniture, tearing down the blinds, throwing the remote controls, pulling the DVD cases off the shelf, attempting to pee on the bathroom floor (a plan that Mommy quickly foiled), and trying to hang-glide with a blanket off the sofa. Oh, and this was all within the first hour he was out of bed . . . at 8AM.

I am not the disciplinarian in our family. That job is typically left up to my darling husband; however, based on our current living situation (and by that I mean the continent between us . . . leading to the ocean between us . . . for the next year), I have taken on the role of "Big Mean Mama."

My first attempt at nipping the destruction in the bud was to send him to his room. Have you ever had a toddler laugh in your face and accuse you of bluffing? As of this morning, I have. When he realized I was not bluffing, he then told me that I'm "unfair" (a term he learned from watching Charlotte's Web). Less than a minute later, I heard him playing with his toys . . . which I then had to take away (because what kind of punishment is a "time out" if you can sit in your room and play?) . . . and placed him back on his bed.

His next move surprised me greatly. In fact, almost 12 hours later, I'm still having a difficult time trying to decipher how exactly it happened. I turned away from my resident hurricane, only to have him leap onto my back. Mind you, this child is in a twin bed. I am five-foot-nine. He was hanging on my shoulders. Attempt now - if you will - to picture how this could have possibly happened.

That little acrobatic move sent me into "Really Mean Mama" mode, which ended with a swat on the butt . . . some tears . . . and an apology. All from me. Yes. After I tried (again) to discipline Julian, he decided it would be funny to smack my hind-end and mock my attempts at making him behave. I - being the tough cookie that I am - broke down into tears of frustration. And as if that wasn't enough, I then apologized to the little maniac for trying to make him behave.

(Three days down. Only 362 to go.)

After the tears, I sat Julian down for lunch. He ate, and actually began to calm down. I was beginning to think that I may be catching a break (four hours later). Shame on me for thinking. Once his food digested, he decided to tell me he had to poop . . . and then run away from me in order to avoid going to the bathroom. While changing his diaper, he decided it would be funny to try and run again, causing his baby-sized "nuggets" of feces to fall onto the bathroom floor. (Did you know poop bounces if it's the right consistency? I found that out today as well!) Once I had that mess cleaned up, I did what any self-respecting mother would do when faced with a terrorizing child . . . I called my mommy.

Grandma's are great. Especially when they bribe your child with ice cream, bring said ice cream to your house, feed it to said child, and then leave. I'll give her some credit though, Julian was calm for the 15 minutes she was here. But the moment Mamaw left, Hurricane Julian hit with all his fury . . . destroying what was left of the living room, and successfully traumatizing the dog.

Thankfully, as hurricanes do, his power eventually subsided. I cleaned up the ruins left behind by the my tiny natural disaster, and then I decided to take advantage of the "eye of the storm." I picked up the car for a little trip . . . to Grandma's house.

Let's recap today's lessons:

• Hurricanes are entirely possible in the Midwest . . . if you live in a household with a toddler.


• Toddlers are capable of mind-bending acrobatics when hopped up on pure evil.


• No matter how "child friendly" you think your home is, your child will prove you wrong.


• Poop bounces.

And finally, the biggest lesson of all: grandmas are more evil than toddlers.

Again I say . . . three days down, 362 to go.

The search for the "perfect" title. . .

Postponed Perfection. That's my life in a alliterative nutshell. When I decided to start this blog, I was having a hard time trying to encompass its purpose in a short-and-sweet title.

After hours of (considering) beating my head on the wall, plotting my husband's demise in order to eliminate his foghorn-in-the-night-calling-ships-home caliber snoring (which surprisingly does not help in the creative process), and having to eliminate my first six ideas because other "writers" had taken them. . . I finally decided to consult an expert.

I signed onto Facebook, hoping that someone was online at 1 A.M. on a Friday night. I was in luck. My dear friend Ray (author the blog American Razor, and creator of Kickoutwrestling.com) was fighting an alcohol-induced slumber by surfing the web, and fortunately answered my plea for literary assistance. After bouncing a few ideas around, our conversation turned to my life and why I wanted to write a blog in the first place.

Ray explained - in a way that only Ray could explain - how he viewed my life. He stated that I seem to have the perfect life: the beautiful children, the awesome husband. . . but perfection always seems to be just out of my reach. Postponed Perfection.

Pure. Genius.

He was right. I had never viewed my life in such a way. I'm always so caught up in living my life, that I've never taken the time to view it objectively. I do have all of the makings of a perfect life within arm's reach:

I have a doting husband who - although he's leaving the family for a year to work as a private contractor in Afghanistan - would do anything to make me happy. I have two beautiful sons. . . who fill my life with so much joy and laughter, I could explode at any moment. I'm pursuing a career that I love, with a dream that is absolutely within reach (as long as I stick to the plan). I don't have to work because my husband is selfless and motivated. Heck, I even have a dog that makes me (and seemingly everyone who meets her) happy.

But perfection is always just slightly unachievable.

I could explain further, but then there wouldn't be a purpose to this blog. What fun is it to reveal the contents of the package in its entirety before it's unwrapped?

Besides, there are always new things happening in my life that are worth talking about. I can't promise a New York Times Bestseller here, but I can guarantee you'll be at least slightly amused by my life's twists and turns.