A camel for a Noodle

The other day at the Eritrean restaurant, Noodle was being naughty. She discovered the joy of birsen, ate her weight in injera, but then got sassy.

Bucket: If you don’t start behaving, I will take you to Ethiopia and trade you for a camel.

Noodle: Nope.

Bucket: Two camels?

Noodle: Nope.

Bucket: How many camels?

Noodle: Sixty. (Head thrown back into terrifying lunatic laugh)

Oy.

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I’ll never be Howard Cosell

Noodle has become a little obsessed with bathing with other people lately. She’s not particular–it could be me, Bucket, Peeta, or her friend who comes to visit for the weekend, but she wants to have a partner in cleanliness.

So it wasn’t surprising when I told her I was going to take a shower  yesterday and she yelled, “My shower too!” and proceeded to strip naked. I was already turning on the water, so I told her to take off her diaper and throw it it in the trash. She obliged, and came running into the shower.

I was standing there for a minute, naked, soaking wet, without glasses, when I smelled something. “Noodle, are you pooping?” I asked, sniffing.

“Nope,” she answered, pulling her hand out of her bum. A hand smeared with shit. Even without my glasses, I could see that some poop had fallen on to the shower floor.

She was not poopING. She had poopED. And it was still on her. And still on the shower floor.

“Don’t touch anything!” I shrieked, trying to quickly wash the shampoo from my hair so that I could disinfect her (and myself). I threw my water-spotted glasses back on, picked her up by her armpits, and ran to the sink, where I scrubbed her hands clean. I put her back on the floor, threw a towel on, and then armpit-carried her back to our bedroom, where all the diaper stuff was.

I cleaned her off, slapped on a new diaper, and was walking to the bathroom to throw it away when I saw it. A perfectly formed turd, on the bathroom floor. It must have been in her diaper when she took it off and threw it away. Usually she tells me if she’s pooped (in a classy way…you know, by coming up to me and grunting, “Poops.”), but I guess she was so overcome by the prospect of dual showering that she forgot to mention it. I won’t lie. A piece of me died as I stood there looking at that perfect turd.

When I was pregnant with Noodle, my friend Sharon gave me a card that said something to the effect of: “You will analyze stool with the enthusiasm of a sportscaster.” I thought it was funny, not having any idea the role fecal matter was about to play in my life.

I guess I could have been a sportscaster yesterday. Maybe an Olympic judge. Noodle got a 10 for form, but a 1 for execution. She definitely got the gold for creativity. And I think I am ready to retire from poop sportscasting altogether.

Nearly total recall

So the other night, Bucket and I were watching TV when a trailer for Total Recall came on. Seriously? I asked him. That movie came out two seconds ago. Why are they already making another one?

Bucket stared at me for a second and then said, Uh, that movie came out about 20 years ago.

Shuuuuut uppppp, I said. Don’t be ridiculous.

He whips out his phone and Googles it. Total Recall came out in 1990, he says, snickering. It came out TWENTY-TWO years ago.

I stand there, stunned at the fact that it has been 22 years since Total Recall was released, and horrified by the fact that people born in 1990 can drink legally.

A few minutes later we are discussing my next high school reunion, which will be in two years. Bucket watches me realize that I was 14 when that godforsaken movie came out, and then almost falls off the couch cackling at the fact that Total Recall was released eight years closer to my birth than the present moment.

This has got to stop happening, people. When did I get so old? And if I hear one more song from my youth on the oldies channel, I am going to commit seppuku.

The worst way to wake up

There are wonderful ways to awaken after a blissful slumber. Maybe with some lovely breakfast in bed. Maybe with a glorious vista out of the window of your private villa in some glamorous locale. Maybe snuggling with your loved ones.

This is not one of them:

Having your seven-year-old son bust into your room, yelling, “Mama! She’s flooding with poops!!” about his sister’s diaper.

 

Oy

My daughter is walking around the house wearing nothing but a diaper and a dog collar, asking “I look good? I look good?”
Pray that she stops doing this before she’s in high school.

Don’t drink and cut

I just finished cutting the hair of everyone in my family (except for me, of course. Having given myself the “Small Wonder” bangs in college, I am way too smart to trust myself with sharp scissors. Those other three are damned fools). I am now left with a toddler with crooked bangs (that were crooked to begin with, but she wouldn’t let me straighten them), a giant pile of straight ginger and curly black hair on the floor, and a husband with a very small bald spot on the side.

While Bucket claims that this is a great haircut for Peeta and I should always cut hair after starting cocktail hour, I maintain that it is far better to cut hair sober, mainly because Bucket can’t see the giant chunk I accidentally took out behind his ear. Damn vodka!

Disturbing behavior

We just drove home from dinner and “Call Me Maybe” came on the radio. As Bucket and the kids were rocking out in the car, Peeta mentioned the winky guy at the end of this video, whom both my children love.

And then we discovered that not only do the children love Winky Guy, but Bucket and I have crushes on him too. We discovered this when I mentioned that Winky Guy lives the next town over, at which point I was informed by my husband that he is the team’s catcher. Thank you, Google.

We stopped short of looking up his address and hiding in his bushes. Really. We did.

And this, people, is why the Internet is a dangerous thing.