Equalizing the Force

Whoa it looks like time has gotten away from me again and weeks have passed with no discernible change in the F-Bomb and Mom universe. Sorry people, sorry. This mom has been a busy Mo-Fo. But...

But Friday my little F-Bomber was an unhappy boy. First grade had gotten him down. Too many friends turned frenemies, too many math homework assignments, too many goulash, soup, stew and assorted brown goo days of school lunch. Blech. We needed some perking up. We needed something fun in our lives. What we need was The Force restored to balance.

So I decided to throw a Star-Wars themed dinner party for my sad little Padawan. Did it help? Oh yeah, I think it did. Check it out:

Lord Vader was there.

Boba Fett fell into the Sarlacc-pit dip (garlicky hummus).

There was Pizza the Hut (A nod to Spaceballs, also a great film what with the Star-Wars spoofing and the naughty words and hey, any movie with Rick Moranis is awesome, am I right??)

There were Luke's lightsabers (pretzel rods dipped in white chocolate and sprinkled with

tasty sugar sprinkles).

Here they are arranged in the digesting Boba Fett's helmet.

The Dagobah swamp water was my freakin' favorite, all limey and melty and ooooh so green!

And of course, there was Aunt Beru's blue milk.

I was going to make some Han Solo-in-carbonite Jell-O jigglers but ran out of time. Oh well. Next time, next time. Fletch was cheered up and we all had fun gorging on fun food as a family. I might make this a Friday tradition, we'll see.

Promise it won't be as long between posts next time. There will be updates soon on our new geeky family hobby (featuring constant testing of my navigational skills! Which don't exist!) and poorly-executed-but-well-intentioned craft projects! Can I get a woo hoo!?!

~Mahalo for listening~

Douchebaggery

Hi. My name is Amy and I'm a douche. No, this does not mean I'm a feminine hygiene product. Wikipedia says: Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s. The term usually refers to a person... with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

If you asked my 16-year-old daughter, Gwendolyn, me having included a definition of douche from Wikipedia on my blog about douches makes me a douche. *Sigh* Gwendolyn, aforementioned teen, frequently invokes this moniker. For me. Recently we were discussing what it means to be a douchebag. Though our personal definitions differ somewhat from Wikipedia's, several characteristics are agreed upon between us. These characteristics include, but are not limited to: Arrogance, whether righteously deserved or not; unwarranted spewage of expertise on any random topic; and especially 'abusing' others with pedantic attention to/recitation of details.

Picture this scenario, borrowed loosely from Family Guy: A guy in Starbucks, publicly writing on his laptop. That's a douche. Or more precisely, that's our brand of douche. Gwendolyn has a predilection for folk music. And folk singers. This makes her a douchebag. I enjoy reading and writing poetry. Therefore I am a douche.

Can you follow this? If you're having a hard time keeping up with all the douchebaggery, lemme school ya with the following multiple-choice quiz, with examples from my real life (BTW, writing this quiz using examples of being a douche based on my real-life makes me a douche). Here we go:

1) I consider myself a part of the slow-food movement, and also strive to be a locovore whenever feasible. Because I espouse these ideas (or even know what they mean) this makes me:

A) Socially conscientious.

B) Boring.

C) A douche.

2) I enjoy photography, both digital and film-based. I have had many photos published professionally over the course of my journalistic career. I often photograph my children and believe they are excellent subjects. Because I have taken photos professionally, I take umbrage when referred to as an MWAC (Mom With A Camera). Therefore, I am:

A) Defensive about my photos 'cause I currently don't bring home a paycheck and take lots of pictures of my precious babies.

B) Ridonculously pissed at no-one in particular for no good reason because technically no-one has ever actually called me an MWAC, but I know they're thinking it.

C) A douche.

3) I write this blog. Frequently, okay, always, it is "about" my family. But it pisses me off when I get called a "Mommy blogger" because to me this is so, so much more, it is way more, it is ME, in the raw, uncensored, pouring my soul into cyberspace. Because... because I was born to write and right now, this is my platform. And you are here reading this, so you feel it too, don't you? This blog is the Rainbow Connection, motherfuckers. But that's a topic for another day. So. I am:

A) So self-aggrandised it is vomit-inducing.

B) Willing to do anything to get out of folding another load of laundry, including baring my soul to any curious passerby of this blog spot.

C) A douche.

Answer key: The correct answer for every question is, of course, C. I'm a douche. But you know what? I own it, man. I wear that shit. I come by it natural-born and it's my steelo. Can I get a hollaback? If you're a douche too, lemme hear ya say it!

~Mahalo for listening.

Corn! And other stuff.

Corn! Corn is awesome! Have you seen this awesome corn? Have you seen this awesome baby eating his awesome corn?! Adorable!

Awesome baby attacked this beautiful corn as I was putting away groceries this morning after an early a.m. market trip. After carrying sacks into the kitchen and putting things up, Fletcher yelled for me to come quickly! See what that horrible baby is doing! And this is what I found. My beautiful boy, still in jammies, bathed in a sunbeam peeling and subsequently gnawing on his favorite thing, uncooked corn still on the cob.

I actually took many more photos, but since he was sitting right by the front door with the morning sun shining through the beveled window panes, it was impossible to get a focused shot. Except, for some reason, this one jewel in the whole rest of the unusable pile.

So F-Bomber is home with a temperature today and we are having a pajammy time, or, in Fletcher's case, an underpants-only time. There has been donut eating and video game playing and Yo Gabba Gabba viewing and whining about boredom and talking on the phone to grandma and a recitation of fake answering machine messages, all involving a certain sister and hilarious scenarios she's involved in which require immediate parental attention.

So about that certain sister. I would love so much to share with you, dear reader, some detail of this enigmatic being's life and times. But alas, when the subject was broached at a recent dinner, all possible topics were shot down. In flames. So, here is a brief synopsis of my daughter: She is 16, soon to be 17. She is gorgeous. She goes to high school. She drives Fletcher nuts but he's crazy about her in a good way. That's all you get to know.

And after posting about Fletcher last time, I realized there are some very important things I have omitted from his snapshot, so here they are: He hates bears! The only thing he hates more than bears is meatloaf! And the only thing he hates more than bears and meatloaf combined is cilantro! He has vowed to beat up every bear he ever meets, run away screaming form any meatloaf at any time, and obliterate cilantro from the world forever.

And one more thing: Thank you to husband Matt, who has designed the new F-Bomb and Mom header. Okay. That'll do for today. Back to enjoying donuts and video games in my underpants. Er, pajamas.

~Mahalo for listening.

Lucky 7

This is what it looks like to be seven years old

and the member of an elite team of military action heroes.

My main man, the F-Bomber himself, has turned 7-years-old on me and I cannot believe how this impossibly impressive person has grown from a chubby toddler with unspeakably cute curls into the above incarnation, this firstie, the most damnably funny and cute kid to ever grace the state. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce the King of New Franklin.

So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:

Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.

Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.

Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."

Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.

Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.

Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.

Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.

Holy Molars!

We are cutting teeth over here at F-Bomb and Mom, premolars to be exact, and the world is a squirming, wiggling, wailing, sleepless mofo right now. Being my third child, Grady has the benefit of my years of experiments - oops! I meant experience - with his older sibs. So basically that means I realize "this too shall pass" but that somehow doesn't make it suck much less.

Actually, cry, fuss and scream as they did while cutting teeth, neither Gwendolyn or Fletcher had the misfortune to be cutting four freaking premolars at once, as is baby Grady. His poor pink little gums, top and bottom, are knotted with marble-sized lumps of ouchy painful bastard teeth, just barely poking pearly tips through. At night he "rests" in fitful half-slumber, rolling, wallering and whimpering even though he has been adequately dosed with baby Tylenol. During daylight hours, he roams the house fretfully, wild strings of Anbesol-laced drool soaking his shirt like a geezer gumming a pork chop.

He doesn't want a Popsicle or a teething toy. Occasionally he half-heartedly bites me but it seems like it takes too much effort. Mostly he brings me board books and wants to snuggle down under the covers on my big bed and read or watch Yo Gabba Gabba (which is kind of starting to get on my nerves, since it's his favorite show and we watch it A LOT).

Basically I am not getting much of anything at all accomplished, but that's okay. Years of living with children has taught me that not only will this pass, it will pass so quickly that 10 years from now it will seem like five minutes ago and I will be crying on Matt's shoulder wondering how my baby got so big so quickly. And he'll laugh at my grey hair.

In the meantime, we have gone back to school. I say "we" because with all the hustle, bustle and responsibility that comes with having a first grader and a freaking junior, it feels like "we" are all involved! Gwendolyn did not allow a first-day-of-school photograph this year, but here is a picture of lovely first-grade Fletcher, in all his mowhawked cuteness in the car on the way to his big first day:


Hope all your adventures are memorable, Mahalo for reading!

And now we are 14 months old

My beautiful Tator Tot is 14 months old today. I feel immensely blessed for the honor of being his, Gwendolyn and Fletcher's mother.

Extreme naked cuteness

Grady James!

This is a picture of my belly just days before giving birth to lovely Grady James. I can't believe how time flies! Love you, Grady! Love you, family!

Addendum

So baby Grady was "helping" me clean off a book shelf - he basically just threw everything on the floor in his helpful baby way - and in the clean-up I discovered an old folder from college. Within the folder was - ta da! - the poem I was referring to in my second-to-last post that horrified classmates in my poetry seminar class. I thought I'd like to share it with you here.

Please note that that this poem was written 10-11 years ago, and I currently enjoy a much closer relationship to my then-husband than I did previously. He has graciously given his nod of approval to the publication of said-poem, realizing that he was my inspiration but I mean him no ill-will.

Also, Matthew was relating a story to me in which he was reading my blog at work *ahem* and a co-worker read my poem over his shoulder and said, "Oh my, I don't think I could ever even write words like that." And that is my point. I have a certain audience. You may not be in it. But I write for the people who cannot say these things aloud. I write for the people who want to say "fuck you" but can't. There are so many people who are so nice they don't speak their mind. I am not one of them. So these poems are for them.

Here is my poem. Mahalo for listening.

Hellraiser

It's 3 a.m. and I'm staring at him
naked and fragile and
with the comforter stripped away
looking like a small, killed thing.
He is dreaming of someplace better
where kinder women live and frolic.
He is kicking his leg like a tired old dog.
I
I am waiting to gut him
slice him
hurt him
with my Cenobite grapple hook finger nails
if he rolls the wrong way
or snores.

I am the woman
he says
who can skin a man with words,
invasively inhabit a mind
better than Pin Head.
My mind
he says
is the puzzle box
and even though there's no easy solution
to find the last button
is so irresistible
that he'll surely die trying.
Loving em is sudden death,
or perhaps eternity as
CD head.

It delights something naughty
inside me
to feel his futile struggling
even in dreams
to grasp who I am.
I sense the onset
of his soul departing
even as he sleeps.
My icy hook nails
scritch-scratch his throat
and cloying death scent
blooms from his open mouth.

I think someday soon
I'll know what it's like
to miss him.
Maybe I should have been
better.
Maybe tomorrow,
I'll sprout a heart.