I'm not your bitch, BITCH.

So, Chester is officially Danny's bitch.

At first, their interactions were amusing to watch. Danny would pick up a toy (i.e. his stuffed snake), Chester would run and grab it out of his hands, Danny would laugh, and they would do it over and over and over again. We all sat and watched, thinking, oh, this is so adorable, a boy and his dog, how touching. So Norman Rockwell.

Things have really taken quite the turn.

It all started when I realized that Danny viewed Chester as a toy, a simple plaything if you will, rather than the living and breathing canine he is. What makes Chester far superior than any of Danny's toys that we've actually purchased (and don't have to feed) is that Chester has the tendency to run away (thereby livening the chase) and that sparks Danny's interest times a bazillion.

If you haven't realized it by now, Danny is cunning. He is very sly. He is also another adjective that fits in that group that I can't think of. He uses his cuteness very well to cover this up, and if you don't know him, you'd never think him capable of the incident I'm about to describe, certainly after he plays you like a fiddle with a display of affection such as this:

Don't let this fool you. If you look closely at Chester, you'll see that his body is clenched just about as tight as it can get, and he's mentally plotting all the ways to possibly remove himself from Danny's "loving grip".

The incident I'm about to recount happened last week, let's say Wednesday, right before Danny went to bed. When he gets really, really tired, he gets what we like to call "crazed", where he gets this insane look in his eyes and usually runs back and forth, back and forth, until he collapses on the carpet. Chances for tantrums and/or tears (from all parties) are highly likely at this time. It's a critical part of the day. I wasn't surprised when I saw Danny reach for this in his toy bin:

Doesn't look harmful, does it? Didn't think so.

I was surprised when I saw Danny, child of my own womb, walk calmly over to Chester (who just happened to be observing the goings on of the living room, perfect case of the wrong place at the wrong time) and clock him in the face with it. It was like something straight of The Sopranos. I half expected Chester's head to come flying off, with the force that Danny used to hit him, but he just kind of shook his head and calmly walked away. I broke my cardinal parenting rule and cursed in front of Danny. Although I just said, "HOLY SHIT," half under my breath, I still felt bad afterwards, but that situation deserved it. It was horribly disturbing.

After things stopped moving in slow motion, I ran over to Danny (who, by the way, had this devilish little smile on his face and was obviously quite pleased with himself) and snatched the bucket/weapon of destruction from his hands and let out the most serious, scariest NO that I could muster. He looked at me all, that's all you got lady? and yelled no right back at me. Holy shit is right. We have a discipline emergency on our hands, folks.

I wondered what else the kid had up his snotty, food stained sleeve. Was he fashioning a shank out of his wooden toys to attack me with while I slept? This shit was serious. I knew I had to do something, so obviously I turned to the Internet for some advice, as any good parent should. I found, and promptly ordered, this here book on Amazon:

The cover itself is priceless. If you replace the little brown haired boy with Chester's head, it's a very accurate pictorial representation of what goes on daily at our house. Although intended for educational purposes, the book is also quite entertaining.

They have several scenarios that discuss better ways to channel anger. One example:

Rather than squeezing the cat (or tricolored dog with the sad eyes), the book suggests it's better to:

Clearly, the better idea.

What's really hilarious is how much these two pictures resemble one another:

Now, I know boys are more aggressive than girls and blah blah blah, but this behavior worries me. I asked my Mom if I were like this at his age, to which she replied, "Oh hell no." Apparently he's not body checking or decapitating anyone at daycare (I would have heard) so that's a plus. Knock on some wood. Now.

In the meantime, I will try to give Chester some extra attention, and hope he doesn't break and go batshit crazy on Danny's ass a la J-Lo in Enough. Chester's from the mean streets of Pasco County. He could be the Suge Knight of the dog world for all I know. I do know he's capable of putting his foot, er, paw down.

But really, how can you keep a straight face when this one is looking up at you?

Easy peasy lemon squeezy (thanks, Hannah Montana)...you just hide your face in your shirt and turn away so he won't see you laughing.



I'm fucked.

If Halloween had a Scrooge, his name would be Daniel Robert Herrera.

It's been said that the biggest disappointments in life come from high expectations. Totally true, especially if you're talking about my expectations when it comes to Danny's enjoyment of certain holidays, like his birthday and Halloween.

His birthday seemed almost like an inconvenience to him, so you can only imagine how horrid Halloween was.

I picked Danny up from daycare, and he looked like this:













My first thought wasn't, "Wow, my child is so amazingly cute with his face painted like a clown." Instead, I wondered who in the hell got him to sit still long enough to paint his face, and whether or not I could shake their hand. I also wondered if they still had the tranquilizer gun they used to sedate him on the premises, as I would definitely need it later on that evening.

As soon as I got him in the car, I realized the outlook for a pleasant Halloween experience was slim to none. He whined for my sunglasses, which he yanked of the top of my head (oh, and thaaaanks Danny, guess I didn't need the huge chunk of hair that came with them) and then proceeded to throw them at me while I was driving. He then whined for them back, and repeat x10. The whole time, he looked like the drunk clown in Uncle Buck.

Still, I held onto a tiny smidgen of hope that things would turn around come dress up time. I even let him eat a tiny piece of chocolate after dinner, thinking maybe the sugar high would perk him up. All he did was look at me with a displeased a face, all, bitch this is it? I can barely taste this crumb of chocolate you just put in my mouth.

I rushed him upstairs to put on his white tights (yes, we had to buy him girl tights, as they had no white tights for boys, go figure) and his white turtleneck. That process just added fuel to the pissed off fire. I then asked my Mom to hold his head still (as if torturing him with girl tights wasn't enough) while I drew a brown nose and whiskers on him. He flailed his arms and almost smacked us both on the head, but we bobbed and weaved. The whiskers and nose I finally managed to get on him would've looked better had he done them. During the whole process, I kept thinking, they painted YOUR WHOLE FACE at daycare! All I'm asking for is a dot and six measly lines. What I finally managed to do looked like this:












Now, there was a whole photo shoot planned that included Chester, who was in waaaaaay better spirits than Danny since he can actually take a bribe that includes food. That shoot has been rescheduled pending Danny's tantrum level next weekend. Obviously, shoot 1 didn't go well. My Dad (with video camera poised and ready) said, "The freaking dog is even sitting still."

Even after that, I still never lost hope. I took him outside, and put him down to walk. Cue tantrum. Now, I looked that like idiot parent who makes their kid wear a costume for their own amusement and then carries them around to trick o' treat and then eats their candy. Wait…..

I carried that kid to two houses, and he still refused to walk. He was giving me the toddler equivalent of the middle finger, and finally, I gave up. I looked at him, with his pathetic whiskers and said, "I love you, but I really don't like you right now." We'll process that moment later in therapy.


I took him inside, and my Mom gave him pieces of her Snickers bar that she was enjoying. He knew she'd be a sucker, and got a good bit of chocolate from her. He was up waaaay past his bedtime, running back and forth in his white tights and turtleneck, all jazzed up on chocolate. Guess when it comes down to it, that's what Halloween's about anyway, right?

OMG NKOTB

(Written on October 30th)

It's taking me awhile to write this, as I'm still trying to compose myself (whilst trying to stay awake, which is a hard thing to do). The fifteen dollar "premium spirit" beverages are swirling around in my stomach with the extra shot of espresso latte I drank this morning. Things are not looking good. Outlook for today? High of 65 with a high chance of vomit.

SO, I saw New Kids on the Block last night. (Insert high pitched shriek combined with clasped hands on your heart.) Shit was out of control. Words cannot describe, but I will try.
May I present you with some highlights:

*I could easily count the number of men that I saw at the concert on two hands. 8 of those men were homosexual. The other two were George and some other poor husband who came with his wife. They sat next to us, and at one point, poor husband 2 turned to George and said, "Wanna play cards or something?"

*There was only one open men's restroom. George went into the restroom, and came out looking highly displeased. "Apparently that's a unisex bathroom," he spat out. I figured, as I saw two giggling girls follow him out. I think he held it for the rest of the concert.

*I may or may not have cried just a little when the New Kids first came on stage. Just for a minute, I was ten year old Kelly, with my horrible hair (that was pre-CHI, mind you), my black leggings with my NKOTB T-Shirt (otherwise known as my uniform), and questionable self esteem. Now, here I was twenty motherfucking seven, with child and husband (trying REALLY hard to hold it), all kinds of grown up. It was a moment.

*My analysis of each Kid:

Danny: he seemed somewhat ambivalent. I heard on the radio he had a pulled hamstring, which probably made the breakdancing moves he busted out quite painful. Yes, Danny brokedance (is that the proper tense??) for about two minutes. George looked at me all, what the fuck is this idoit doing? He does look good though, much better than what I remembered.

Jonathan: I still can't get over seeing him on Oprah, talking about how he's agoraphobic. Wouldn't that make this whole concert thing horribly awkward? He didn't say much the whole time. Kudos to him though for pulling it off without fainting.

Joey: He is still so freaking pretty. With his pretty eyebrows and pretty eyes, and his high pitched voice that still could pass off for a eleven year old pre-pubescent boy. I think at one point, he got down on his hands and knees while singing a ballad. The girls in the front row wet themselves, I'm sure.

Jordan: He's obviously loving this whole being famous again thing. I remember watching him on the Surreal Life and thinking he seemed like such a douchebag. What a disappointment that was. Last night though, he was definitely in his element as you can see by this here YouTube gem (not from last night, but all the concerts are the same shit, so use your imagination). I should've brought some clothes to wash on his stomach. The girl behind me screamed so loud when his shirt magically flew open that my ear started to bleed. I was in the moment too, but goddamnit woman, get ahold of yourself! Husband 2 next to us was laughing so hard that I thought he was going to pass out.

Donnie: Ah, the best for last. I'll forgive Donnie for his gross and dirty and trashing hotel rooms stage (thank you, VH1 Behind the Music for shedding light on the incident) for how cute he is now. He is probably the most charismatic of them all, and I think he mentioned his "ass" (yes, he said ASS) at least three times. "Does my ass look good tonight," and "How does my ass look," sent all the ladies into a tizzy. George proceeded to throw up in his mouth. At one point, Donnie grabbed a homemade sign/sheet thing from a fan and draped it on his back. It read DONNIE FUCKING WHALBERG. You're damn right.

How do you know you're getting old? When you leave before the encore to beat traffic. I think we missed Hangin' Tough and Step by Step, but that traffic is rough, man. I think I can guess how it went though. More grown women lost their dignity, Donnie turned around to show off his ass, Jordan did a pelvic thrust or two, Danny looked bored then spun on his head, Joey groomed his eyebrows, and Jonathan's internal dialogue consisted of, "It's almost over, it's almost over, it's almost over."

This morning, I thanked my Mom for watching The Beast a million times, and she said (completely monotone, mind you), "I'm glad I could make your dreams come true."
Amen.

P.S. Somehow, a huge (think the size of my son's head) Donnie Wahlberg button happened to be in my purse this morning. I can neither confirm nor deny that I purchased said button, as I was all hopped up on bazillion dollar spirits. Guess we'll never know.

P.P.S. George gets a million bonus points for coming with me. He seemed genuinely tickled at how giddy I was, and even bought me a T-Shirt. Love it.

Why is Barry Manilow on my IPOD?

(Written on October 29th)

Let me just get this out of the way…

I'm seeing motherf'ing New Kids on the Block today. Apparently, some people have found that amusing and even slightly pathetic, but I couldn't care less. When I was ten and slept on NKOTB sheets (and so did you, so don't even begin to pretend) my Mom stood in line for fifteen hours (it was actually two, but she'll swear it was more) just to get me tickets, but they were sold out.

I waited by the window for her to come home, and started crying as soon as I saw the look on her face when she turned the corner to our building. I would be no closer to Donnie Wahlberg than my bed sheets.

Last night, I mentioned to her that they were going to be in town tonight. She laughed. She told her story about the fifteen hours, and apologized for the emotional scar that the incident left on my psyche. The conversation that followed went something like this:

Me: I want to go to the concert.
Mom: Seriously? (She looked at me, horribly disgusted. I had Danny in my arms, and by all accounts, am obviously a grown ass person.)
Me: I'm freaking serious.
Mom: Wow, that's interesting.

I called her today to tell her I got tickets. I was on the verge of happy tears. Again, she says, "Seriously?" And then, "You're too sarcastic. I never know when you're kidding, and I thought you were playing a joke on me." New Kids on the Block, a joke? That's sacrilege. She still thinks I'm screwing with her. She called me ten minutes later to apologize for not taking me seriously. I couldn't stop laughing.

And onward….

Danny started saying, "Hi, Lola," about a month ago. We were all, "Who in the f' is Lola?" No Lola at daycare, no Lola that we know, who knows. We all (all being my Mom and I) got in the habit of calling him Lola. My Dad refused, and said, "Stop calling him that. What are you doing to him?" That was a week after he expressed concern that my mother and I allowed him to wear headbands (he likes them, seriously) and carry around a purse.

One day, out of the blue, a song came to me, and the song went something like this…

"His name was LOLA, he was a SHOWBOY."

That's right, I remixed it. Danny absolutely loved when I sang it. He would do the side step, the snake (where he shakes his head back and forth, kinda like Busta Rhymes on that Pepsi commercial) and he even drops it like it's hot on occasion.

I'm at work one day, and I think to download the song on my IPOD. As I'm doing it, I'm literally shaking my head, thinking, I'm putting Barry Manilow on my IPOD. What is happening?

I pick Danny up from daycare, and am so freaking excited to play him the song. I love to see him bob and weave in the backseat…such a glorious sight. I cue the song, and he's unimpressed. I could be playing Celine Dion's Greatest Hits for all he cares. I turn back and say, "Do you UNDERSTAND what I did for you? Barry Manilow! On MY IPOD? SERIOUSLY!" He remains unimpressed. Did you know the Copa Cabana is the hottest spot north of Havana? I do.

The things you do for love.

And that's how Barry Manilow got on my IPOD.

Manifesto on Stretch Marks

There are more urban myths about stretch marks than there are about Bigfoot. Moms and moms to be LOVE to discuss all things stretch mark.

When I was pregnant, I heard some CRAZY things about preventing them and dealing with them post baby eviction.

By far, my favorite was, “Rub extra virgin olive oil on your stomach.” Um, no thanks. First of all, that stuff tends to be expensive. I needed all the money I could get for all the other stuff people were telling me I had to buy.

I’ve heard that maternity stores like Pea in the Pod have fake baby bellies that you can strap on to catch a glimpse of your future physique. What they should REALLY have are fake stretch marks that you can stick on your stomach (and/or your arms, chest, butt, every possible inch of dermis you have) to prepare you. THAT would be keeping it real. While they’re at it, add in some ankle padding (for future cankles) and hormonal acne.

I was one of those people who thought they were in the clear as far as stretch marks were concerned. I had this during my pregnancy, and it actually made me lose weight (sounds much more pleasant than it actually was) rather than gain it. By my six month, I barely looked pregnant, but I was starting to feel a little bit better. The baby gradually got bigger, and then WHAM he multiplied practically overnight. No joke. I felt like a toothpick trying to hold up a basketball. Too ridiculous, but still no stretch marks.

I thought I’d beaten the pregnancy system.

Then one morning, I looked down. My vision of my lower half was somewhat limited, but I saw a little purple squiggle. At first, I tried to rub it off. I didn’t even realize what it was.

What an idiot.

After that, there was no stopping them. Baby kept multiplying, and he was kicking and punching me so hard on my right sight that the stretch marks there were way worse than the ones on my left. Barf.

It wasn’t gradual at all. I had no warning. It wasn’t like, “Gee, I have one stretch mark, let me process.” More like, “Mother of God, my stomach looks like driving directions on Map Quest!”

When you freak out about your stretch marks like I did, moms have plenty of advice. Some swear on stacks of bibles that they’ll go away. This is a dirty trick. They may lessen in severity, but they still make their presence known.

Even though they realize it may be a losing battle, moms love to purchase and use products to make them disappear. They love cocoa butter, which I believe to be an old wives tale mixed with a huge marketing ploy. Someone got together with the inventor of Valentines Day and came up with that one. Just the smell of it makes me nauseous now. Oh, and the gazillion dollar lotions and/or serums that promise to get rid of them? Yeah, you’ll find those in the aisle next to the fairy dust.

Question:

Are stretch marks mini-Badges of Honor or a Pre-Adolescence F*** You From Your Spawn?

Extra Credit:

What does your post-baby stomach look like? A couple to get you started:

*A horizontal stack of Pringles.
*A paperback book that got wet and then dried all crinkly.

Pardon me while I go look in the Lands End catalogue for a moderate yet stylish one-piece.

Minute Clinic? Nah, just use Google.

Moms are known for being paranoid about their own health. They obsessively search sites like WebMD, maniacally clicking on lists of symptoms like they've just hit the hypochondriac lottery.

Make them responsible for a miniature human, and the mania multiples a gazillion percent.

I'd easily wager that pediatricians feel a strong urge to kick parents in the shins everytime they hear, "But I read on the internet that...." They may have even considered putting up signs that read, "NO CELLPHONES AND/OR WIKIPEDIA MEDICAL DISCUSSION ALLOWED DURING APPOINTMENTS".

While pregnant, I found myself wondering how women did it without the internet. Where would they search for lists of food that may harm their fetal inhabitant? How did they live without posting discussions about sex during pregnancy or bitch about how much weight they're gaining? THE HORROR!

Strangly enough, we're alive. Some of us are even having our own babies. Our mothers may have even eaten soft cheese and/or fish with a high level mercury content while we occupied their uterus. My own mother said she asked her doctor if she could still rollerskate while pregnant. (Apparently she and my father were regulars at the skate rink.) Can you imagine a mom's response to a "Skating While Pregnant Post" on a message board? Heads would explode.