How to Make the Perfect Ham and Cheese Omelette in 10 Easy Steps

Step one: Give hives. Get, like, covered in hives, all over your entire body, head to toe.

Step two: Pay particular attention to your chest and calf hives, make sure they get good and inflammed.

Step three: Wait two weeks

Step four: Go to urgent care, but only after you're pretty sure one of your lesser-used internal organs has exploded.

Step five: Get prescribed 120 mg of prednasone a day.


Step seven: Decide you want an omelette. And some chocolate shavings. And pho. And a Nerds rope.

Step eight: Start cooking your omelette, except now, everything IS CRYSTAL CLEAR AND MAKES SO MUCH SENSE NOW.

Step nine: Drink some water. You sure do have a lot of roid rage going on.

Step ten: Enjoy the world's most perfect omelette.

$100 and Counting

I started this post on March 3rd. Something distracted me 3/4 of the way through writing it - the dishes, or a kid needing a hug or some water, most likely some shiny soft-core squirrels on the internet. Rule 34 is the best rule since, like, gravity n' stuff. Anyway, as of March 3rd, my daughter didn't have so much as one wiggly tooth. She is seven and a half.

And I was completely freaking out.

She was 14 or 15 months or something when she got her first tooth (I can't remember, she was my third kid, shut up). Her fake grandfather is a dentist and even he started looking at her a little funny after her 1st birthday passed and there were no teeth to be seen in her little face. I was grateful because she was still nursing, but also a little bitter because I had decided to stop nursing her when her teeth came in, which should have been at, oh, 6 or 7 months, 5 3/4 if you're my first born, but OH NO. She and her teeth are INSANE CLOWN LACTIVISTS. They decided that if I was intent on robbing her of precious breast-time, they were intent on having a bit of fun with me. They scoffed at my arbitrary time line for weanage* and showed me who was really in control of my boobies after all.

*Wheezin' aside: If you didn't read that like Pauly Shore said it, I just don't even know you anymore.

I heard somewhere that kids lose their teeth in timeline consistent with their acquisition of teeth (you like how I went from Encino Man to Nobel Laureate just like that? That's called CAFFIENE), and it's run pretty true for me. My oldest sprung his first tooth at 5 3/4 months, and lost his first tooth at 5 years, 9 months. My middle son was the same way - 6 1/2 months saw his first tooth, 6 1/2 years saw his first visit from the tooth fairy.

At this rate, my daughter was on track to have her first wiggly tooth during homecoming, which is totally preferable to every and any other first she could have at homecoming.

Of course, she is totally fine with this. She is old enough to be completely wigged out at the thought of her teeth, who she's spent so many years bonding with, falling out of her face. She is convinced it will be a gory, bloody painfest. Her teeth are so firmly lodged in her head, she cannot imagine life without them. 

And then the draft stopped, I found a lot of reasons to be hungry and/or hate myself on Pinterest, and the next morning I woke up to a child with, you guessed it, a wiggly tooth. It's like her mouth and my blog are psychically connected or something. I JUST BLEW MY OWN MIND. 

The past seven weeks have been interesting, to say the least. My daughter suffers from some moderate to colorful anxiety issues, and it turns out teeth coming out of her face land more on the THEBRITISHARECOMINGTHEBRITISHARECOMING end of her anxiety spectrum. She had herself convinced losing her tooth would hurt worse than birthing a child, and so on top of dealing with a 7 1/2 year old child with a loose tooth and an anxiety disorder, I had to deal with explaining the miracle of birth that was most likely also going to plague her poor, fragile, terror-riden body someday. 

Good times, my friends. Good times.

And then yesterday she came home from school, walked in the door, and in her Very Brady voice said, "Hey there, groovy chic. I have something to tell you" *70's cool side-snap.


Apparently, ERIC told her that it wouldn't hurt at all and ERIC encouraged her to just yank it out and ERIC is so smart and cool and ERIC made the whole last seven weeks seems completely ridiculous and ERIC ERIC ERIC!

After I squeed! and *completely* overreacted (last baby, uterus forcibly removedshut up) I asked her how much she thought the tooth fairy would leave her. She said twenty five cents. I told her the going rate is $5, because I'm an idiot. And then we baked cavities to celebrate. 


Here's to last first wiggly tooth , Here's to the final 19 panic attacks I mean teeth we get to wish on and hide under pillows. Here's to my last baby, growing up. Here's to $5 down, $95 more to go. 

Lice Don't Project, They Jump. Right?

When I was a little girl, I had hair past my knees - and I don't mean just hair, I mean HAIR. I mean hair you couldn't wrap a pony tail holder twice around. I mean hair that took all night to dry. I mean hair that kept me out of foster care because it made up 6/10 of my pathetic, starving body weight. I could get out of the shower, comb my hair out, and walk out of the bathroom completely naked, because I was Cousin It with calves. Or Samara, if you're under 25. #stayingrelevantforthedamnkidsonmylawn

And one night I was laying in bed, and found a bug in my hair. A bug. IN MY HAIR. I imagine all kids are senstive about bugs, but when you live in the 'hood, and everyone you know lives with cockroaches and ants and shit, bugs in your hair are not. even. a. little. okay. I ran downstairs crying, and shoved the bug on the tip of my finger between my mother's nose and her Nintendo paddle.  She smacked my hand away from her face and yelled at me OH MY GOD SHANNON IT'S A FUZZY GO BACK TO BED. Because Tetris. 

So I went back to bed. And then more fuzzies I found, the more silently I freaked out, because fuzzies are really disturbing things to find. Eventually I stopped finding them, mostly because I stopped looking. I got off lucky with a hand smack that one time, and I was not about to tempt fate, or my ass.

Years later, someone I knew from church told me her most vivid memory of me was this dream she'd had of me once, in which she was sitting behind me and my hair, my veritable wall of hair, was moving. - because it was full of bugs. I never did tell her it wasn't a dream.

By the time the school realized I had lice, all of the eggs had hatched and my hair was, quite literally, crawling with bugs. I don't even want to think about how many classmates I infected. We had to use a bottle of lice shampoo on all three of my siblings, and then another one on me. A whole bottle. And then the little comb thing, which was laughable but by then my mother was so completely freaked out by the infestation on my head that she sat Tetrisless, night after night, slowly combing dead things out of my hair. It took about a week. 

A few weeks later, once it was done and the house was bleached and my head was empty and I was able to re-enter public society, my mother saw in my hair what she thought was a nit, but was ironically probably just a fuzzy - so we did the whole thing over again. And it kind of burned my scalp, which created flakes, which she mistook for nits, so we did the whole thing again.

That's how cycles are created, which is kind of ironic because the other day after swim class, my daughter was pulling her cover-up over her head and something fell on her chest/jumped on her chest, depending greatly upon whom you ask. MOM THERE IS A BUG IN MY HAIR AND IT JUMPED ON ME!!! No, honey, it's not a bug, it's a fuzzohshit

I still contend that it was a fuzzie. I haven't flat out sat down and dug through her hair yet, because I'm still too traumatized by my last encounter with lice, and a bit too freaked out by the nearly-exact repeat of this little slice of my childhood, but I am going to have to eventually, and I guess I'll just have to pray that you can't give someone lice through flashbacks.

Updated to add: 8oz of prevention is worth a pound of cure. My friend Melanie found a way more elegant lice-prevention method than never-let-my-kid-out-of-the-house-again. 

My Little Brony

My son came home today with a scratch on his back. It wasn't anything major, big enough to need some peroxide and Bactine, and the peroxide bubbled a little bit, but not enough for much more than a Pacman bandaid and a kiss. 

Had my son came home with that exact same scratch on his neck and had said it came from a boy, I would have been on the phone with the school and that boy's parents quicker than you can say helicopter parent (and with good reason, I think. See: choking at schoolmugging at school) but since it was from a girl, and even better, a girl he and his frienemy have taken to calling Jim, I was totally unphased. Whatever. You'll heal. Stop calling girls you like Jim, you moron.

Because I am a hypocrite, and I have scratched my share of oh-em-gee-cute 13 year old boys, and gender issues are hard. 

My son, this second one, has always brought the gender issues *cheer snap* When he wanted a Dora birthday party when he turned four, he got it. When he marched into preschool with his pink Dora backpack and I told him he was going to take crap for it, he said very calmly, "Mom, Dora is awesome. Anyone who doesn't think so is crazy." He changed his name to end with an i that year. He was super excited when he found out, the following year, that the baby in my tummy was going to be a girl, because he totally loved pink and figured now he could have a pink room, if he bunked with her. He wears bright blue shoes because bright blue is awesome. His cell phone case is bright yellow. He gets hot pink casts. We can hypothesize all we want about why he does these things, or what it means, but really I think the answer he that he is a very cool and interesting person. The end. 

He is also now a goddamn Brony. NOT IRONICALLY. I think he just found my line.

It doesn't annoy me because My Little Pony is for girls, it annoys me the same way a 13 year old who newly-leaches on to any idea annoys anyone. HE CANNOT STOP TALKING ABOUT FLUTTERFUCKINGSHY. My 7 year old girl doesn't give as much of a shit about My Little Pony as this kid does, and I've heard all the 'it's so well written! and it just sucks you in! arguments, and they aren't working for me. He's completely fan girl over this crap and I have to be nice and supportive and interested while he talks to me about Pinkie Pie's most appealing character traits.

Pinkie Pie is a fictional horse. Who giggles. A LOT.

I am glad for him that he has a thing. I know it's important at that age (or any age, hell) to have something you really are just gonzo about. It's good that he has somewhere to focus his attention, something that he is so into that he learns it inside out and backwards, but honestly? I was pretty happy with the origami. I know how to talk to and with him about origami. I get origami. I really don't get pre-pubescent magical ponies.

Now this? This I get.

This makes me want to go to Bronycon myself and shake a FFF1987RETURNS' hand. This makes part of me think that if I ride this thing out, this god forbid I call it a phase, out long enough, it's going to turn into something epic and awesome. The rest of me, however? Most of the time, it kinda wants to disconnect the internet and lock him in a padded room with nothing but my complete Tick collection (complements of TwoBusy, winner of Best Gift Giving Blue Lobster, 2012). And I kind of hate myself for it. 

Being a parent to human beings is hard. The end.