Is Too a Word

This post is sponsored by Clorox® Ick-tionary. Just FYI for the FTC.

My kids' last day of school is today and I really can't even wrap my head around the fact that this year has already ended. I mean, we JUST moved here before the school year had started and if the school year is over, that means that I like OFFICIALLY live in Arizona or something, doesn't it? Even my seven year old daughter remarked that this year went by really fast, and nothing at all ever goes by really fast for seven year old girls. One minute, I had a bright eyed and bushy tailed 1st grader, and two eager boys ready to enter jr high and high school all shiny and Axe'd to the gills. Now I have three large kids all somewhere on the pubery-spectrum, and all completely over it. 

My house is about to smell *awesome*.

My children are all of the age when cleanliness is next to impossibleness. I keep telling my sons that no one makes out with the smelly boy, but they don't care. At 15 and 13, they'd rather be hung by their putrid toes than face the shower. For a while there, they were both showering really super regularly, but then I decided to move my daughter into my room so that the boys could each have their own room, and the daily (sometimes even twice-daily) showers came to a screeching hault. I can't imagine why. 

Even my seven year old daughter is so totally over bathing, and this is the kid who just last year would take baths for days. I could plop her in the tub and go write an entire novel; she'd stay there, happily waterlogging away, for as long as I'd let her. 

Of course, every blessing usually turns into a curse, if you just wait long enough. Case in point.

(That, my friends, is called a Poop-edo, or a Tubtanic, or how to get your seven year old son out of your one year old daughter's bathtub with little to no effort on your part.)

Those days of her daudling away hours in the tub are long gone, just like this school year is, but she takes swimming lessons so she's at least getting a decent chlorine-dunk twice a week.

Her brothers both take MMA. With adult UFC fighters.


You can't even imagine the smell. 

So I'm pretty excited to spend all day, every day, for the next 70 days or so with them in our adorable, but not terribly large, house in the middle of the god-forsaken desert during summer. 

And I haven't even started thinking about the trail of tears these children leave behind them everywhere they go. My son was home for 27 minutes today and it took me an hour to clean up the mess he made in that time. And then I remembered that it would have only taken me 16 seconds to yell at him for making it, and then I could have spent the rest of that hour watching him clean up after himself and knitting scarves for the winter THAT NEVER COMES HERE. I am slow, but I get there eventually.

Anyway. I've gone off topic. The topic at hand is the fact that my children are kind of gross, a-little-more-than-un motivated, and out of school for the summer, and (I think) competing for title of Best Mess Maker in Least Amount of Time. I call this The Alice Coup'r.

Or maybe their no-showering teenage-goopy butts are stuck in a tiny little house with me all summer long, because lord knows it's too hot to check the mail before 2:37 am, and what they are about to do to my poor house can only really be described as Stick(y)holm Syndrome

Life with kids is epicly icky. It is also very, very  funny. My car has had crabs, I've stood fascinated watching a child vomit out of their nose, I've attempted to catch vomit (#7), I've smelled wet sheets that were wet for all the wrong reasonsWe all have.

(Well, maybe not the sheets bit. I think you're probably smarter than that. Please be smarter than that.)

And that's the beauty of the internet - we get to laugh at each other. With. I MEANT WITH.  Clorox®, with the help of some of us who've been there & done that, created the Clorox® Ick-tionary – a wiki-style dictionary that we hope will become a new language of how we talk about messes and icky situations parents face, conquer, and laugh about.

It's kind of hilarious, really. From Board-‘oeuvres to Petrifries, if it's happened to you, it's going to show up in the Ick-tionary eventually. There are coupons for cleaning supplies to make your children scrub their black fingerprints off the walls with, interactive games to play (Match the Mess, which is kind of the safe version of Sniff the Stain, which I've done. In underwear I've found on the floor. I have no idea why. I am an idiot.) and new words to read every week. Each week will have a featured words - this week's featured word is Hippocratic Oaf (aka Germpocracy), which is something I won't be again for a long time because there is no more school to send my kids to even though they have Green 11's

You can actually submit your own awesome words for messed up stuff to the Ick-tionary at I think I'll have a few words up there eventually (this one is me!), but I don't think anything is ever going to top Secret Garden.

$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.