"The Pot Calling The Kettle Black" or "Just Another Crap Story"

This week's ailment of despair is diarrhea. Last week was perpetual snot noses. I'll take snotty noses any day, over the horrendous grip of "the shits." I'm not even going to complain about how many thousands of diapers I changed this weekend. In comparison to the kids who kept crapping their pants every time they thought a fart was approaching, I welcomed a diaper change. Baby diarrhea is much less offensive than big kid diarrhea.
So last night, I had two Hershey's squirt victims in my bed. One of which couldn't go a half an hour without needing to run to the toilet. I spent the better part of the night sitting on the cold restroom floor, inhaling putrid vapors of explosive bowel movements. It was not pleasant...to say the least.
Finally, at four o' clock this morning, I took my Aiden back to bed for the last time. He stunk of baby wipes and poop. But a bath was going to have to wait. I needed a good two hours of sleep in order to function in the morning. As I lay his body next to mine, he looked over at me with his big, brown eyes and I thought he was going to thank me for my selfless sacrifice. Instead he whispered, "Mommy, your breath stinks." Well, excuse me for breathing!

At Least I'm Consistent

I've come to the conclusion that I will never be the kind of person whose name people associate with greatness. Don't leave me your silly comments about how great you think I am because this is not a fishing trip. I'm sincerely not trying to reel in compliments via Kadi's pity party of one. I'm only sharing this profound insight because perfection has been a life long struggle of mine and I have finally made peace with the fact that I am simply mediocre at everything I choose to do. So don't cry for me, Argentina. The face of mediocrity has been staring at me for 29 years now, and it is about time I realize that it is my own reflection.

I was a gymnast and dancer for many years. Did I ever become pro? No. Why? Mediocrity. I worked at many restaurants. I stayed a hostess for years. Why? Well...actually because when I finally got my big break at being a server, I spilled sizzling hot fajitas on some poor unsuspecting dinner guest. But I was just a so-so hostess and (apparently) even less than mediocre at my serving ability. I was a college student. But I was so much better at being a sorority girl than I was at studying. So I became a mediocre student, just sliding by with a C average.

Now, I'm a mother. My kids are all alive and relatively well. My house is semi clean and somewhat safe. Homework gets done...usually. Dinner is always made (I didn't say it was delicious.) My husband is happy with his wife (at least, that's what he claims for fear that I'll cry.) I help at school (does it count as helping if I bring my three trouble making toddlers with me?) We instill morals and values (I won't claim that they stick.) Each day ends with a song and a kiss goodnight (even if it is forced!)

Will I ever win a "Mother of The Year" award? Probably not. Will my kids credit their mother with the wonderful parenting I provided if they grow up to be amazing Nobel Prize winners? Doubt it. Will I ever look back on these years and think, "Damn, I did a spectacular job at raising my kids!" Highly unlikely. But I (hopefully) will say that I survived motherhood, my kids grew up to be healthy, productive adults and I managed to keep my dear husband complacent enough to put up with my mediocrity. And if I do... that will be satisfaction enough for me!

P.S. Please click here to help my mediocre humor-blogs rankings. I'll settle for #2, and no less!

A quick game of tag

Tag! I'm it! Kim, a fellow blogger, mommy to the adorable Landen and aspiring phtographer, tagged me to do a six word memoir on myself. I'm not creative when it comes to this stuff so I'll try my best:

Talkative

Stubborn

Generous

Emotional

Driven

Impetuous

Now it is my turn to tag five other bloggers and lay out the rules:

Sonia

Bridget

Mandy

Brandi

Megan Fish

The Rules

1. 
   
   Use six words to describe yourself


2. 
   
   Add a picture (optional)


3. 
   
   Link back to the person who tagged you


4. 
   
   Tag five new people and link to their blogs

Happy tagging!

She has her mother's...

When I was little, I wanted to be like my mommy when I grew up. I thought that she was the prettiest woman in the world. As I got older, I noticed that not only was she pretty, but she also had a nice rack! In fact, her nice figure was what initially attracted my dad to her (which is funny to think about, since he is gay.)

"Yes! There's hope for me!" I remember thinking as my female classmates blossomed and I remained the lone boobless preteen. I knew that I would follow in my mother's late blooming footsteps and acquire my own nice rack a little later in life. "No problem, " I thought," I can wait..." I waited...and waited...and waited. Nothing happened. I went through puberty, boobless. I spent a boobless year at college. I only got boobs after I became pregnant. "Finally!" I celebrated my gift of bosoms for nine months and the two that I breastfed Marlie. But it was all a fleeting phase. As soon as I would stop nursing, they deflated. Alas...my mom's breast genes were only bestowed upon my two curvaceous sisters.

I did, however, inherit one rather large feature from my dear mother:

Thanks mom!

The Birth Of My Wardrobe Psychosis

I despise matching outfits. I will never match my husband's outfits and will never force my children to coordinated ensembles. Why do I feel so strongly about this? If you looked through my old family albums, you would know why. Every holiday, family event and photo op consisted of matching dresses. My two sisters and I always wore matching, frilly dresses with hats, gloves and sometimes purses, lovingly made by my grandmother (as seen in the picture below.) I despised them. They were itchy, too lacy and matching. We weren't twins or triplets, yet we always forfeited our separate identities for the sake of pleasing my grandma. My sisters never seemed to mind, but I was slowly driven insane by the years of donning the dresses.



Which explains my hatred for being a bridesmaid.

Can I Get A Re-do?

There are a few rules that a married couple should adhere to when on a date:

1. No ogling other women/men.
2. Fast food is not considered a real date unless you are grabbing a bite on the way to another venue (movies, theme park, etc...)
3. No sweats allowed. Get dressed up.
4. No talking about potential hot spots during the date (old flames, in-laws, finances, anything else that could trigger an argument.)
5. No talking obsessively about the children.
6. Do not get so plastered that you end up puking all over yourself and ruining the rest of the date.

We did pretty well at following the rules last night. Daniel's brother and his wife met us at the new sushi place and we closed the place down (which wasn't hard since it closed at 10pm!) It was a nice break and Mike and Evie are always fun to go out with. Then we got to the ATM to withdraw the money to pay the sitters. I don't remember how it happened, but we started talking about finances...at that was the beginning of the end.

I cannot believe that the one night that we get alone in months ended up in silence and opposite sides of the bed. Shitballs.

I'm on parole for good behavior!

Got a baby sitter (actually two.)
Gonna take a shower (it's been so long...not sure if I remember what to do.)
Throw on some heels (no matter how painful.)
Pick out a cute outfit (even though my fashion sense is shameful.)
Oh baby it's date night!
Gonna stay out late night!
Finally get a break night!
Gonna eat expensive steak night!

Okay, sorry for the cheesy song, but I'm giddy with joy. I'm gettin' outta here with my husband for awhile. Not sure if my house will still be standing when we get back, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Actually, I'll be happy if my house is reduced to a pile of rubble while we are gone, just as long as the kids are okay. We'll collect the insurance and move on! Wish us luck, people. Not sure we remember how to date anymore....unless it involves folding lots of laundry and complaining to each other about our various aches and pains. Happy Friday!!

Smile and say "Geez!"

Part of the festivities over at the new school was taking a picture of the whole student body and faculty. What a freakin' nightmare that was! I seriously wanted to ask the photographer what kind of drugs he was on, to expect all 500 children to hold still, look at the camera and smile. He stood on his ladder, camera in hand counting down from "5...4....3...Hold it! You in the fifth row, could you please put your hand down?" Then the countdown would start again. "5...4....3....2 Uh....young man in the eleventh row, you need to look up here." This went on for a good ten minutes. Some of the onlooking parents were whispering "Just take the f**king picture already!"

The last countdown was interrupted by a request for one of the students to stop flipping off the camera. The lady next to me yelled, "If it's one of my kids, I'll beat ya!" I about died laughing...until I realized it was Trenton. It was actually his ring finger, but we knew damn well what the he was intending. I wasn't mad at him because he was only communicating what everyone else was thinking. But I really wished that it would have been someone else's child. I turned to the lady next to me and said, "Nope, it's not yours. It's mine...but you can do the honors!"

After the picture was taken, and all 500 kids were heading back to class, they realized that one kindergarten class had been left out. Phillip and his classmates will not be in the school picture. That's fine by me because he probably would have used the correct finger to tell the camera man exactly what he thought of his photography!

Oh Shitballs!

Since all of the other bloggers have these nifty little award buttons and I hate feeling left out, I made one of my own:

Introducing.... the "Oh Shitballs!" award. This award will be bestowed on any person who is brave enough to submit original funny stories, crazy photos or large monetary gifts ( I prefer the latter.) If I like it enough to post it...viola! You get the award button. On the other hand, if you send me cutesy photos of little Junior's first steps....I'll hunt you down and make you sit through all 55 Prescott family photo albums. Today, I'm giving the first award to my good friend, Bridget. Bridget emailed me the following photo and quite honestly...it made my perennial area hurt just to look at it.

How the hell the mother managed to birth this 17 pound baby, is beyond me. The poor little tyke beside him looks petrified that he's gonna get rolled over on! Congratulations, Bridget! Side note: this is not Bridget's baby. She only has 11 pounders (wince.) I would have given the mother of this whopping bundle of joy, the award, but decided to send her some ice packs and Epsom salt instead for the 600 stitches probably needed to sew her back up! YIKES!!

"Curbing" My Bitch Sessions

Pride goeth before running over the curb at the brand new school and leaving a huge ass tire screech on the fresh coat of red. Oooopsie! So now, I have to take back everything I said about the idiots who cannot follow school pick up line protocol, because I'm just as big of a dip shit as they are. The Great White's wheels were the first to leave a blemish on the untainted school. All of the teachers were watching as I made my awkward descent down the curb. To this I say, "Shitballs!" It was utterly embarrassing.

Of course, my kids have been there for three days now, so chances are, it isn't without damage elsewhere. After all, the advice my husband gave the kids before the first day was this, "Run straight to the bathroom and take a dump. Then you can be the first person to ever to poop in the school's toilets!"

Yeah, I'm guessing that there are some major skid marks in the school restroom. Hopefully it is only inside of the toilets. From now on, we shall be know as the "Skid Mark" family, at school! So now I'm feeling a bit sheepish and holding back on the bitchery for today. I'm sure I'll be over it by tomorrow!

Sugar aka: Kiddie Meth

I never understood why my mother insisted on doling out candy to us, a few small pieces at a time. Daniel and I always let the kids eat as much as they can in the first two days, and then dump the rest after they go to bed. After yesterday's candy feast, I have a much greater understanding of my mother's method. I'm guessing that she did what she did to avoid the aftermath that was the methamphetamine effect on my children, yesterday:




(sigh) Another lesson learned the hard way....

It's so easy, even your kindergartener can figure it out!

You already know about my disdain for the Chatty Pattys who socialize and hold up traffic. But I bet you didn't know that we moved to a brand new school, yesterday, giving me a whole new reason to want to go apeshit! If there is any way to separate the retarded parents from those that are smarter than the average bear, just give them instructions on how to pick up their children in a circle drive.

You would have thought that the pick up lane was a labyrinth. People were crossing in the middle of the street, between parked cars and ignoring the supervised crosswalk. Other parents were driving the wrong way through the pick up lane. Some were parked in the middle of the street, while they walked up to retrieve their children. What is wrong with some people?

Today I am bringing a megaphone with me, so I can shout things to the idiotic people who make pick up time an hour long. Yeah, yeah...I know it is rude. But I can either vent my frustrations to the simple minded parents, or pull out my hair while I wait for them to figure things out for themselves. It's a no brainer, really.

Last Resort

I should have known....

when I saw the poop scrape on the floor. But

I had to pee so bad that I ignored it.

Then I went to get some T.P. and saw this.

No problem I can just use a...

Baby wipe. Shitballs... we're out.

Let me check under the cabinet...

Hmmm....I somehow do not think that Clorox

Wipes are designed for feminine use.

I looked around the bathroom and finally found...

Eureka! When the T.P. is out...

thank God for the floor towel!!

A Leg For An Egg

When it comes to family get togethers, we get the best of both worlds. My family functions are small, intimate and relatively calm...

Take Easter, for example:

My family Easter celebration consisted of 16 people, a few dozen eggs and a very yummy brunch!

Now... here are some pictures from the Prescott "Eggstravaganza"

Release the hounds! The Prescotts have 3 egg hunts.

If you are brave (or foolish) enough to take part

in the adult hunt... you risk life and limb.

Participants are up against 40 other adults,

most of whom were raised to break a collar bone,

if necessary, to get the golden egg.

Not even the plants are safe. Many are uprooted

in the quest for the golden egg.

"Okay son, get back out there and find that egg!

Throw elbows, kick and bite some knee caps

if necessary!"

Even Reed knows the dangers of being unprotected

during the egg hunt.

It is wild and crazy. There were about 80 people in attendance. Not a calm moment all day. Prescott gatherings are always something to look forward to! Now, if I can only find that picture of my husband and his nephew fighting over the golden egg....

Are You Ready For Some Football?

The kids had their last football game on Saturday. I'm going to do something that I normally reserve for family functions...brag. The only kids who scored touchdowns all wore the name Prescott on their jerseys. Yep, all three of my kids scored touchdowns! Here are some action shots:

Daniel breaks free for a touchdown!



Cox tries to get one past Prescott....
big mistake!


Marlie "Lightning Legs" Prescott leaves all
the boys in the dust!


Trenton doing what he does best...
talking crap to the other team.

Well done men! Hit the showers! (no seriously, get in the shower. You all stink.)

And now... an incredibly short clip for your enjoyment:

Easy Does It

Happy Easter, everyone! I love Easter, as it signifies the beginning of warmer weather, allows our family to have another excuse to get together and pummel each other over plastic eggs, but most of all, gives me another excuse to gorge myself on chocolate (like I need a reason!)

Trenton has been having some doubts as to the legitimacy of the Easter Bunny. He's been grilling me for the last week. I've been trying to remember my previous answers, so as not raise any further suspicion. Last night, he wrote a letter to the Easter Bunny, wanting to know why he gives eggs to everyone, because "It just doesn't make sense, right? Bunnies don't lay eggs." He told me, in his last bedtime attempt at revealing the truth. When I wouldn't budge, he settled in, hoping to get his written response, come morning.

I spent a good hour devising a very good (at least I thought it was) answer to his question. I explained that the eggs symbolized new life. The chick inside the egg is a new life, which explains why the bunny gives eggs. I went on to explain how it symbolic of our new life in Christ. I talked about His rise from the dead and how it is the whole reason for Easter. I said that the bunny gives eggs to us to remind us of the new life that Christ gave. I was very impressed with my (er....the bunnie's) answer to Trenton's question. I typed the letter up (because bunnies cannot write, of course,) and tucked it into Trent's basket.

This morning, Trenton came into my bedroom to announce the arrival of the Easter goodies. I asked what was in his basket, waiting for his excitement over the letter. He went in detail about the Bubble Tape, Life Saver gummies and giant chocolate bunny. I asked whether he got an answer from the bunny. "Yeah," he answered, sounding very unimpressed. "Well? What did it say?" I prompted, waiting for his shared epiphany. "Uhhh, something about Jesus." He ran off to finish eating his Easter spoils.

Oh shitballs. Did I really spend an hour writing out a spritually inspiring letter, for nothing? Serves me right. I should know by now to give more simplistic answers like, "Because it makes kids happy." I really do get overzealous at times...

Have a wonderful Easter day!

The Stuff They Never Tell You About

My sweet cousin, Melissa, is in the process of adopting a child! One of the requirements in the adoption process, is baby proofing the home. She was sharing some of the things that needed to be done and commenting that the list of baby proofing was a mile long. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the list was only a fragment of things that really needed to be changed in her abode, to accommodate the arrival of a child. So here is an addendum to the standard list. I call it the "Survival List." Take a deep breath, Melissa, and grab a bottle of wine:

1. Rip out all existing flooring and replace with cement. It is the only floor that can be pressure washed.
2. Paint your walls the color of poop. It will save you hours of wall washing.
3. Forget central vac. Install central cap (as in cappuccino. Trust me, you'll need all the caffeine you can get.)
4. Put an eject mechanism in your side of the bed. It is the only thing that will make you get up after a night of childhood illnesses and colic.
5. Throw out all of your party attire. Those days are over.
6. Install locks on the outsides of all windows and doors. Every child tries to escape once and you never know which opening it will be out of.
7. Buy lots and lots of band aids. Every bump, scrape and owie needs one. DO NOT ever let your supply run out.
8. Store all sharp kitchen utensils out of reach. Better yet, throw them out completely. There is no such thing as "out of reach."
9. Program The Wiggles, Higgly Town Heroes and JoJo's Circus, into the remote or Tivo. Forget about all of your favorite shows. Your life will be all Disney, all the time.
10. Buy ear plugs for the "but why, mommy?" stage.
11. Sell all of your nice stuff. Get some money from it now, while it is all in one piece.
12. Forget baby gates. They are better at keeping out adults. Just put up more walls with doors that have locks on both sides.
13. Got stairs? Make it into a slide. Otherwise you will worry endlessly about the inevitable tumble that will happen.
14. Got dogs? (I know you do, M.) Kiss them goodbye. Even good dogs can bite.
15. Replace your nice furniture with IKEA stuff. Beanbags, cheap tables and anything paper. Don't laugh...I'm serious.
16. Put a lock on the pantry and fridge. Oh, and the dryer and washer. Come to think of it....just put a lock on every damn thing in your house.
17. Put a ladder by the counter. It is much safer than the 10 shoe boxes that little junior will stack up in order to reach that cookie jar.
18. Cover all walls with stainless steel.
19. Take all cleaning chemicals and pour them out. Three items....lemon juice, baking soda and vinegar. All you need to clean your house without having to call Poison Control when junior finds them.
20. Throw out all mirrors and reflective items. You will not want to see your reflection after endless weeks of sleepless nights.
21. Turn off the phone. People will be calling end bugging you with their tips and advice. They mean well, but forget how annoying it is for a new mom to be barraged with a crap load of phone calls.
22. Buy one of those electronic schedule thingies. You will not remember anything past the last five minutes.
23. Install an automatic flusher on the toilet. Children are either incapable of remembering to flush, or like to get a reaction from a disgusted mom who finds stagnating poop for the tenth time in one day.
24. Keep a vacuum running and at the ready all day. Crumbs happen, dirt happens and the white noise is good for a sleeping baby.
25. Buy a tape and record the phrase, "You are the parent." Play it while you sleep at night. Sometimes it is easy to forget who's running the show.
26. Attach red and black objects to every fan. When the baby is inconsolable, place him/her under the fan and turn it on. Instant mobile!
27. Buy a beer hat. you know, the ones with the straws that extend to your mouth. Puree all food and pour it into the hat. It is the only way you will have time to eat.
28. If you adopt a boy, take out the toilet and just dig a giant hole. They never pee in the toilet anyway. You have a husband, so you already know this. Then attach a bungee to the door so you can keep them from falling in the hole.
29. Get another dish washer. You will need two.
30. Install a secret room where you can escape to and the kid(s) will never find you. It sounds crazy....now. Just wait until they are seven and summer break arrives. You'll thank me for this one!

I could really go on forever, but I don't want to terrify my dear cousin. After all, kids and motherhood are the best that life has to offer. Do not be afraid, Melissa, just prepared!

Piss and get off the pot!

Have your children ever had diarrhea? If so, then you know how it feels to want to just glue their butt to the toilet seat so that you don't have to make the trip to the bathroom thirty eight times a day. But no matter how bad it gets, you know that it wouldn't be kosher to really leave them on the toilet. In fact, leaving a kid sitting on a potty for more than five or six minutes is just cruelty. You know damn well how bad your own butt hurts after sitting on the pot for awhile. You get pins and needles in your legs, your feet go numb and there are painful toilet ring marks on your butt for quite awhile afterwards.
I think that the same would go for an adult. If you were caring for another person, would you just leave them in a bathroom, sitting on the pot for a month? Even if it was their wish? Apparently, Kory McFarren has never sat on a toilet for more than a few minutes. He let his girlfriend veg on the potty until her skin grew over the seat. He had this to say of the situation, “The only thing I am guilty of is I didn’t get her help sooner.” Noooooo, you are also very guilty of abuse and being a huge dumbass! Sheesh! I've had to dig an actual turd out of my son's rear end so that he would not have to stay in the bathroom all night. It was not a pleasant task, but as every mom knows, gross tasks come with the role of mother! That guy didn't even have to dig out turds. A simple phone call to a help line would have sufficed. Something tells me that Kory is a few instruments short of an orchestra.
Note to all of the