i obsess.

Do NOT Get Me Started.

I mean it.  I'm like a bad engine, all full of smoke and exhaust and things to be impaled upon.

I had my phone stolen yesterday, right from beneath my nose, and I spent all of these countless, never-to-be-regained hours at the phone store, buying the wrong phones, because MY BRAIN, IT HAD BEEN THIEVED, and the stale bits still rattling about under my hair are useless, FUCKING USELESS, I am vexed.

Vexatiously.  (Far less sexy than it sounds.)

But beyond that, Jack has begun asking these ridiculous questions lately, questions like, MOM, WHAT'S THIS?, and it's the blueberry jam we use every day, no, seriously, daily, it's what he eats for lunch without end, peanut butter and jam, and he's made his own sandwich several times when we've been home together and he wanted a sandwich, HE KNOWS WHAT IT IS, is all I'm saying.  He knows it's the blueberry jam, so why's he messing with me?  When I just had my phone stolen and I've asked, NEARLY BEGGED, to be allowed to write my husband an email to let him know that I'll be temporarily out of reach, that I might be graced with a modicum of silence while I write, Jack starts up the whine machine, and gets into my face with this incessant repetition about the jam, and I'm like, ARE YOU FOR REAL?, which is I think what bothered me most.  I couldn't discern why he was asking the question.  Was he just saying it over and over because it was funny to him?  I mean, he knew the answer.  What was the point?

And this morning, with the supposed tooth pain, the pain that was SO AGONIZING he couldn't finish - get this - a banana.  You know.  Bananas.  Those rock-hard, cumbersome, flavorless, torturous items of food packed into a rotting carcass, those things that devastate the mouths AND LIVES of young people, HOW COULD I ASK SUCH A THING OF HIM, WHEN HE WAS IN SUCH PAAAAAIN?  And, oh, dear heavenly father, the tears.  And the sobs.  And the horror of it all.

And when I told him he could chuck the banana but that he wouldn't be able to have any fruit at Grandma's later, he said, oh, but I don't think strawberries will hurt my tooth, mom.  I don't. 

WELL, OF COURSE YOU DON'T.  BECAUSE YOU WANT TO WATCH AS I BEGIN CLIMBING ON PRECARIOUS HOUSEHOLD ITEMS AND BUILDING A TOWER WITH THEM AND ATTEMPTING TO ESCAPE INTO THE ETHER.  Evidently, that's some funny shit.

But good golly, why?  Why must he do it?

And there's all of this, and it gets layered on top of other irritating morning elements within, say, a grump-laden span of time involving rushing about and not enough coffee and horrible hair and showers that just don't really quite do it, you know, IT, and clothes that ought to have been washed by the laundry wench but weren't, who sucks hard at getting the right things laundered in a timely fashion, and we shant point out her lameness in organizing the stuff she does manage to launder or her inability to get them into folded patterns (folding patterns?), we just shant, poor wench, she tries, honest she does,

and also there's the beginning-of-day spousal tension and the OH JESUS PLEASE GET OUT OF MY WAY in-the-kitchen Tango, IT'S A DELIGHT, and we're supposed to somehow, beyond all of that, beyond all of those items + having to face, in that half-peering way, the kind of sidelong, slit-through-a-plate, solar eclipse kinda way, where we will at some point have to do work, and talk to random assholes and pretend we're thrilled to do it, and face the boss, and deal with the minutiae of business, ALL OF THAT AND THEN ALSO WITH THE QUESTIONS, THESE SEEMING-ENDLESS, NONSENSE QUESTIONS THAT ARE PLIED ON OUR HEADS MERELY TO PISS. US. OFF (Or not.  But if not, then -- *whyyyyyyyyyy?* *soft soft whimper*), 

and,

?

Really?

Because, oh.  God. 

It's gonna be a  l o n g  summer.

beach: 0, flu: 1

We bailed early yesterday from the rainy, yet far from bland, incredible Oregon Coast.  Jack has had a hacky cough for weeks - I keep waiting for it to abate because I really don't see the need for him to endure yet another round of antibiotics that repair nothing, and once it began raining as we tried to walk out to the sand for one more round of diggy/skippy/giggly, we cashed it in and drove home.  Neither Caleb nor I were feeling all too well, either, having both acquired whatever weird throat/raspy cough/icky chest thingy my mom was laden with, and after we got home, Caleb somehow turned feverish and punch-drunk within an hour or so.  I went inside from the back to find him sitting in the chair in our room, shivering, his face dark red, with several layers of clothes on.  He told me he felt weird and asked for a thermometer, but I insisted on just feeling his forehead, which was alarmingly hot.  He crashed downstairs on the couch and I tried to get things unpacked and all of the wet bedding into the wash (Jack had no fewer than *two* accidents during the night on Friday evening/Saturday morning; all while sleeping a few inches from me on a too-small pull-out large chair masquerading as a love seat, so awesome).  Jack ran around in circles, yelling and throwing things.  I solo-parented and hacked and tried not to put our wolf-child out on the sidewalk with a "free" sign strapped to his chest while Caleb slept. 

After I got Jack to bed, a mighty struggle in itself, I crashed for awhile, then watched this old film, Country Girl.  It left me thinking about feminist issues when I ought to have been sleeping, so I popped Groundhog Day in, just to stop the maddening spin-cycle in my skull.  Caleb woke up at some point, at which I, evidently, in mid-sleep, asked if he minded that I was watching, a la, "Is this okay?  That I'm watching this?," even though I was ASLEEP.  So, not really watching anything but the backs of my eyelids.  He was, naturally, confused.

Today was more of the same, and the three-year-old in my son richtered (I refer, here, to the "why" and the "no" and the "I don't waaaant to" fields of HOLY GOD JUST SHUT IT, SHUT IT BEFORE I AM REQUIRED TO RETHINK THIS WHOLE BUSINESS AND QUITE POSSIBLY SEW YOUR MOUTH SHUT *AND* REND MY EARS TO BITS, SIMULTANEOUSLY).  We went out a few times to a) give my husband a chance at a few winks of undisturbed sleep, and b) to fetch more acetaminophen and, yes, a milkshake for me, because it's the closest I can get on certain days to the hard stuff, and I needed it.  Don't question me.  I did.  This = truth.

Mostly, I'm grateful for the shower I got to take this morning, and for the fact that, just as soon as the quilt is dry (which, god almighty, who fucking KNOWS when that will be, it's been in the (granted, totally crappy) dryer for no less than three hours - it's kinda thick), I get to crawl into my beautiful, big, comfy bed of not-love-seat-pull-out-proportions and sleeeeeep.  Oh, and also, grateful for the incredibly delicious fresh crab we ate for dinner, a rare treat for me; we always had the imitation crab when my mom made something requiring crab in the recipe -- the real was way too $$.  Also, I got a lot of hugs and kisses from my terrifically bipolar-y child, and there was a healthy balance of laughter and giggles and general silly amidst the chaos, which must be noted, in fairness.

If you really narrow your eyes and squint, hard, at my day, it was pretty alright.

Pictures of beachy delights tomorrow.  Swears.  The nice, G-rated kind.

*clutches throat* (sort of like grasping at straws. sorta.)

Oh my GOD I have totally fucking HAD. IT. with a child who refuses to get dressed in order to go with me to the goddamn GROCERY STORE.  For FOOD.  That we NEED. IN ORDER TO EAT.

H.A.D. IT.

*fumes silently while struggling to not go bloody mad*

5 a.m. logic.

After Caleb did the 2 a.m. potty trip with J, the one where he wanted to sit vacantly on the toilet after he'd finished going, for an indefinite period, and Caleb got a little short with him about that desire, I woke blindly at 5 a.m. to the screaming shrew that is our toddler.  I insisted that, with eyes burning and shoulder achy from too much time sitting weird while watching stored-up Scrubs episodes from the last few months last night, not to mention past the old bedtime (whydoIdoitwhy), he'd better go back to sleep, NOW, or I was going to shut his door (the deal we've worked out recently in order to keep him from sobbing after bedtime has finally, adamantly, arrived).  He kept sobbing.  I stumbled toward his room and stayed true to my word, shutting both his door *and* ours.  Nothin' doin'.  He continued screaming.  (This was after we'd already gone through the litany of issues that might have woken him up, with his scratchy-throated, wobbly "noooo" bleated out after each item was asked; "Do you need to go potty?"  "noooo."  "D'you need to change your pants?  Is your bed wet?"  "nOooooOo."  "Are you thirsty?  Do you need a glass of water?"  "NOOOooooOO."  "Is this retro-active payback for what you may require in psychoanalyzation as an adult thanks to our current parenting behaviors?"  "NOooo."  And so on.) 

A few minutes later, as the screaming hoarsely continued, I blurrily reminded Caleb to ignore it.  He was obviously managing that just fine, because he responded in the almost-asleep voice that it was not a problem.  Seconds later:  snore.  You know.  The usual.  Meanwhile, my heart began accelerating its rhythm, because I always get kinda pissy when he can fall asleep so fast and so easy after so much disruption, and because, well, there was the fucking screaming happening, still, so I waited a little longer and then stomped over to the door.  Caleb snapped awake and tried to caution me to be nice.  I was, sorta, if you think of sotto-voce as nice.  I mean, I do, especially at 5 in the morning. 

Anyway, I beligerently tossed his door open, kneeled down next to his little bed, and said, in a nice, quiet voice, "J.  Listen to mommy." 

"Oh." 

"Now, you need to stop crying or later today?  You're going to stay in your room in the morning.  You won't get to go downstairs and play, and you won't get to go in the living room and play with any of the ornaments on the tree, and you'll just stay in here.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Because it's only 5 in the morning.  We're not getting up right now, you're not going to play downstairs right now, it's still the middle of the night.  Time to go back to sleep.  Unless you keep crying.  Then you'll just be in here, with the door shut.  Do you want that?" 

"Blow my nose?" 

"Sure."  And I offered the lower portion of my t-shirt for him to honk good and loud into.  He did it twice.

"Are you all done crying, now?  Should I leave the door open?"

"'Course, mommy.  Leave it open, peese."

"'k.  G'night.  Go back to sleep."

"'Course, mommy."

And I shuffled back to bed, feet cold, stomach colder where the snotty part of the shirt clung to my torso.

Climbed in under the covers, husband already softly snoring again, and thought about how weird it was; that I could be so quasi-mean to my son about his potential punishment, even feeling like it was mean as I proposed it, listening to myself sort of shocked that I could say something so like what I remember hearing about kids being trapped in rooms, all day, every day, fed scraps, clothes unchanged, *abused*.  Granted, I knew that this was simply a proposed extended time-out, and that I didn't really mean it, because I knew, just knew, he'd not call my bluff.  But what if he had?  What if he'd continued to cry, what then?  Would I have insisted angrily on his remaining in his room for the morning?  Is that like jailing a toddler?  And when I know my husband would have most likely balked at my trying to enforce what I'd said (because I try to stick to what I say I'm going to do, for the sake of consistency, even though it's sometimes a little on the, let's face it, batshit-crazy end of the spectrum)?

I'd be lying if I didn't find the whole thing kinda funny, though, as I was drifting back toward pretty, pretty sleep.  I wouldn't have to follow through on the jail-time, and it worked, my threat, and still.  I had a belly coated with snotty goo to attest to my being -- normal?  Tired?  A real parent?

Oh, I know.  Finally done with my hipster phase.

*******

Just re-read this and I can't resist adding that I read between the lines more than the lines themselves, and boy, is it enlightening.  For one thing, it's pretty obvious that J probably didn't give a crap what the content of my lecture was when I went in there, rather, he was happy to have my soft, quiet voice playing close to his ear, getting to blow his nose, receiving the little pat on the back and, finally, a nice blanket readjustment from mom.  He probably didn't even think about what I was saying.

So much for my getting all caught up in that part of it.  gah.  So typical.

a brief briefing. (heh. i said *brief*.)

Yesterday we had the Cadillac of furnaces installed:  It's so purty, I almost forgive it for costing more than ten seasons' worth of Marc Jacobs handbags.  Or ten years of my typical wardrobe accoutrements.  Etc. 

Today:  The shower felt unusually cold.  My husband informed me that it just "takes a little longer to warm up in the mornings," in a sour tone meant to communicate that I wouldn't know since I never have to get up and shower that early, because it's utter torture to have a daily shower (although we won't go into my shower phobia, because that would totally ruin the image of my envying his daily shower opportunity, 'k?  Let's pretend I would KILL AND MAIM to get a shot at a daily shower.  Yes.  Ahem).  I had to go to an appointment for this weird holter-monitor-thingy that's supposed to determine the whoseits and whatsits about the irregular heartbeat I've been experiencing since I began taking the thyroid medication prescribed to me over a year ago.  So I was up at the crack'o, i.e., 6:45-ish.  And the shower was cold.  And I knew my husband thought I was being a wuss.  I tried gamely to convince myself that the shower was lukewarm.  It was not.  In fact, it was becoming progressively colder.  J was banging on the door all the while, shouting, MOMMY!  MOMMY!  MOMMY!  MOMMY!  MOMMY!  WAZZAT, MOMMY?  WAZZAT, MOMMY?  And pointing at my nethers through the glass.  I ended up begging my husband to check the heat gauge on the water heater, just in case the furnace guys might've bumped it or something (his response to which was something like how I'm obviously mental because FOR LAND'S SAKE, DEBBIE, why would they DO such a thing?  They wouldn't.  Never).  And was washing my hair with head tipped forward because I feared that my shoulders might freeze up if I stood beneath the faucet, terrified that I would get wet.  Somehow, my head can withstand the colder temperatures, but my body is kind of particular about sub-zero water striking it.  He returned to announce flatly that the water heater was off.

Ah-hah!  I thought.  Now he'll feel bad for having made me feel like a wuss about the water temperature's low measurement.

Only not so much.

Conversation and events ensued.

I scooted to get to the appointment. 

And when the appointment was over, and I was walking uncomfortably out of the room and back toward the elevator, gingerly trying to not jostle the device hooked to my chest with various suction-y things and the wires tucked into my pants (which I hoped didn't look like I'd just stuffed with a sock, but I was pretty sure it did look exactly like that), the little shoulder-strapped bag with the giant clock that makes me look like I'm a walking bomb hanging from my hip, I was embarrassed.  I felt - sick.  Like I might have a disease, or a rare illness, and that people might pity me, and not want to look directly at me for fear that I would notice their odd, questioning stares.

Anyway.  Yeah.  Feeling funny and out of place.  I went home.  Caleb was holding J on his lap as they watched a tv show.  He saw the device at my hip and said, "hey, that's not so bad," but then I dejectedly pulled up my shirt to show him all the wires and how they were all suctioned to my chest and torso, he looked at my (probably totally droopy) face and shoulders and got up to wordlessly give me a big hug.   His face was sad and sympathetic.  I couldn't have asked for more.  Sometimes, that is JUST ALL I FUCKING WANT, some sympathy and hugs.  WHY can't he just UNDER-fucking-STAND THAT?  Sigh.  I know he does, and it's just that life has gotten so complicated and he forgets in those moments that it's what I need most, just like I do with him, although I have a *way* better excuse, like I'm learning-disabled, i.e., stupid, so DUH.  What's his story?  Huh?  And he better not say it's because he's as mind-numblingly dumb as me, because we BOTH know that it's just not so.

Wait.  That's not going the way I wanted it to.  Never mind.

Um - so I took J to Lowe's with me to check unfinished cabinets after Caleb left for work, because we figured out yesterday that the cabinets, the ones that I really wanted to salvage, are - well, they're sort of *totally* un-salvageable.  Bummer.  I hate new cabinets.  I wanted to keep the old ones.  They're real fucking wood, and the kind you can buy now, unless you plan on spreading more scrilla than you can make in a lifetime, is all pressed wood and it SUCKS.  Because we can't afford much.  Especially after the furnace.  And the carpet and the vinyl and the windows and WELCOME TO HOME OWNERSHIP.  The kind where there is no deferred maintenance, like in our last house, which was new.  I know.  I'm playing the violin myself, I'm so pathetic.  Yes.  Yes.  We're lucky to be able to  have tethered ourselves to the debt equal to that of a small country been able to buy a home.  Sweet.

And, the unfinished cabinets.  They're fine.  They'll work.  I will stain them into a place of pretended loveliness.  Gleah.   But I decided I wanted to leave so I could take off the hoodie I was wearing over my t-shirt to disguise the series of wires and lumps and that freaking bomb-y device on my hip, because I had sweat drops riding on my sweat drops.  J made it clear that he needed some park-playing action, what with the giant meltdown, a star performance, really, when he saw a play equipment center outside of the hardware store, that I refused to take him over to because I'm the most hateful parent in the stratosphere, and also because it was attached to the wall of the store about ten feet in the air; a little unrealistic for playing purposes.  Something he doesn't quite grasp, yet.

I chose to drive us to his dad's office for lunch.  I'm having one of those hair days where shit just didn't work out right after I did my normal post-shower routine, and it's all goofy and frizzy on the bottom and almost crunchy on the top (I use leave-in conditioner that evidently didn't get distributed very evenly).  It always makes me a cranky betch when that happens, because I, well, the shower phobia, so I have to live with it like this for at least a few days.  Etc.  And I just felt dumb and out of sorts and wanted Caleb to take over for a little while.  But he had to get back to work after lunch, so I told J we'd go to the park by ourselves, and he was so stoked.  He was gleeful and chattering, and I followed him around without involving myself too much, thanks to the giant bomb-clock-device series-of-wires thingy, and then he went to go the see this gazebo in the middle of the park, the "house, mommy," and he fell on the sidewalk.  He was wearing his rain boots, he'd put them on by himself this morning and I knew they were getting a little tight but he was so PROUD, so I let it go, but then his feet weren't really doing well in them, and he caught himself on the toe and just went over like a statue, but in that weird shutter-frame sequence where I could see each body part make contact with the paved walk, frozen because it was happening so fast that I couldn't go to grab his body without fearing I'd fall, too (I was a little behind him when he fell so I would've had to leap forward at light speed and might have managed to only injure myself and possibly fall onto him in the process).  I watched as the fall completed itself, and thought it wasn't too bad, and then his face hit, too, and I was already gathering him into my arms and soothing him and he was wailing and my heart was more sore than all of his parts together could ever be, he clung and I swayed and we walked toward a sun-and-shade-dappled bench, whispering that it was okay, and we sat so I could assess the damage (a skinned knee and a little cut on the nose, sad!).  I motioned to the pavement and said, "bad sidewalk!  Mean sidewalk!"  He nodded and gulped, with those giant tears falling down his round, soft cheeks, the kind that only little kids know how to produce, the kind that are built intentionally to cut a parent's heart to the very deepest core, I was struggling to control my impulse to sob with him, oh, to know this pain.  It is real, it's awful, it stings.  It's only the beginning.  I wanted to throw myself on that walk and roll and howl in my misery over his new knowledge, the education I would save him from if only it weren't so crucial to his becoming an adult.  FUCK.

I cleaned his knee gently with a sanitized wet-wipe (and made a mental note to get a first-aid kit in the car, pronto), although I have to pat myself on the back for having tossed some band-aids in my bag a few months ago.  Foresight, after all, does occasionally take roost in my uneven brain parts.   I removed all the dirt and blew softly on the damp knee, and he chuckled over my imitation of the pavement reaching up and biting his flesh, CHOMP!, but cried softly, saying, "no, mommy, no," at my attempt to clean the cut on his nose.  Ouch, he said.  Ouch, my heart replied.  I stopped back at Caleb's office and called him to come out with some sanitizing ointment, and J was shocked to see him again.  It was painful, all of it, the physical parts, the knowing that he would be sad again to see Daddy go, again, after having had to say goodbye such a little while before. 

I stopped and bought milkshakes on our way back home.  He moaned and drank milkshake in between, his little bandaged knee so small and fragile and smooth in my cupped hand, the one that should've been on my steering wheel.

i'll come in again.

Sure, I could mention how envious I am of everyone else's ability to constantly see their drudgery-enriched lives through the magical 'scope of the hilarious.

Instead, I'll simply say: thanks very much x infinity to you who have borne my nauseating sad-assery for lo, these many months' worth of blog posts.  And: bring on the funny.  I mean, I may not be feeling it, but I'm gonna fake it like my very best fake orgasm.  (And - oh, you know what?  Orgasms aren't funny anymore.  There was bottomless humor in orgasms until around last year sometime, but now?  So not funny.  The new funny sexual topic?  Bunny butt sex.  Yes.  Yes, gentle readers, I said it.  I sayeth it.  You readeth it.  You loveth it.  But not as much as the bunnies.  For emphasis.)

Either that or I lay down quietly and allow the screamy, poopy, tyrannical toddler to stomp me to smithereens.  (Not necessarily the worst option.)

p.s. Mrs. Chicky?  That shirt about toddlers being unreasonable dictators?  a) on the mark like mayonnaise on french fries; and b) coming down the pike soon-ish.  Relatively speaking.  We are relatives, right?  Relatives in our HILARIOUS toddler-ruled lives.  Sing it with me.  We are relatives, I got lacerations and bruises on shins.

I now pronounce the good times officially unrolled.

p.s. (Spoken in ultra-squeaky, embarrassed sotto-voce):  will yous guys maybe de-lurk today and tell me you're ready to forgive me for all the insanity-inanity and welcome me back into your gigantic, mcmansion-y hearts?  i say this on my knees, jacob marley.

p.p.s. I am a giant movie-quote machine, with nary but a mile-long ticker of quotes coiled inside my silly head.  If there's ever a job created for such humans, Kerrianne and I are going to have to tussle for it.  Unless they create two or more.  In which case, sweet.  Round of popcorn for everyone.

hooray for shopping!

Do not attempt to finish wrapping up your purchase-making in a normal (read: non-parent) manner.  Just put the damn pillow down and leave the store, even if you REALLY WANT THAT PILLOW, and even though you're aware that you're probably never going to BUY that pillow if you put it down and leave.  Because if you opt to remain, you may find yourself standing in line with your 19-month-old, whose pants are full of a very stench-ridden poo, the one that was deposited moments before you arrived in the queue for the only cashier (whose arms seem to be buried to the pits in some strange amalgam of molasses and cement), the kind of stench that is making you certain the little old lady behind you, whose pretense at being pleasant to the both of you is just that, and you're almost positive you caught her grimacing for the briefest of moments, when she thought you weren't looking, even though she offered to let your son stand in her shopping cart, which seems weird to you, but would've maybe been something you'd have at least considered, to save you from the screamy-whining, if not for the ABOMINABLE stench.  And you'll feel shame from your ankles to your earbones, yes, there's no such physical attribute as an earbone, but is that really important at a time like this?  When the poo-smell is rendering the entire, gigantic store uninhabitable?  So, back to the shame-flood that is lapping up your frame, dissolving you into a giant mommy-salt-pillar, only the kind whose mouth still works extremely efficiently, and you're snapping strings of "DON'T TOUCH THAT"s off like a drill seargent.  And lots of people, whole football stadiums of people, appear suddenly nearby and offer sympathetic looks to your child, even with the foul smell that has now immersed the store in a soupy, green fog that is clearly emanating from your son's assal region.  But you're gonna get that damn pillow, by god, and you're going to HAVE THAT FUCKING PILLOW TO SNUGGLE WHEN YOUR SON IS GROWN AND IN THERAPY, dammit.   After all, you are clearly some kind of insane person, the way you're gripping your son, one arm around the back and one arm beneath his feet (because god knows what kind of poopy, doomed mess has been deposited, and you're certainly not going to risk its being a watery one, the surest maneuver to afford that discovery being to support his bottom with your arm, a rookie move to beat all rookie moves that you'll not be making, even if everyone in the place starts taunting you and throwing environmentally-friendly cookies at your head).  That hold is a slippery one, though, and the counter seems absolutely littered with interesting toys and shiny, attractive packets of sweets, and your child is normal, and healthy, and so he must investigate, which means that he is performing a Dr. Seussian acrobatic routine and you're simply trying to keep him from flying out of your arms and onto the cement floor and making stomach-roiling break-snap-pop noises with his bones and face and whatnot.  Also, there's the FOUL-BEYOND-BELIEF-STINK still hanging heavy in the air around him, and you haven't forgotten, because you can't, even if you wanted to, and it's starting to make your eyes smart a little, and you're going to have to continue to hold him in that weird position, while around a billion eyeballs bore into your back as you stand firm with your pillow and your tongue and your pride clenched tightly as your son slips wildly about in your arms. 

And wouldn't you know that the debit machine hates you?  Today?  Now?  Stenchy-poo acrobatic screamer in your arms be damned?  And the cashier has less than zero sympathy for you; he clearly wants you away from his place of business as quickly as you can both make it happen.  You're in complete agreement there.  But the debit machine has it out for you.  No, it doesn't like that swipe.  Oh, you put the card away already?  Well, hummm.  Why don't we just try again.  But don't be clever and keep the card out; no.  Put it back, mindlessly, in your wallet, and slip it into that indecipherable crevice, no, make that crevasse, in your bag, the one that seems to be a stitch in time, an alternate universe, where your wallet can be a baton-twirler or a candy-striper, and it disappears whenever you attempt to dive for it.  So.  Go through the whole shenanigan of digging for the wallet again, for the third freaking time, and be grateful that you're at least no longer holding the pillow because it's on the counter.  Still wrestle wildly with the now-moaning child, though, the one whose ass seems to have been bronzed in the most ancient pile of garbage known to this planet.  Continue to feel the hatred from the other customers and all of the employees in the building burn you from all corners.  Finally make the abhorrent debit machine work, because your silent cursing of it must have ultimately meted out some pity from the machine's gods.  Tear the receipt from the cashier's ruddy hand, and flee the store.  Note that almost immediately after the doors have closed behind the two of you, your son is now laughing and pointing at a million things.  His demeanor is no longer the tortured, abused innocent; it is happiness and sunshine.

His posterior, though, is still rotten like a rat's intestines.

there is no charm in this number.

Tantrums today, thus far:

#1: Couldn't follow the dog outside when she was let out to, um, "use the bathroom."  (For the record, there is no bathroom outside.  No dog bathroom.  Don't I wish.  Also, further record-establishing: it was approx. 30 degrees farenheit when this was happening.  The dog was so cold she forgot to actually use the aforementioned nonexistent "bathroom," which means it was not weather that a toddler dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt, barefoot, would've been receptive to.  Maybe we should've just let him go outside and discover that for himself, even just for a few seconds?  Nah.  That's beyond the pale, even for me.  I'll give it a few more months.)

#2: Wasn't allowed to tinker with the computer modem/wireless adapter/sundry cords and assorted blinky things under office desk.

#3: Wasn't allowed to dump entire contents of daddy's work bag out and rifle through them.

#4: Was placed on the floor (out of my arms) in order for me to pour milk into his cup.  This was deemed unacceptable.

#5:  Was unable to push the kitchen chair past the other chairs around the table.

#6: During what was supposed to be a quick trip to the local grocery store, was not allowed to snuggle, and subsequently mouth and enhance with soggy drool, the various singing Christmas (animals?  decorations?  ornaments?  eventual landfill nightmares?) sundries (again with the general-purpose words, b/c gah) -- and was furthermore not allowed to take every single one of them home with us.

#7: Due to time constraints (see #6), was not allowed to stare fixedly, for an indefinite period, at Elmo's visage on a giant, human-sized gift bag.  (Please, will someone explain the purpose of a gift bag of those proportions to me?)

It's 10:00 a.m.

Dear lord.