Filed Under: Parents 1, Smart-Ass, Teenage Son, 0

(EDIT: By request, this post has been entered into the Meanest Mom contest. I have no idea why you people think I'm anything but loving and nurturing.)

My son and his friend, Julio, spend most of their time huddled together, whispering about boobs or XBox or the latest crisis at school. They are good boys, but my son will occasionally have a brain fart.

As I was driving them around the other day, the gas bubbled up and spilled over.

"Hey, Mom. I need you to stop at Rite Aid."

He turned in his seat and looked at Julio and they both smirked.

"Why? Are you out of something?"

"No, not really. I need something, though. It starts with a 'c' and ends with 'dum'".

More smirking, with a side of giggling.

"Oh, really? "Dumb" being the operative word here because you won't have anything to use if you keep up with that shit and who the hell do you think you are my God you're only fourteen have you lost your everloving mind-"

They are laughing and having a great time and I just had a coronary.

"Ok, ok! It's an inside joke, Mom!"

It was an inside joke. He let that shit out and now it's an outside, fuck-with-Mom joke. When he saw how much it affected me, he grabbed the reins on that sonofabitch and has been riding it for days, driving me to the brink of madness.

There's nothing quite as frightening as the realization that your kids will probably act the exact same way you did when you were their age.

So, daily, I am asked to make a trip to Rite Aid. When I pale and get all sweaty, they laugh and tease me about how many illegitimate children my son is going to have because I won't buy him condoms. I asked him to stop. I ordered him to stop. Day after day, he continued.

I had no choice. I had to retaliate.

Now, in reality, my son is never even alone with a girl. He and his friends are at the age where they're curious about sex and all the goings on and that's fine. But giving me grief about being a grandma before I'm forty? Over the line.

On the way home last night, I ran into Walgreens to pick up a prescription. While I was in there, I picked up something else. When we got home, my son announced that he and Julio were going walking.

"Not now, Devon. Go in the living room. Chris and I need to talk to you."

He gave me a puzzled look.

"Can Julio come? Or is it a private talk?"

"No, Julio can take part. I think that's actually best."

Another puzzled look and he complied. When he and Julio were seated on the sofa, Chris and I launched our attack.

"Crystal, do you want to start, or should I?"

"Oh, babe, I think you should. I ... I can't."

Devon and Julio look at each other and the snickering begins. Bait taken.

With a grave look on his face, Chris began.

"Devon, son. I want to talk to you about condoms."

My son and Julio fell all over each other, gasping for air and high-fiving one another.

"Dude! I totally knew that's what this was! Oh, my God! We so pulled this off!" Devon said.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"Devon. This is a serious matter. You need to be a little more receptive to what we're trying to do, here," I said.

He and Julio straightened themselves up and gave us their utmost, completely insincere attention.

"Mom, it was a joke. An inside-"

"No, no, I think it was more than that. I think it was your way of asking for information without actually asking-"

"Mom, honestly-"

"Shut it. And listen," I commanded. "Chris, continue."

"Devon. Your mom and I have been talking and we really want you to be safe. We know things happen and you're human, you have all these urges and hormones and....stuff."

The boys begin squirming and looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Inside joke, indeed.

"So, to make sure of that," Chris says as he reaches into his pocket and my child begins to turn an alarming shade of red, "we picked you up some protection for you and your partner."

He drops these into Devon's lap.

"One for all five of them."

As Chris and I sit smugly and watch, my son goes from amused to embarrassed to horrified to flinging them off of his lap and shrieking like a little girl, all in under two minutes. It was a thing of beauty.

"What the hell?! What are these? They're tiny! Jeez, did you pick them up at the Asian market? Holy crap! I can't believe you threw condoms in my lap! And I can't believe they're so little!"

I pissed my pants. Twice. Chris isn't breathing. We are in ecstacy.

After Devon finally calmed down, he and Julio went for their walk. Were we done? Mission accomplished?

HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING ABOUT ME????

When Devon returned home, he went to his room. Chris and I waited quietly in the living room.

More shrieking as he reached for his light switch.

He grabbed a paper towel and removed the offending object so he could flip the switch. Nothing. So, he turned to reach for his ceiling fan to pull the cord for the light. Shrieking.

"You guys! Gah! Seriously!" More paper towels, more cringing. When the room was finally illuminated, again with the shrieking.

"Oh, my gosh. Are there any more? In my backpack? Under my pillow?"

"Nope. Don't think so," I said.

Foolish boy.

Later, lying in bed, I heard him rummaging in the kitchen for his nightly bowl of cereal. And then shrieking.

He stormed into the bedroom.

"Condoms on the milk jug?! You guys are sick. Twisted. Sick. Ugh."

After he left, Chris asked, "Are we going to tell him what they really are?"

"Nah. Not for a few days."

I fell asleep, smile on my face. In the wee hours, when I went to get something to drink, I found a dozen tiny finger cots in the trash.

This morning, when Devon blearily stumbled to the bathroom to brush his teeth, I reveled in the sound of the squealing.

And just when he thought it was over:

Don't test me, child.

Memphis

We are living on a different planet, I swear to God.

(NSFW because of language)

Ridin' Dirty

The Diarrhea Diaries

Oh, God. Oh, Godohgodohgodshitohgod. Please don't let me shit my pants sitting at this red light. Please. I live thirty miles from work and I have no clothes in this car. I'm already late. Shit. NO! Don't shit. Think about something else. Think about....puppies. Puppies shit. Shit. Blog! Think about the blog.

And how you're going to write about shit.

Dammit.

What the hell did I eat? All I had was one piece of the pizza Chris bought. He's fine! Nary a fart this morning. Yet, here I sit, clenching my ass cheeks like Satan is trying to escape and audibly hearing my insides gurgle.

Oh, no. Was that?...oh, no. Please, please let that be a fart. Just a really warm fart. OH, GOD. THE SMELL. Must...roll..window.........down.

Why? Why does this always happen to me? And when I'm in the car on my hundred mile commute. The other regular commuters must think I always look like I'm riding with a shovel up my ass. My face must be classic. Fuck it. It's not like I know any of these peop- oh, look. It's Chris's friend, Jamie. And I'm potentially sitting here in my own poo. Super. Wave. Attempt to smile. God. I must look like a fucking lunatic, eyes all bugged out, teeth clenched, sweating like a pig. Ugh.

Work. Finally. I can sneak in the back. I'll just....oh, no. Oh, no. Must....clench...tighter. Walk. Walk. Walk. Waddle. Waddle. Just got to make it to the bathroom. Almost there. Fuck!! I can't talk right now, Jason. Go away. Don't look at me. QUIT LOOKING AT ME. Oh, great. Here he comes.

"Hey, Crystal, did you-"

"No! I didn't! Can't talk! Gotta go!"

"Well, you-"

"Nope! Not me!"

"But-"

"For fucks sake, I could blow at any second! Can it wait?"

Shut the door, quick, buttons quick panties quickquickquick oh god oh no OHHHHHH.

Whew. That was close. And no accidents. Thank you, Lord. Thank you. I hope I don't have to go to the doctor. Did I wash my hands when I changed Harmony's poopy diaper last night? I know I did. I always do. Ewww. But what if I didn't. The kids were distracting me. What if I got some sort of fucked up fecal matter in my system and that's what's making me sick. I so don't want to have a doctor tell me I got this from fecal matter. There's no explaining that. You can tell them whatever you want but you know they think you have a scat fetish. Ewwww.

Oh, no. OHNOOHNOOHNO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I'm going home and putting on a diaper.

Check the Buckle. Yo.

Remember this guy?

For those of you not inclined to read that archived post, there is this guy at Burger King who, although incredibly nice, is also incredibly weird. He's very white and very nerdy and wears glasses and polyester. He uses the same corny jokes every single time I go through there and they just never get old to him. Today, as a for instance.

"Hey, there, pretty lady! I betcha get tired of hearing that, huh?"

Now, don't answer. Just sit there and smile and wait. You have to. He will hold your money hostage until he's gone through his entire routine and if you try to talk, it will only delay your reunion with a Whopper.

"Nah! You don't get tired of it! HAH HAH!"

Pause. Smile. Wait.

"Enjoying this weather? Looks like it might rain. Will that DAMPEN your spirits? Will it? Dampen? Get it? Dampen?"

Bite your tongue. Wait.

"I tried to be a stand-up comedian, but I kept sitting down! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!"

He is practically doubled over with laughter. At least he's nice. I'm quite certain that he goes home at night and boils kittens.

"Didn't you come through here this morning?"

What? This is new. This isn't part of his routine. Why, this requires interaction. I am afraid.

"Umm, no. I try to limit myself to one bypass per lifetime."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I could have sworn you came through. What's your name, again?"

I never told him my name. I'm not crazy. I like my liver right where it is.

"Joan."

"Joan, Joan. Okay. What's my name?"

At this point, he places his hand over his midsection as though his name tag is pinned to his dick and he's trying to hide it. He waggles his eyebrows at me. I am stupified.

Then again, it's not out of the realm of possibilities that his name tag is pinned to his weiner.

I have been in the drive through for what feels like an hour. It has been, in reality, about 2 minutes.

"Dude, I have no idea. I just want my change. And my Whopper."

He waggles his brows again.

His hand has not moved.

"Scratch that. I want my cheeseburger."

"You have to guess my name, first!"

"I don't know. John. Joe. Barney. Hannibal. Chester."

With flourish, he throws his hand in the air and VOILA! There's a belt buckle the size of my fucking head with the name BRAD on it.

BRAD. With rhinestones. Bling.

Holy shit.

Dog Teeth

"Mom?"

"Yes, Virginia?"

"Can I have one of those dog teeth?"

"Dog teeth? Did you knock the dog's teeth out?! Holy shit, where's Dusty, what did you-"

"Noooooo, those things! Those dog things!"

"Dog things? Work with me, here."

"On the counter. Not dog....umm...bear! Bear teeth!"

"Ohhh, you mean bear claws?"

"Yes!"

Close enough.

I'll Take What's Behind Door Number Cheap, Bob!

I just got a phone call from my incredibly sweet husband. Virginia's birthday is in 8 days and we are surreptitiously trying to find out which bike she would like without her being any the wiser.

"Hey, babe. I'm up here at Wal-Mart with Virginia, you know, looking for a bike for me, not for her, and they don't have much of a selection."

"Wow. That's really subtle, Chris. Okay. Umm, does she not see anything she likes?"

"Well, yes and no. I guess. Hell, I don't know."

Meanwhile, in the background, all I can hear is my daughter chanting, "Can I talk to Mom? Can I talk to Mom? Can I talk to Mom? I really need to talk to Mom? Chris? Can I talk to Mom? Mom? Can I talk to her? Chris?"

"Jeebus, put her on the phone before she fucking wets herself."

He transfers the phone to Virginia.

"Hey, Mom! I really appreciate you guys trying to get me a bike, and I saw a bike I like, but there's this journal! And you can use a voice password! And keep all your secrets from, you know, your brother and stuff! And it's purple! And I love purple! So, can I have it?"

"How did you know we were trying to find you a bike?"

"Well, duh, Mom."

"Huh. Well, how much is the journal?"

"Nine dollars."

"Put Chris on the phone."

Pause.

"Hey, babe."

"Chris, how much is the bike?"

"Eighty bucks. It has those cool streamers on the handle bars and a backpack on the seat and-"

"Fabulous. We'll get you one for Christmas. Now, she wants a nine dollar journal that she'll tire of and tear up in a month instead of an eighty dollar bike that will last for at least a couple of years?"

"Apparently."

Duh, indeed.

Pimpin'

I want to do something a little different today if you all don't mind.

I feel really bad that I don't link anyone. The reasons for this are simple.

1. I paid money to Gemmak designs to spruce up this blog. She did an incredible job and then had to close up shop. If I tried to throw links in the HTML, it would all come out looking like garbled shit because I am an idiot.

2. There are so many of you. I can barely keep up with feeding myself and remembering to wipe my ass. I would forget someone unintentionally and feelings would be hurt and that's the last thing I want.

3. I am an idiot.

So, comments are open. Pimp your blog, please, or your favorite charity or post your great Aunt Martha's recipe for Opossum Stew. Whatever you like. You can even call me a dirty whore.

The Part That Cost Twelve Dollars

When Chris and I went to lunch today and the server delivered my plate, I was confronted with this:
























"Chris?"

"Yeah, babe."

"There's a tree growing out of my mashed potatoes."

Never one to be embarrassed by his child-like curiosity - or anything else, for that matter - Chris immediately plucked it from it's warm, buttery home and carefully inspected it. He then sniffed it. Right as the server was coming back to check on us, he gingerly took a small nibble of it.

Now, before you accuse us of being a bunch of inbred dipshits with no culture or class, he knew it wasn't supposed to be eaten. He also knows that holding my kids down and farting in their faces isn't really a form of discipline, but this is his justification when I yell at him while my son is outside, gagging and trying to find breathable air space.

I digress.

The server was horrified.

"Sir! You aren't supposed to eat that!"

Chris looked surprised. He made big, "Oh, shit!", eyes and asked, "Then why is it on the plate?"

"It's garnishment, sir. It's supposed to be for visual appeal."

"You need a twig to make people want to eat your mashed potatoes? Should I be concerned?"

"No, sir. Not at all. Our food is very tasty."

"Then why do you stick weeds in it?"

The server looked at him and blinked for a moment.

"I have no idea, sir."

And THAT is why I married this man.

Spring Break

Everyone in our office complex is gone. On Spring Break. Including my boss.

This is what I did in his office today to pass the time.

I ran out of foil. He knows better than to leave me alone.

EDIT: BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS TOO FUNNY. NO PUN INTENDED.

The funniest part of the post today is this: When I got home, I read the instructions. "Insert one suppository and RETAIN for at least 15 minutes." Not remove, RETAIN. As in, don't shoot it out of your ass like a missile. My poor husband misread.

Lord, how I love this man.

Mr. Mom

Harmony's delicate intestinal balance has been out of sorts the last few days. Chris picked me up from work and we discussed our options over lunch. Cos' that's our kind of idle chit chat while waiting for food: poop.

"I think maybe we should give her a suppository and see what happens," I suggested. "It can take awhile to have an effect."

"Ok."

"So, since you're off today, are you going straight home?"

"No."

"You're not going home?"

"I'm not sticking anything up her ass."

"Big baby. Fine. I'll do it when I get home."

An hour later, I got a phone call.

"Crystal, you lied to me."

"About?"

"You said it would take a while to work."

"Hold, please."

I put the phone down and laughed my guts out for a minute or two because I realized what had happened.

"Ok. So, what happened?"

"Well, you called me a big baby. So, when I was changing her diaper I thought, 'How hard can it be?', so I got one of the suppositories. I stuck it in a little and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to put it all the way in, so I kind of left it hanging-"

"Wait. You left the suppository hanging out of her ass?"

"Yes. The bottle said to remove it in fifteen minutes! How else was I supposed to get it?"

"Ok, ok. Was she alright? Uncomfortable?"

"No. Just frowning at me like I'm stupid."

"Yeah. I get that all the time."

"Anyway, I go in the kitchen to heat a bottle and I hear her grunting. I go back in and she's pulled her legs up to her chest, turns bright red and the fucking thing shoots out of her butt like a mini-torpedo, flies across the dining room and hits the-"

I dropped the phone and pissed my pants. Seriously. When I could breathe, I picked it up, again.

"It's not funny, Crystal. She unloaded. The whole house smells like baby shit. And she's grinning her ass off."

"I love you."

"Whatever."

*click*

And Another Year Has Passed

Early last week, I called to reserve a rumpus room for Virginia's 7th birthday party. You know, so the kids can get up to some rumpus. I was feeling particularly jovial and no one that works at Mulligans Golf and Games is old enough to even have pubic hair, so I love messing with them.

"Thank you for calling Mulligans, this is Derrick, can I help you?"

"Hi, Derrick. I need to reserve the party room for my daughter."

"Ok. What time do you need it?"

"Well, let's see, Skipper. How early is too early to start drinking on a Saturday?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're right. We live in the South. Make it noon."

"Umm. Ok. And how many children?"

"Eight. The stripper's all grown up."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. What libations can the children expect?"

"Uhh, we offer Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Hawaiian Punch-"

"Can we just set up IV stands full of sugar? You know, jack them in, get them mainlined and turn 'em loose? It would cut, like, an hour out of your time with us and that's one less hour you have to stand around and pretend you don't hate all God's creatures, Derrick."

"Oh, I don't hate kids."

"Did I say anything about kids, Drake?"

"Derrick."

"Exactly. Moving right along."

"Yeah. Uhh, ok. Do you want the deluxe package? It comes with two go kart rides, two bumper boat rides, a round of miniature golf-"

"Eight kids and miniature golf? Will you just leave me the keys? Because we'll be done sometime next spring. It takes 2 hours to play nine holes with just my daughter because to a six-year-old who's just ingested a gallon of Mountain Dew and eight bags of Twizzlers, 'Putt the ball gently' translates to, 'Whack that motherfucker like you gotta pair!' Know what I mean, Dominique?"

"It's Derrick."

"I disagree."

"So, no mini golf."

"Just the bumper boats and the go karts will do, sweety. And do you have somewhere to park a bus?"

"A bus? You're driving a bus?"

"Yep. The children are blind. I really don't think they should drive the bus, do you?"

"Bl-...blind? Oh, ma'am, I don't think-"

"Is that a problem?"

"Gee, lady. Bumper boats and go karts and blind kids???"

"You have tires set up around the go kart track, correct?"

"Yes, but-"

"And the go karts go, what? 15 miles per hour?"

"A lot lower, probably, but-"

"So, really? What's the worst that can happen? Do you want to take away simple pleasure from a bunch of blind kids, Dick?"

"I-...I may have to check with my manager."

"And you will be working that day, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Splendid. Can you make room in there for a daquiri machine?"

This is going to be SO. MUCH. FUN.

Hi! Have Some Random!

I'm sorry about being all over the place with my updates. I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of this whole 'three kids' thing. Why, yesterday, I dragged Virginia out the door by her forearm and stuffed in her in the car only twenty minutes behind, and! And!! She had lunch money AND panties on!

Last night when I got home, I refrained from suffocating the baby with hugs and kisses and sobbing to my husband about how she's going to call the babysitter "mama" and I will just be that lady with the warm boobs.

And we had roast last night. Nay, ladies and gentleman, I didn't resort to my old stand-by, Bagel Bites that are slightly charred on bottom and frozen on top, we had a roast. With potatoes. And carrots.

Granted, my husband cooked it, but what-the-fuck-ever. At least I'm learning to cope and delegate.

____________________________________

So, the kids are good, thanks for asking.

Virginia had a patriotic program on Monday and it was complete with random, unrelated announcements from the principal, kudos to the "volunteers" (most of them elderly, retired married couples. I use the term "volunteers" very loosely because, while the old ladies were practically pissing in their Depends over the joy of catering to a bunch of booger-eating kids, the obviously disgruntled husbands were clearly only there to keep the wives from witholding the lovin' and hiding the Fixodent) and one poor kid who turned green and spewed partially digested Spaghettios all down the risers and across the shoes of the kid in front of her. The most amazing part? Those kids parted like the Red Sea and not one of them missed a note on their recorders. Awe inspiring. Shortly thereafter, when one of the "volunteer" husbands was trying to clean up the goo and keep his jaunty Stars And Stripes vest from falling off, I clearly heard him say he was "gonna divorce that old bat and move to Florida where I can die in peace."

___________________________________

Devon has become a popular kid and I don't really know how to take his emergence from a shy, studious boy to a boisterous, confident young man. I'm so happy and proud of him, but it's new to me.

"So, your little friend, Jaime. Is she what you'd call Goth?"

"No, Mom. She's emo."

"She has a bowl cut and dresses like a mental patient?"

"What? No, Mom. And, by the way, Mimi tells me you were Goth when you were a teenager."

"I was not. We didn't even have the term 'Goth' when I was teenager. Never listen to my Mom, son. She believes everything in the Enquirer."

"She says you dressed all in black and were really pale and reclusive."

"That's not Goth. It's called 'planning your own funeral because no one understands you and you have no peers'. Or depression."

"Exactly. Goth."

"Oh. Well, then, I was a visionary."

_____________________________________

Speaking of my mother, it's a hoot to watch my son get all exasperated over all of her quirks. He's only known her for a little under three years and her eccentricities are all new to him.

He goes and spends the weekend with my parents fairly often (read: MUST. AVOID. CHURCH.) and I get a full report when I pick him up.

"Mimi can't drive. Wow. She runs over curbs, flips people off when they pass her cos' she's driving waaaay under the speed limit and, Pop! Holy crap! He just sits there, clutching the door handle and panting. I don't know how he does it!"

I know all of this. She has driven this way my entire life. And my Dad has lost all of his hair, not some of it, all of it, people, from riding with her. So I just nod.

"And her cell phone! It's all messed up because she keeps slamming it on things. See, when you call people, there's a delay with her service. She thinks it's something wrong with the phone, so instead of waiting, she slams it on something and then by the time she gets it to her ear, it's ringing. So, she thinks the slamming is working when really it's just the delay."

"Mmm hmm."

"And she argues with logic! She won't admit she's wrong or might have made a mistake! Oh, Mom, you have no idea."

"Really? When I was thirteen, I had a birthday party. None of the girls were really my friends, they just all had a crush on my brother and it was an excuse to stay the night at my house and they were a bunch of soulless, vapid, trollop slut-tramps who used me to get near-"

"Mom."

"Oh. Right. Anyway, my mom grilled hamburgers. She served everyone these awesome burgers and everyone dug in. Problem was, there was no patty. It was just bread, tomato and lettuce. When I said something, she claimed she was just worried about our cholesterol. Instead of giving us the meat, we all had to sit there and eat air burgers so she wouldn't have to admit she forgot to put them on the bun."

"Wow."

"Yeah. She bought me a Care Bear notebook one year for school because I liked them when I was in elementary."

"That's not bad."

"I was a sophomore. She also bought me purple tennis shoes with hearts on them."

"Oh."

"She means well and her heart is huge. She's just ... Mimi."

"Cool. But no matter how well-meant, I'm not wearing the Power Rangers pajamas."

"Understood."

2 Part Post That Has No Point Whatsoever

I'm a little melancholy today. I've been jumping around and reading other people's blogs, and let me tell you, there are some fantastic writers out there who are teetering on the brink of discovery. I read them and I think, "Wow. If they're still clipping coupons and using those little plastic things to get the last of the toothpaste out, what the hell makes me think I will EVER do anything with my shitty little blog?"

For years, people from different places in my life have been urging me to write THE BOOK. When someone brings up THE BOOK, I get all nervous and edgy and avoid the topic. I have started THE BOOK numerous times only to get disgusted with my feeble attempts to form cognitive thoughts. Then I end up getting drunk and playing Gem Shop online till the wee hours of the morning.

You see, it's reading blogs like this and this and this one (to name a few...there are so many of you out there) that make me doubt myself. They are amazing and hilarious and effortlessly charming and I find myself feeling like that kid who shit his pants the first day of school. I sit in the corner and I watch as all the other children are forming cliques and networking and I will forever be known as the smelly kid.

I need a hug. And some inspiration.

And some Febreze.

_________________________________________

Chris has Mondays off. Our conversations used to go something like this:

"Hey, Chris, whatcha' doing?"

"Scratching. Watching a special on ... I don't know. But they're blowing shit up, so it's cool."

"Oh. Did you, um, do any laundry or anything?"

"No. You didn't ask me to."

"Ok. Well, it's 2 p.m. Did you do anything fun today?"

"Scratched. Bought some shit on Ebay. Surfed for new porn. The usual."

"Right. Well, I-"

"Whoah! Dude! That was fucking awesome! Did you see how far that propeller flew?!"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Brian. Babe, I gotta go. They're fixing to do that Mentos/Diet Coke thing, but they're gonna stuff the bottle up some guys ass. Love you!"

*click*

Since having Harmony, he has her all day on Monday. Our conversations now go like this:

"Hi, Chris. How are things going?"

"She was fussy. And I did everything I could think of and then she got this serious look on her face, turned purple and then she shit for, like, five minutes."

"I doubt very seriously that she went for five minutes, babe."

"Seriously! It was all, Pffffffffftttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." (pausing to inhale) "Pfffffffthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Five minutes. Now, she's looking at me. I know what she wants and I can't bring myself to go in there. Pffffffttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

"Ok, take a deep breath."

"I can't. It's stinky in here. How can someone so precious and small and dainty and awesome be so stinky?"

"The same way someone tall and handsome and devilishly charming can be so stinky."

"I choose to take that as a compliment. Where are you? Are you nearby?"

"Umm, about five minutes away. Why?"

"No reason."

"You're going to leave her in the poo diaper till I get there, aren't you?"

"It's your turn."

"Did you get a chance to do any laundr-"

"Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? As soon as I get food in one end, it's coming out the other! Pffffffffffffftttttthhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The good news is that we don't argue about him wanting me to have another baby, anymore.