The Tooth Fairy

My little one is 8 years old, and very sensitive. He believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. That last one is hanging on by a thread though, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to cause the other two to become extinct soon.

The last tooth he lost, he overheard me tell my husband that I have given my last $5 to him. He’s not stupid, he put 2 and 2 together and realized the only $5 he had ALLEGEDLY came from the tooth fairy. So he asked me about it. I stood behind my lie until he looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me the truth.” So I did. I told him that I put the money there.

Fast forward to this weekend, when he looses another tooth. Puts this one under the pillow, wakes up in the morning and there’s no cash there. Now he’s really mad, and comes to me saying that he thinks the tooth fairy is a lie. I stalled, didn’t give an answer either way. Told him he could put his tooth back under his pillow with a note and see what happens. Talk to hubs, we agree to continue the Big Lie. This morning I hand hubs $5 to put under the pillow. Figure I’ll tackle the talk about non-existent gift giving fairies another time.

THEN I get a text from my small child calling me a liar, and saying the tooth fairy is fake and that he believed it. I apologized and explained that when I was a kid, I loved the tooth fairy, so wanted to do the same thing for him. I don’t think he’s speaking to me now.

Anywho, I had hubs check that note that was left with the tooth. It was asking for demanding $10 (twice the normal rate!) for being late. That little extortionist!

After I apologized to the little guy, I told him to go talk to dad. It went something like this –

Little Guy: Dad, is the tooth fairy real?

Hubs: Whatever you believe in your heart, that’s what’s real.

WHAT?! Well I believe in the winning lottery ticket fairy, and that bitch hasn’t made any stops at my house. I digress. There’s something horrible about the change you see in a child’s eyes when he stops believing. That magic is gone, and replaced with a shitty reality in which your parents lie to you, and some of the best things you know are fake. They never look at Christmas morning the same again, after finding out that Santa isn’t real. Sure, they’re excited, but it’s not amazing and magical.

So now we’ve got to have a little talk, my darling sensitive child and I. And I’m going to tell him the truth. And it’s going to be harder on me than on him. *sigh*

A Touch of Smurfitis

My little one is obsessed with food coloring. He thinks it makes everything more palatable, so he uses it a lot. As you can imagine, he's made quite a mess. Yesterday I wanted to avoid the mess so I offered to do it for him. Mistake. He'd left the blue food coloring partially open the last time he used it, so when I pulled it out, one single drop escaped down the side, right onto my thumb. Which is, of course, very blue now.

I am going to refuse to explain this to anyone at work today. Gotta keep some kind of mystery.

Today is ...

not my day, that's what.

After running late to take the kids to school, the little one forgets his lunch. The older one was ratted out by his teacher for having his head down all through math class. I find there is a spot right in front of my left boob on this once pristine shirt - but I find it after I've already left the house. Then I find there's a hole in the sleeve under my right arm, so I'm wearing a sweater all day. well, I guess I was wearing one to cover the spot anyway.

It's the first day of school for my spring semester, maybe that's why I feel like there are dodos chasing me around and chanting, "doom on you... doom on you...."

Google as a Character Witness

Or - Things That Might Could Get You Arrested

My recent Google search history includes the following:

child broken ribs
define mendacious
midnight crazies
drain flush
rush copley
Dunlay's on the Square
where to buy mourning veil

Sure, I could explain these things individually. But they're much funnier when put together and submitted without comment.

P.S. No ribs were broken. I think.

Lightbulb Moment

Ready for this?

Staying in a hotel is just like being a kid and living with your parents.

Someone else cooks, you pile up dishes but never wash them, you have a room that gets messy and eventully someone else steps in and cleans it. There's always clean towels, and you're not the one cleaning them.

Holy shit. I'm going to go home and assign extra chores right now. No way these kids are staying at the Momma's Head Hilton!

To Sleep, or Not to Sleep

Sleep is a subject that is near and dear to my heart. While I'm pretty sure that most mothers will admit to not getting enough sleep, I've read some scary numbers on just how many of us are popping Ambien or chewing Tylenol PM like they're Reese's Pieces. My normal inclination to any problem that smacks of, "It's all in your head" is to say, "Yes, it's all in your head, now stop it."
Editor's note: This does not include clinical depression, or children with things like ADHD, bipolar disorder, etc.
While I'd like to scoff at these women and repeat a line from my favorite faux children's story - Go the Fuck to Sleep - I just can't.
Because I'm one of them.
Either I sit there in the dark reviewing all the things that haven't been done at home or for the kids or my husband or the dogs or the car or how I should really apologize for every rotten thing I've ever done to anyone.... or I toss back those great blue pills and sleep the sleep of the medicated. Of course it's not every night, but enough nights to safely say that something must be way out of whack when you just can't calm your mind long enough to rest.
Most women I know don't really talk about this. We just accept it as a fact of parenthood. But is this the mental price we pay for trying to do it all? Is it worth it?

Stupid Helots

School has once again given me a bit of a nervous twitch. While I'm in the middle of writing a paper about something I don't care about, and quoting people that may or may not have existed, and either way were full of shit.... a funny thing happens. All of a sudden I get into a rhythm, and my focus is razor sharp, and all the pieces come together and I have all the answers, and know exactly where to pull my references to make my point.
Wonder if that's what using meth is like.

Right now I'm sleep deprived and just handed in a paper that probably has no less than 3 different styles of citations. Stupid citations.

Stupid helots.