NapjunkieMom

Being sleep-deprived on Sunday, I accidently put my elastic waist jeans on backwards, and since I am a mere accessory for a beautiful baby, no one noticed.

After a day of being strict with Bobby about his behavior (share your toys please, don't hit your playgroup friends) he comes to me and says "Mommy, I have your punisher out. " I say "Honey, I don't know what you mean." "It's your punisher, the one you use all the time." Now I'm really worried. He took me to the computer screen and pointed at Microsoft Publisher . "There's your punisher".

The robins are back, the daffodils are poking through the dirt, and somewhere,there is the sound of a child's carefree laughter as he chases a stroller across a parking lot! Fortunately, both the stroller and the parking lot were empty.

On Friday, I was eating my lunch, feeding the baby his lunch, and reading Hop on Pop to Bobby. I thought to myself, "I'm getting the hang of this parenting two kids thing", and immediately started to worry. The last time I thought I was getting the hang of something (cooking) I forgot to add water to my vegetable steamer and burned the pan.

I have had several people, because of my grey hair, mistake me for the boys' grandma. I guess it's better than them asking when the new baby is due.

Jim was talking to Bobby, and being thoroughly frustrated with him, said "You're a brat." Bobby said "I'm not a brat". Since his only exposure to that word are those awful, awful commercials for those awful, awful (did I mention awful) Bratz dolls, I told Jim I thought Bobby might be thinking he was being called a trashy teenage girl doll. Now, I know I shouldn't judge by their looks. They may be excellant students, they may be kind to the elderly, and they may be active in their churches, but they look like hookers. Why do these dolls exist, and why are they being marketed to children 4,000 times a day on Nickelodean? And don't even get me started on why anyone, anywhere would create a cartoon based on Gene Simmon's life.

I didn't realize that, along with every contagious disease that comes down the pike, that I would also catch the dreaded scourge of whining. I was at the doctor's office yesterday, loaded down with sweet little baby, when the receptionist handed me a three page document to fill out. "Do I have to do it now?" I whined.

Imagine my surprise this afternoon when I get a call from a man claiming to be Jonny's agent. Since Jonny is rarely out of my sight, I wondered how and when he might have contacted someone to handle his business affairs. The guy was blunt. "Jonny isn't happy with 8% of the blog. He wants at least 20%" "But he's preverbal. How much can I do with that?" "Yeah, he's preverbal now, but have you heard his babbling lately?" "I admit, his babbling is very cute". "Cute? He's takes his art seriously. You can practically tell what he's talking about!" "I can go as much as 12% max. The kid doesn't have it yet." "But the rosy glow, the winning smile, the kid's a natural born star. You gotta give him at least 18%" "Tell you what," I said, "when he says "Mama", he can have 15%" So we reached a deal. I got off the phone to find that Hannah, our 14 year old cat

Bobby has a virulent case of the "Butwhys" in addition to his chronic case of "Argumentitis". He is momentarily calm (Teletubbies), but I anticipate a long afternoon.

Bobby was afraid to go into the bathroom because of something on the floor. I asked, "Is it a big spider?" "Yes, a big spider, a medium sized spider and a small spider."

This is a message from the emergency mom broadcast system. As of 10:50 am Wednesday, March 9th, there is a Code Orange Juice alert on for my kitchen. At an unknown time earlier today, a large pitcher of orange juice was left in my fridge, without a lid. I repeat, the orange juice is without a lid. A search of the premises revealed no lid for the orange juice. This orange juice was left at the height of a preschooler in the front of the fridge, without shielding with other large objects such as a closed milk container. Last known whereabouts of lid were with a small boy, brown hair, approximately 4 years old. When asked about the lid, he said "Sure I know where it is", but further questioning revealed the subject was unable to produce said lid. At this time, emergency tin foil will be placed on the orange juice, and the jerry-rigged orange juice system placed out of the way of small hands. That is all. Oh, and the vertigo is better.

Follow the harrowing adventures of a mother, suffering from vertigo, as she tries to care for two small children. She can't drive, she can't walk a straight line--how will she be able to diaper, feed and entertain her tots? Very carefully.

My theory is that "Napjunkie" and "Mom" are synonyms. I know that I personally think the next nap I take it going to be "the one", the one that clears my head and gives me the energy I need to be supermom instead of subparmom, but it never happens.

Jim looked agast when I told him I'd started a blog. He insisted that I use an alias for each of us. So Jim is Mr. Man (or MM) . Bobby is Little Mister Man (LMM). Jon is Little Mister Baby Man (LMBM), and I, of course, would be Mrs. Sourpickle (Mrs. S). The real Mrs. Sourpickle was my imaginary friend who lived in the apartments on the way to the mall in my hometown. Jim was also very concerned that I would publish the ungarnished truth about our relationship. I told him I'd always use the parsley leaf of whimsy to cover up anything that might embarrass him.

It's become apparent that Bobby needs to have his own blog. After all, he did have his own email address a full year before he learned not to soil his pants. Or would that be ratcheting up the precocious child (and obnoxious mom) meter a bit much?

Bobby wants to play now. Right now! Now his knee is on my left arm as I type. When I posted the first message, he looked at it and said "That smells like your email!"

Bobby wants to help me with this blog. Since he's 3 1/2 years old, his help consists of poking me with a baby bottle brush and leaning on my left arm while I type. Oh, yeah, he also provides 90 % of my material. Baby Jon provides 8%, and husband Jim provides 1%. The other 1% is a scathing criticism of modern American values.