Google says “birthdays are like…”
… baths you have one once a year whether you need it or not.
… hairballs… with each one it makes you gag.
… puppies, the more you have of them the more likely it is that your furniture will smell of wee. I believe it.
… boogers…the more you have, the harder it is to breathe. isn’t that the truth!?
… feathers in the broad wing of time. huh?
… auditory fusion food, and who doesn’t love that? I don’t even know what that is.
… roses… to be enjoyed. sure, if someone remembers to buy them for me.
… glasses of wine: after you’ve had a few, you don’t bother to count them. I hear ya!
… earlobes. They’re long, they’re fleshy, and they’re different. wha? sure.
… psychological report cards indicating how well we have performed so far. yeah, I get it.

This morning I woke up late, with a huge headache (nothing coffee can’t fix) and a pain in my lower back. Gettin’ old’s awesome!

I remember when I was younger and I would be so upset when someone would forget my birthday. I would remind everyone and anyone who would listen, today is MY birthday dammit, you do as I say! It’s funny how that changes the older we get?

Mike left this morning at his normal time. Gave me a kiss, as usual, and told me he loved me. Same as everyday. He didn’t remember my birthday, again. After 7 years with this man I am more tolerable then I should be of the fact that he can’t (and hasn’t) remembered my birthday; unless he’s reminded by my bitching and nagging at the end of the day me. I think I’ve adapted to his thinking of it just being another day. But I won’t let him know that. I’m gonna milk this for all I can!

** Edited part:

Get this. Mike just called to say that he was on his way home. I reminded him that he has to take that car for an emissions test in order to get the new sticker (US friends: we have a government regulated system where we are required to check the emissions of our cars every 2 years in order to renew our plates (tags)).

He says: Why, we have until the end of the month to get the sticker.
To which I reply: No it’s 11:59pm on (my) birthday
Him: Today’s the 16th already, holy shit. Alright, I’ll try and make it back on time. I’ll call when I’m closer in case you’re going to miss the appointment, then you can cancel. Love ya. Bye.

That’s it. Fucker.

You think if I reminded him that we had wild passionate monkey sex for the first time 7 years ago today he would remember that!?

So Happy Mother’s Day and all that jazz. Day late and a buck short I think the saying is. I’m not really all about the gifts for Mother’s Day, all I want is a little recognition for carrying, birthing and nursing our son. Mike, is by far the least romantic person, but I knew that going in. He’s lovable and wonderful is so many other ways, besides I got what I really wanted. A day of the three of us doing stuff together! Wanna know what we did for Mother’s Day? Sure you do.

One reason I love shopping at WalMrt so much? They never have what we’re looking for, and when they do it’s either the wrong size, doesn’t match or some douche tried it on and got it all funky with deodourant or something. Hopefully deodourant.

A Saturday morning trip resulted in a weekend long escapade trying to find The Perfect Pair of Sandals for Capitan Pooypants (Carter). Poor kid’s been sweating his little piggers off in runners that are a size too small for the past week, so it seemed only fitting to diminish the magnitude of torture sooner then later - you know, since we hope to have him pick us a nice retirement home in the future; maybe change a few shitty diapers. Frankly, I say he owes me that much.

ANY-way. The Perfect Sandals were found at the local WalMrt on Saturday morning. Carter loved them (”shoooooooe”) and daddy picked them out, so they were a winner all.the.way.
Show sizes match? Check. Home we go.
Carter wanted his new shoes on to play in the backyard. Fine. Put the shoes on. Only to notice that they are the same damn foot. Two right shoes. Fuck! Back to the store first thing Sunday morning.

Do you think we could find the same pair of sandals again? Nope. They’re there, but not the same size. There’s no left of these shoes in a 7 anywhere. Jay-seus.
I was ready to just pick another pair and go home. But No. Can’t do that.

Me: Ok, grab the Diego sandals, let’s go.
Carter: Go-Go (read: Diego)!! *arms outstretched* GOOOO-GOOOO!
Mike: No, I’m sick of settling. We’re getting these damn sandals.
Me: Sick of settling? It’s fuckin’ WalMrt, can’t settle more then that Mike.
Mike: Fuck off, we’re getting these sandals.

Thinking this was going to be a short in and out trip I agreed to just go. No shower, just head out the door. I think I even had dried crusty drool on my chin. Think he cared? Nah. Off to the next not-so-local WalMrt.

Would they have them in stock? Nope! Would they have anyone remotely interested in seeing if they have anything in the back? Ha! It’s bloody WalMrt; they wouldn’t check the back if he’d a offered a million dollars to do it.
By this point Mike’s now on a mission for The Perfect Sandal. He will not give up until he has this tiny coveted pair of sandals in his hand; fuck, you’d almost think they were made of gold. Our adventure to find the Holy Grail a pair of The Perfect Sandals hit a small snag; Carter was miserable since snack time had come and gone and I wanted another coffee. Mike was easily convinced to stop and get my coffee so I could logically (read: coherently) think up our next plan of attack on our quest for The Perfect Sandal at the really-not-local WalMrt. *roll eyes*

Lunch time soon approaching, I haven’t dressed, Carter doesn’t have a diaper bag, I possibly have crusty drool on my face along with ratty messed up unwashed hair and Mike is driving us 20 minutes away to the really-not-local WalMrt. Just to prove a point. He’s sick of settling. Fuck! I get it already!

So the really-not-local store had the shoes. The quest for The Perfect Sandal was completed in a mere 3 hours, 3 stores, 2 coffees, 1 blueberry muffin, 4 McDonny’s cheeseburgers, 2 small fries, 1 diaper change, 2 fights and 2 tantrums.

Successful day in my books.

My husband’s undying love for me has nothing to do with the fact that I am unconditionally loyal, fiercely in love with him, good in bed, or even that I play a mean skin flute.

Only the fact that I am downright wicked at polishing a chrome rim keeps him faithful and married to me.

For the past three weeks Mike has been on course for workwhich means that he is up with us in the morning as opposed to out the door at 5:30am.
It’s been GREAT for me! I sleep in (until 6am), have a leisurely shower, a chance to shave (if i want to. note to self: do it!), even get my make up and hair done; all without the whines of a toddler wanting a bottle and an ass change.
Since Mike’s been on course he offered to take on the morning responsibilities of getting Carter ready as well as pick up and drop off (I think he did it so that he can drive the better car). I’ve been loving the “vacation” from my usually so hectic mornings. Mike, not so much.

From the day I returned to work and took on the responsibility of getting Carter up and ready as well as daycare pick up and drop off. Mike always had some dig:

What are you complaining about, it’s not like it’s hard…
You have to dress him, sit him at the table and then take him to daycare, how hard can it be?
You’re always complaining about it, maybe if you were more organized…

For any parent that has a set time to get there shit together and get out of the house with a toddler in tow, you know what a feat this is.

Toddlers are one of the most unpredictable beings on the face of the earth. Forget the fuckin’ wild animals. No lion, tiger, shark, or even a ChowChow has anything on a stubborn, tired and picky toddler. You have to watch your back with these little ankle biters; for one second they are happy and laughing … then you utter words “Want breakfast?” all hell breaks loose and the kid loses his damn mind! I don’t think Carter is dealing well with having choices. If you tell him what he’s eating and tell him where to sit, he’s better off.

Mike has this thing with liberating a 20 month old and letting him make his own decisions. What he wants to eat, where he wants to sit, what fuckin’ spoon he wants to use! Granted it’s a great plan, but not always necessary and more times then not, it’s a hindrance.
After Mike goes through the list of choices of what colour spoon, what chair, what sippy cup the kids eyes are practically bugged out of his head, he’s delusional with hunger and annoyed to his very core. It’s a tailspin of utter chaos from that point on. The rest of their morning ends up with Carter crying and both of them frustrated.

Where am I? In the washroom, peacefully applying my make-up and smirking. I am so bad. He thinks it’s so damn easy. Sucker!

Now instead of him telling me that he understands how hard it really is and that he won’t assume how it easy it is anymore, you know, since he’s been in the situation… he says that I don’t do anything! Carter’s crying, won’t eat and all I do is ignore him without offering to help out. *sigh* Will I ever win?

Kids are temperamental and difficult, especially when they sense your frustration. It’s a lose lose battle as far as I’m concerned. Just keep your cool and realize that children don’t have concept of time.

See? Cool as a clam.

(Until I am back in the front line in 2 weeks.)

Let the vacation live on! I’m living this up as long as I can dammit!