Unfortunately I can’t unremember any of this

One of my children has been throwing up all afternoon and the other has a 102 degree fever. Pretty certain the one who has thus far not started vomiting just has not started yet.

Alarmingly, cleaning up multiple episodes of The Pukes off of all of our belongings is only the second most disturbing reality of my Monday evening.

Having one of my children ask to have her “bottom temperature” taken (repeatedly) this evening unquestionably topped the list.

What. The. Hell. Kid.

For very special occasions, such as her 60th birthday…

…they sometimes let Mother Catlady out of the institution.

(pretty certain this couple is featured in the first few minutes of Mullholland Drive, dropping Naomi Watts off in Hollywood after she wins a jitterbug contest.)

If only I had the rudimentary photoshop skills necessary to superimpose sharp knives or chainsaws into their hands.

In case you are wondering if MC is deserving of her blog nickname, note the litter box beside the kitchen table.

Happy birthday mom. Love you :)

“I’m two. Don’t f*** with me.”

My now four-year-old Stumps was a high-strung newborn who would routinely scream from 4-7 pm every afternoon for the first four months of her life. So when the Jellybean came along nearly two-and-a-half years later, we didn’t know what hit us. Beanie was such an easy, happy, laid back baby that it was uncanny. No amount of antagonization was going to provoke Beans into fussing. I remember asking Husband more than a few times in those early months, “She’s so chill. She never cries. Do you think there’s something, you know, wrong with her?”

Beanie’s amiable and easygoing temperament was quite fortunate, all things considered, since I am pretty certain I said “Leave the baby’s head alone!” to Stumps at least twice a day that entire first year.

Fast forward to now, and in hindsight, we now know Beans was just stockpiling rage to unleash upon the pitiful creatures of this world throughout her toddler years.

In other news, they are eating a meal at an actual table (see Items #3-5) , so we can consider that progress.

If anyone would like to propose a caption for what the comic strip thought-bubble above my twenty-two-month-old’s withering glare might read, I welcome submissions!

{Edited to add: When you click on the picture, it is not at all blurry, so not sure why it is blurry embedded in the post?}

To mistreat a child. The nerve.

Within the House of Stumps and Beans, a full-fledged theatrical tantrum is occurring at this very moment.

The words being tearfully, hysterically, and repeatedly screamed are “Nooooo!!! I don’t want it cut in sliiices..!!! I don’t want you to slice it!!!” 

From the sheer severity of this episode, one might think the “it” to which she refers is a prized posession. A treasured lovey. The family pet. Perhaps one of her fingers.

In the interest of full disclosure, the subject of this particular tantrum is an apple.

How can you just stand by and witness such tragedy?? Get off your duff, stop reading this blog, and alert the authorities!!

Callous people of this world – have you no souls?! Due to your apathy, ambivalence, and inactivity, a child is suffering!

It’s not just us, is it?

Because who doesn’t come home after a long hard day of napping, eating, and soiling oneself and immediately intentionally collapse into a faceplant on the kitchen floor?

“…Intimacy! That’s the you in me…”

I can neither confirm nor deny that tonight’s Top 10 List items are true stories of romance from the House of Stumps and Beans.

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You know you’ve been married awhile when…

…a nightly dutch oven is as much a part of your bedtime routine as saying goodnight to your spouse.

…offering to take care of the kids’ bedtime rituals is the most successful type of foreplay if you want to ensure that you will score.

…”scoring” means getting a really long, deep, thorough, and attentive footrub.

…you beckon your spouse into the bathroom, point to the inside of the toilet bowl, and say “Baby come look at this. Should I call a doctor?”

…you beckon your spouse into the bathroom, point to the inside of the toilet bowl, and say “Baby come look at this. Grab the camera. Call Ripley’s.”

…the ultimate betrayal is not infidelity; it is discarding your spouse’s most cherished pair of exceptionally and unacceptably holey underwear.

…your beloved occasionally checks the garbage to make sure you haven’t committed the ultimate betrayal by discarding said cherished underwear. And while you aren’t 100% certain, you suspect that there was one time you caught him cradling that particularly frightful pair while whispering “My precious”.

…Your level of disgust with, and outraged overreaction to his farts pretty directly correlates with his general level of happiness in your marriage.

…You reserve your sexiest most risque lingerie – you know, those pink plaid pajama pants with the sassy word on the butt and the matching pink sweatshirt- for very special occasions like your anniversary or weekends when your parents are sleeping over in the next room and have promised they will get up with the kids the next morning.

and finally…

…you have ever yelled across the house “Hey! Bring me a new roll of toilet paper! Imma ’bout to tear it up in here!”