The Eve of Halloween

Today Evan refused to wear his Dhost Costume to school. Refused to wear his Dhost costume in the costume parade. Refused to wear his Dhost costume for Grandma. Only when a popsicle was used as a bribe did he don his costume for a meer 60 seconds, and then it was stripped off like it was on fire.

Tomorrow should be interesting... you're not getting a damn dinosaur costume, kid. I will win this one. Oh, yes, I will win.

The Eve of the Eve of Halloween

Evan's new favorite song is Frera Jacka, but instead of singing the "normal" words, it goes something like this:

"I want to hit you. I want to hit you. Yes I do! Yes I do! I want to hit you. I want to hit you. Because I do. Because I do."

The good thing is that this little ditty has pretty much replaced most actual hitting. The bad thing is that his favorite made-up song is full of violence. Ah, Violent Rock. It starts so young.

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We have a big Frankenstein on our front door- you know, the flimsy cardboard type, complete with "moveable" limbs, that you tape to the door and hope it lasts through this year? Anyway, we bought one that was sort of "cartoony" for Evan's sake.

The first 2 weeks went something like this:

Door Opens.
Evan: "AHHHH! A MONSTER!"
Door Opens.
Evan: "AHHHH! A MONSTER!"

The last week or so goes more like this:
"Hiya Fwank!" Proceeds to give Frank a high five. "Seeya Yater, Fwank!"

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I actually made Evan's costume this year. He wants to be a ghost. Has wanted to be a ghost since the minute Halloween was mentioned. He hasn't even turned to look at the the pre-made costumes I've tried to lure him into. He would just shake his head, and almost in defiance say, "no, I want to be a Dhost!" So, he's been wearing a sheet of fleece over his head with 2 little eye holes for the past 3 weeks like it's made of a million dollars. Finally, this weekend, I slaved away at the sewing machine and actually made my own little ghost costume for him, complete with hood and a cloth "mask" that he can flip out of the way if he gets sick of the ghost thing. It looks damn sweet, if I do say so myself. He was so excited, he put it on, screamed at himself in the mirror, and promptly announced:

"Mommy, I don't want to be a ghost anymore. I want to be a dinosaur! "

Yeah. You'll all be seeing his ghost pictures. Screw the dinosaur.

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When asked what he was going to be for Halloween, Evan obediently told the next door neighbor, "A Dhost!" He then proceeded to tell the neighbor that she was going to be a Witch and Grandma was going to be Spiderman. The neighbor just laughed, but I'm not sure what Grandma is going to do when she hears that Evan expects her to be wearing tights and a mask this Halloween.

A Riddle For You

Q: What do you get when your 3 year old flushes Sidewalk Chalk down the toilet?

A: Flooded Bathroom.
B: Gurgling Toilet, complete with colored foam.
C: Broken Pipe.
D: Flooded Basement.
E: All of the above.

Any guesses?

Dear Sir, Get the Hell Out of My Bubble!

Ok, unless you are my husband or my child, or there are six people crammed across the backseat of a car and it usually fits three comfortably, there is no need to be that close to me, so why do you insist, freaky man? Either you are oblivious to the bubble that is so sacredly mine that you are repeatedly bursting with your creepy closeness, or you are, for lack of a better word, retarded.

Get out! What don't you understand about my body language? Am I so out of tune with other men that you think my side-stepping, shoulder-turning, eye-avoiding and conversation-ending is mistaken as an invite for closer contact? Must you be fractions of a centimeter away from me at any given time? Must you track me down to intrude into my bubble just when I thought I've made my point, that I have escaped you??

I am aware that you think you are god's gift to women, you little troll, but you are not. You are bizarre, and beyond lucky you found a woman who may think you are at least half as attractive as YOU think you are, so stick with that. Take your sleeveless 80's gym shirt elsewhere and stop fishing for compliments and flattering yourself- believe me, you don't want to know what I'm thinking about you. Please go back to your troll world where you are the King, and get the HELL out of my bubble.

Shudder

Bad Bad Day

Days like today, I wish I could turn my brain off. Just make it stop. But instead, I'm tortured by thoughts that just flow, non-stop, until the thoughts puddle and overflow into other parts of my life.

Today's main thought stream is: Do you think that souls that are tortured in this life, be it man or animal, receive some sort of "get out of jail free" card in the next life? Do you think those souls get a better deal the next time around?

I'm a believer in the afterlife. Not necessarily your typical cartoon-like rendering of heaven, though that's a good name for whatever it is that is out there. But the soul of each of us has to go somewhere, even if it's just the essence of each of us, the energy, the heart- whatever you call it, there is definitely something in each of us. A lot of people don't believe that animals have that same something, but I do. I have dogs, after all, and I know and feel their personalities and sense of humor and humility and happiness. They have souls, too, and I don't care what any body else says about that.

But what happens when a soul is damaged so much in this life that it cannot go on? That it becomes broken, unrepairable, or anguished? Does it get a make-over on it's way onto the next world? A band-aid? Or will it always be a broken soul?

I have a theory that when a being dies, it soul will go to wherever it is happiest, and that in being happy, a soul can be healed. When my gram died, and I dreamt she was happy, and healthy and oh-so-real at her cottage, the place that meant the most to her in this life, I knew that's where she was. Her soul was living on there, somewhere. Whether that energy became part of the trees, or the water, or just hangs out making sure everything is ok, I knew some part of her went there.

Maybe souls get to travel the world, maybe the universe, no longer constrained by a cumbersome body. Maybe the just settle in wherever they are needed most. And I'm sure some get lost.

But I like to believe that, someday, when my body goes, my soul can go somewhere happy and content, where it can wait for the souls of the people and animals I have loved and will love, and we can just have one big happy reunion.

What do you think is waiting out there?

Sticky Note To Self: Wash the Floors!

We were at a friend's house last night to help them with a new puppy, and as is rule in our house, we take off our shoes there. What I should have noticed was that the lady of the house walked around in flip-flops, man of the house walked around in gym shoes, and daughter of the house walked around in slippers. That should have been my first hint.

After about 10 minutes of walking back and forth with the dog and Evan, I had to brush something off my foot. I was horrified to see the bottom of my foot was already a shade of grayish black. I stopped to think. Had I walked around outside at home before coming over? No. Walked in the garage barefoot? No. I had showered just before coming over. That dirt was from their floors. Oh, yuck.

Now, I thought it would look obvious if I put my shoes on right then after being barefoot for the first portion of our visit, so when we went to take the dog out, I thought I could just leave my shoes on when we came back in. But my manners are well-engraved, and D'oh! I took them off again without even thinking. So, for the rest of the night, I brushed various substances off my feet, tried not to openly grimace at my blackened feet, and couldn't wait to get home and wash them off. And when we got home, I did just that. I scrubbed Evan's feet , too, as he slept soundly in his bed- his clean sheets, for crying out loud! I also took a hard look at my floors.

Don't get me wrong, my house can get messy. I have a 3 year old and 3 dogs. You will more than occasionally find a tumbleweed of dog hair or a sticky spot of juice. The catch is, I take care of cleaning it up when I find them. I vacuum 5-6 times a week (3 dogs, remember?) and wash the floors weekly as well. When I don't have time to do either, I sweep up the dog hair on the wood floors and spot clean the floors. You may walk in and find dishes in the sink, matchbox cars all over the place, and magazines sprawled over the table, but underneath all of the mess is a clean house. You will not get black feet from walking through my house, nor will you have to brush off various substances from the bottom of them. Yes, you may pick up some dog hair if you wear socks, but it's clean dog hair- they all just got baths yesterday.

My house gets messy, no doubt about it, but I invite you to walk through it barefoot. You won't be sorry. Bottom line is that there is a difference between a messy house and a dirty house. Don't you agree?

May Day! May Day!

It's official. We miss Daddy. We had our first major meltdown today, and when I say "we", I mean "we".

First Evan punched the dog hard enough to make the dog yelp. Then I yelled at Evan, who snottily said "sorry" to the dog, so I told him it was time for the naughty spot. Fast forward to kicking, screaming, seething ball of 3 year old and seething mommy trying to get said kid to stay on the naughty spot. My blood pressure was waaaay up, so I myself sat in my "naughty spot" to cool down while Evan carried on, throwing his naughty spot (aka, the chair) across the room and glaring at me, daring me to make him sit, which I eventually did, but not without practically losing an eye to a flying kick and not without physically holding him down like a crazy prisoner. The whole time he's sobbing, screeching, and just going ballistic.

10 minutes later, when the timer finally went off, I asked him why he punched the dog.
"Because I don't know what to do."
"About what?"
"I am vewy vewy sad."
"Why are you sad? Do you miss Daddy?"
"Yeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaasssss! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The absolute heart-wrenching thing was how hard this poor child sobbed. He put his whole soul into missing his daddy, you could feel his heart just writhing in pain. I scooped him up and told him how much I missed Daddy, too, and that he'd be home soon, and we talked about all the fun stuff we'd do when daddy got home. All this through my own tears, missing daddy, too.

When he calmed down, he sniffled and confided, "I wuv daddy, really really, a lot."

I know, buddy. Me, too.

Two days to go.