The Incident

So, before I had kids, I never wanted to be one of those parents.

You know the type. The one who is constantly over correcting people, giving semi-dirty looks to someone who isn't doing something for your kid the way that you would be doing it. Someone who is constantly making lists and schedules and making sure I appear to be raising the most uptight baby on the planet. I never wanted to be a parent that was so rigid, if you looked at my baby, you doubted if he was able to sit on his own, or if the stick up his ass was holding him up.

Why am I bringing this up, you ask? Well, here is what happened and please, please, please tell me if you think I am going a tad bit overboard.

Here goes.

So my parents are in town this weekend to see The Baby. We have a super fun time when they visit. Lucky for me, my parents are actually more scheduled than The Baby is, so their trip is predictable, but fun.

Example.

Every Friday, after they arrive, we always go to Truluck's. It is this amazing seafood restaurant with the world's best happy hour. The food is amazing and the drinks are also great. So great, in fact, that I am pretty sure just setting a Cosmo by a breathalyzer would set it off. It was on their last trip that my mam learned that The Baby likes to take little naps in the booth while we eat. Throw a blanket down and instant crib. He loves it as much I love their carrot cake. We are all winners!

Then, Saturday, we hit a breakfast spot and then dinner at this little I-Talian place around the corner where my dad will proceed to order the veal and talk about how it is the best veal he has ever eaten, while we rehash how inexpensive the meal was. Good times.

Well, today, we decide to mix things up and take advantage of the amazing weather. October and November are God's way of paying the citizens of Houston back for suffering through the summer months. So we head to a great park.

We start strolling around the park and looking at this and that. We pass the yoga class that is going on that my parents accidentally talk a little too loud around causing a few people to break from their fancy-schmancy yoga poses and wonder where the noise is coming from.

Strolling, strolling, strolling and there is a vendor making little mini-doughnuts. By the way, I don't know why the gal is churching it up, they are funnel cakes pure and simple. But that is neither here nor there. So my dad, having just polished off an omelette, ordered a 1/2 dozen. Followed by another dozen and a half so the doughnut gal "doesn't have to make change." Naturally. (I really can't give him too much crap. They were delish).

So while I am taking pics of The Baby looking super cute in his little halloween outfit, I find myself actually having to say the words:

"Um, Husband...maybe we shouldn't be feeding our baby a doughnut".

Seriously.

And you know what he says??

"Whaaaaa? He is a mini-me. His digestive system is just like mine, just smaller. I will just give him smaller bites. He can take it."

Really?? Our (almost) 5 month old can handle a bite of a powdered, fried doughnut???? He has never eaten anything that didn't require me to mix it with water before consumption.

So, now, because I said something....because I thought it wasn't the best idea to give The Baby a piece of fried, doughy carbs topped with artificial sugar, I am all of a sudden "Super Freaky Mom".

Seriously.

If I am wrong, please tell me....but I know where most of you live.

The Plot Thickens

So Jane...how does that deer mount look?

Huh. Funny you should ask in this blaag that I happen to have complete control over.

The Head doesn't look like anything. Wanna know why? Because when The Husband and I went to pick the mount from Mothers Day Out, the taxidermist was totally closed. And I mean done.

So here is where it gets kinda nasty. See, The Husband and I do not fight over, really, anything. The Husband just knows to agree with me. It is one of his worst qualities. One of mine is that I often spit whilst I talk. Ssssorry.

However, we go to the taxidermist shop and it is closed tighter than a Krispy Creme next door to a Weight Watchers meeting. There is nothing inside.

Nothing.

So, when The Husband gets back in the car, he looks all defeated.

Me: "Um, so what's up?"

The Husband: "They closed"

Me: "Wha?"

TH: "I guess they moved or something..."

This is where is gets uncomfortable....

Me: "How much did you already give them?"

I am met with a silence that is deader than the googledy-eyed deer The Husband lured to it's death with his camo style Mr. Rodger's cardigan.

Needless to say, The Husband was less than thrilled that I was more worried about where our family monies were, rather than statement of his hunt-man-ship.

Don't worry...I totally calmed him down with a pudding cup.

Bambi

So The Husband loves to hunt.

He is a Native American, so it is really just part of who he is, as a person. (And,

if any of you frequent any of the local Choctaw casino's, I thank you...as does The Baby's college fund). Hunting is just part of him...you know, One With The Earth and all.

Well, it seems each time he goes to hunt, it is for different animal, which needs a different gun, different anti-smelling gear and different camo. I know, right? Different camo? I am suppose to be OK with the hundreds and hundreds he has spent on "clothes that look like trees" when he not-so-mockingly asks me why my Chi Hair Dryer is on the ground. Really? We live in HOUSTON! It takes an act of God to not look like I am fresh from puberty every morning.

Anyway, so The Husband goes on a hunt a few months back. He knows the guy who owns the ranch and promises to mount anything he kills as a nod to his host.

Big Mistake.

So, The Husband does, in fact, kill a "deer". He brings it home to have all of the things done to it that need to be done. He actually brings it back in a huge corpse sized cooler and lets it thaw in my garage. Yeah, hi.

Meanwhile, as The Husband is telling me all about his slaughter and, I am not going to lie, there are a few things that are not adding up.

Such as....

The Husband, so proudly, tells me he got two shots off to get this deer. This is a big deal as most hunters can only get off one shot before their prey gets scared off never to return. Why was The Husband able to get off another shot, you ask? Because, after the first shot, the deer decided to go and take a nap by the feeder, so The Husband was able to get him on the second round. Huh.

Also, the deer seems to have antlers that are not even. In fact, one is fully formed, and the other is about 1/4 the size. It was so odd, the taxidermist laughed at The Husband for spending the money on having it mounted.

But Jane, "Couldn't you have the skin all tanned, or whatever, and made some great baby pics" you ask? Yes, except, with this type of deer, the fur is MANGY!

Here is where I insert the image that the deer The Husband actually nabbed. Imagine, if you will, this poor less-than-smart deer sporting a wicked case of "Billy-Bob-Teeth" and some googledy eyes. I am fairly certain, that if I visited the scene of the crime, I would encounter a pudding cup and Rainbow Bright lunch box.

I would say that it tasted delightful, except for the fact that our fridge died, and I had to toss out a zillion pounds of the deer after it rotted to the point I could see the roaches walking up to our house with lobster bibs on.

I am sure you can imagine how torn up I was when The Husband was unable to track down the Short Bus on his last hunting trip and came home empty handed.

Whaaaaaat?

So, I don't know what happened to my last post. It looks all strange and I don't know what that is all about.

What can I say? I went to my first Junior League meeting and I drank to much.

What?

Family Circle

So my brother and sister in law are the proud parents of a beautiful, amazing baby girl who is smart and gifted and actually opened for Conan the other night. You should have seen her. She rocked it. Their precious bundle is about 4 months younger than our itty bitty baby. And, my brother and I have had so much fun talking babies and pregnancies and all things about our lives to come being parents.

Honestly, Tam, as I call him in my Mam voice, is good people. Instead of "should-coulda's" I have "wishes and wants"....

Like I wish I was as funny as he is. He is hysterical. People have actually lost bodily control when around him. I am not just missing the math or spelling gene from my family pool, I am also missing the humor gene. I once thought of going on a humor mission trip, but they didn't have Franzia there, so I was out.

I also wish we lived closer. He is in Kentucky. I am in H-Town. Bad times. It is hard to kick ass at a game of spades when you live, roughly, 20 hours away. Or, it is hard to recount that time when we had a few cocktails (AKA: 97 solo cups of keg beer) at Dave Simpson's house and then tow' da goal posts down after whooping the Sooners. One of the best days ever, BTW. (Tam, 'member when we tow' da goal posts down?? You don't want to say it in your office, but you soooooo do).

Another, is that I want his daughter, Annie to know how much her Aunt Jane loves her. Not just when she is 13 and shopping for her first bikini or when she wants to "try" some Wild Island flavored Boones....but all the time.

However.....

In talking with Tam I have become increasingly more neurotic about being a parent. See, Tam was a better parent than me when I was still pregnant, and they still had a long way to go. One thing he is fearful of, as most parents are, is SIDS. I have found myself checking on The Wee One much more frequently since Annie's arrival-I guess my senses are heightened too. So, I check The Hammer (oh, that is his UFC name) all the time to make sure he is still good.
But, all this parenting has made me think about my own Mam. What she must have been thinking. Her parenting ideas, the way she wanted to do things....

And in all of this I realized.....

When she would sneak into my room at night when I was a teenager and feel my feet? She wasn't checking to make sure that I hadn't stuffed my bed with some pillows and snuck out my window...she was making sure I wasn't a victim of SIDS.

Sure I was 15, but can you ever be too sure?

Good Mam.

Check Please

So I decide that I need some new clothes. Not an easy task to tackle with Sir Screams A Lot. However, I head out to the local mall and am not taking "No" for an answer. I am in search for some jeans to hide my newly (OK, semi-newly) acquired muffin top, and the cutest tops to hide my jelly belly that would make Santa look like the newest Jenny Craig model.

Although The Baby is fed, watered and recently went out (wait, that was my dogs...I am confused), I knew I was on a time clock. Meltdown was inevitable and every second counts.

I only make it to one store....and I get my dressing room loaded, and I mean loaded, with goodies The Husband is sure to give me his best under-bite-smile when I tell him how much it all cost. This is the same "smile" he gives me when I ask him if he is mad when we get our ridiculously high electric bill because someone just has to sleep with the thermostat set to 68.

So Major Meltdown decides he has had enough of his stroller and is having nothing to do with his toys that adorn his carrier. Really, the kid is set up. The car seat is gaudier than a Mexican car lot.

Hoping to buy some time, I pick him up. I already managed to put on 2 tops with such fury, you would have thought they were actually laced with AIDS. I am still wearing one top and Baby Einstein decides that he needs to vomit allllllll over the shirt that I do not own.

Needless to say, I am the proud owner of a new semi-too-small cami that smells life barf.

So, Um, Yeah....

So here is the thing.

Blogging is hard.

Like "Trying to hide the fact that I get my period while I am still in middle school" hard....

Or "Running the shower for a longer than necessary to hide the fact that I am actually in the bathroom taking a deuce" hard...

Or even "Liking what my aunt gave me for Christmas even though it has a tin-foil lid and Iknow it came from her Gift Closet" hard.

I think it has to do with that fact that I really don't have anything to say. Really, about anything. Or if I do happen to have something to say, it really would not interest anyone...or may totally gross them out.

Or both.

Probably both.

Example.

I have 2 dogs. They are great. A black lab-mix, named Jock (named after the old patriarch from the TV show Dallas), who is 12 1/2 (cause when you are that old, the 1/2 matters).

Then there is Charlie, a chocolate lab who is 7. We named him Charlie, because, well, I told The Husband that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would have to name him Charlie. To which, he told me, that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would promptly get divorced. So we settled for the dog name.

Jock is excellent and wise and a total couch potato. Although he is a 90 pound lap dog, he has magical powers. One time we left him at home while we went out of town and the dog sitter had to drag (literally pull) him off the sofa to go to the bathroom. His bladder truly inspires my dad to be all that he can be. He once ate a 6 pack of Sara Lee bagels and chased it with a 1/2 pint of Chinese liquor and was sound as a pound. No joke...we found this out after we came home from church. Upon telling The Husband, his initial response, was "Christ, is he drunk?". Good times. (And, no, he wasn't).

Charlie, not so much. Yes, he is tiny and cuddly and fuzzy, but he barks at everything. Like people walking by, other dogs, little girls in frilly dresses holding balloons, evil. Pretty much everything. He also has a liiiiiittle problem called....

Eating poop.

His poop, Jock's poop, the poop of other dogs. It is very gross. I am, however, thankful that it isn't as bad as a friend of mine...their dog has an affection for lady-time things. They once got in a wicked game of tug-of-war, and I realize it could be worse. However, there is really nothing grosser that after your dog burps and smelling thenastiest fart, just knowing that he brings new meaning to the phrase "Shit Eating Grin". I can't even go into how nasty is has gotten in the past. Really, that is for your benefit.

However, Charlie never seems to eat the poop when it is good for me. Like when he had a wonderful smorgasbord of Jock's Meals Past, only to rid himself of them 9 times......in 3 different rooms of our house. What?? It is like leftovers?? Or when Jock has a slight accident, say on the wood floor landing, and I find it after I realize I didn't just forget a dirty diaper somewhere within the wall of out house. Why could he not pull his own weight and little clean up then?

Then, this week, The Baby is playing in his jump-a-roo and having all sorts of fun and laughing and cooing and basically being freakishly cute. So, I look at him, and think, "Yeah, I totally want a piece of that". I mean, who wouldn't? He is rocking that jump-a-roo and totally making it the master of his domain.

You see, the seat swivels and slides so he can rotate all around keeping him totally engrossed and "learning". However, The Baby is too short to reach the floor, so I put this handy tray underneath it so he can reach it and bounce his little heart away. He lourves it.

Anyway, so I look up at him and am truly admiring how he is swiveling and playing with all the toys. He is rocking this thing more than the You Tube video of KISS singing Rick Astley. (you know you want to.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf79MCuQ8jM) I wonder how I could be so lucky to be so blessed with such a smart child. What did I ever do?

Then I realized....yeah...

The Baby had taken a massive deuce and literally was playing in it. He was slipping and sliding in his own stuff while looking so cute in his jump-a-roo.

So I take him out to change him, and basically burn the entire toy. But wait, when I get back to the toy after giving The Baby a bath, and what do I find?? The little tray The Baby was playing on was totally clean.

You soooooo know where I am going with this.

I am not saying he didn't do me a solid, but still.