Search me

According to How to Blog gurus, good bloggers don't say "Sorry for the lack of posts lately." So, I guess this is sorry for the lack of posts lately, and sorry for not being a good blogger.

As I've mentioned, we just bought a house, and in between moving in, unpacking, searching for just about everything I thought we'd put in a convenient place so we wouldn't have to search for it, clogged toilets and fountaining poop water, being covered in cat vomit, and miscellaneous moving tasks, I haven't had much time or opportunity for blogging (I only just re-got the Internet). Also, my son has winter break, and has the annoying habit of wanting me to actually spend time with him.

I kid, of course. I have as much fun as he does.

I did make time for Christmas decoration, but most of the house is in various states of mess, so you just get to see a corner. (Who am I kidding? It's just an excuse to show off a kid Christmas picture.)


And in the meantime, until I have more meaty posts, I'll leave you with a smattering of search terms that result in this blog. It leaves me wondering, sometimes:

Arizonawriter: Woo! People are searching for me! Or, at least, a writer in Arizona. I'll choose to believe the former.

I just made you say underwear: Well, my son made me say "I'd better see those underpants where they belong and not on your head, in thirty seconds!"

A-Z of dirty words: Um, not that kind of blog. Sorry.

Dirty words A-Z: Really, it's not!

Surprised dirty words: As in, WTF?!

Half clothed: It's not that kind of blog either.

Stupid husband: I feel your pain, anonymous searcher.

Love husband: See, it's not all bad, right?

A-Z dirtywords: Back on that, I see.

Every single word in the universe A-Z: OK, even I'm not that ambitious. Even if I was trying to find all the dirty ones.

Shorts 1892 butt: Susan B. Anthony? Clara Barton? Calamity Jane? Grover Cleveland? Seriously, I'm curious whose 1892 butt you were hoping to see.

Nothing is as boring as a writer: Thanks a lot.

Poop: Heh, heh. You said poop.

Tahmoh Penikett is HOT: Oh, yeah.

Pink puke: I hope you're not searching out of necessity, kind reader. Because my experience with pink puke was not made any more savory by the pleasing pastel shade of the projectile, lemme tell you.

I love you: Aww, thanks. Now does that love come with a comment? A link, perhaps?

I will be back tonight probably. Until then, I'm sure I'll see you all soon, dear readers, since every person in existence will be in the mall parking lot.

Thankful

My son and I were snuggled on the couch a few days ago, watching A Charlie Brown Christmas. He had started to get a little picky with his dinner, but nothing serious. Then, somewhere between the ending where all the kids look up into the air and sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing (all breathing in unison, of course) and the next special, which had Rerun; he sat halfway up, turned to say something, and just ... erupted.

Let me just start by saying this. Pink mango-sugar-something-citrusy drink + big cheese sandwich + sudden nausea + absorbent foam couch cushions = not good at all. I think you all might appreciate me not using my descriptive narrative talents on this one. Let's just say that his clothes, my clothes, and two thirds of the couch were in the danger zone.

He's usually really good at making it to the bathroom but this one was, in his words, a "surprise puke."

I spent the next hour bathing him, comforting him, and disassembling the couch to remove the dripping portions. I spent the hour after putting him to bed trying to wash them, which turned out to be not possible at all without contorting my body into weird shapes while I bathed the cushions in the bathtub, because they have covers that zip down one side but not far enough to remove the cushions for some unknown reason (though I would be willing to bet the designer didn't have a five-year-old), and wouldn't fit anywhere else.

I cleaned up the aftermath, and somehow had it in my head that I would sit down and finish the writing I hadn't finished earlier that day. Sure. Instead, I got up every thirty to forty minutes to comfort David (poor little guy), and finally retired to bed, only to get up from bed every thirty to forty minutes. My husband got home after working late, around 3:30 a.m., and proceeded to waltz in, plop down, turn on a bunch of lights, and go about his business as if it were 3:30 p.m. I was less than charitable in communicating my opinion about this. Then I had to get up again with David anyway.

This is parenthood.

Yesterday, feeling much better, David pulled out the card above, announced that I'm the "Best Mom in the Whole Wide World," and hugged me for a good five minutes.

This, too, is parenthood. It's pretty great.

In related news, I just came across this video (it's been up for a long time; it's just new to me), of portions of the Charlie Brown Christmas special dubbed by the cast of the show Scrubs. A few parts, like the show, are not for kids, but I thought the clip was pretty awesome.