You heard that correctly.

I know I’m not being even remotely original here, but I am going to say it anyway…I don’t correct Mary Claire when she pronounces words incorrectly. As long as the word sounds cute, I just let it be. I know there are plenty of other degenerate parents out there who do this too, so I’m not blazing any new trails here.

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I’m sure MC’s kindergarten teacher will correct her poor grammar. That’s what kindergarten is for, right? Kindergarten teachers reverse years of idiotic parental damage? Maybe I’m off here, but that’s what I was presuming…

When my older kids were toddlers I encouraged them to mispronounce words in a cute way too. And I’m happy to report that it hasn’t affected them negatively at all, they can make words real good for mostly. In fact. up until recently I really didn’t see any reason why I should stop doing this….

That is, until the day I offered a guest a glass of “wah-wee”. (I know it sounds bathroom related, but I assure you I just meant “water”). “Are you thirsty? Would you like a glass of wah-wee?” And that’s when it hit me, I’m regressing. Its becoming second nature for me to use baby talk like its actual, legit spoken English. I don’t even think about it. The weird words just spill out.

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Eli likes to pick a book off our book shelf to take with him every time we leave the house. He can’t read, he just likes to carry a book around. He drags it into the store and everything. So I feel pretty confident that his choices in intellectual literature will help offset any moments where I might use the word “wah-wee”.

And believe me, “wah-wee” is only the tip of the iceberg. I shout out mispronounced animal names like its my job…

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It’s a “hat”!!!! (It’s cute when Mary Claire calls a cat a “hat”, but when I say it people will think I’ve been day drinking.)

It’s the same thing with fish. I have been calling fish “bishey’s” for so long now that the actual word “fish” sounds weird to me.

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My kids have always wanted to have a bishey for a pet…but *I* think bishey’s smell, so I haven’t said yes…yet. But maybe if Mary Claire requests a “bishey” I won’t be able to resist.

I’m sure when Mary Claire stops mispronouncing things, I will too (at least one would hope so). But until then, I have to admit, I kind of enjoy it.

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There is something about the way “fludderfly” and “cheepies” just roll of the tongue.

I renovated the *bleep* out of my bathroom…

And when I say *bleep* I am of course referring to wallpaper.

When we moved into our new house last August I was super excited. So excited, that I thought “I’m gonna rip the wallpaper out of that weird smelling basement bathroom and go all Fixer Upper in there!” So I got my jolly attitude all together, and started ripping off wall paper like a happy little Bathroom-Reno-Elf. Then I realized, “Oh no. No. No. No!” As it turned out, the wall paper and the dry wall had entered into a very traditional marriage of “till death do us part”. Every time I ripped off wallpaper, the dry wall would say “No! Don’t leave! I’m coming with you!” The walls ended up looking like we had an Old Western shoot out in there…and then had a karate class for the blind. So, as you can imagine, all of my Bathroom-Reno-Elf hopes and dreams died.

We ended up having to pay someone to basically re-do the walls in there. Good bye money, and hello Mr. Drywall man! The nice drywall man had to spend 2 and a half days in my windowless bathroom fixing the walls with all of his magical chemicals. He must have felt high as a kite by the time he finished, because that tiny bathroom fan can only suck out so much air.

But it really turned out nice, and Mark told me to please not rip anymore wallpaper down for a while (we’ll see).

Before:

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It was BOLD and FLOWERY! Very reminiscent of seasonal allergies.

And after…

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Its like being Claritin Clear! I am, of course, giving a thumbs up in the mirror because there is not a socially refined bone in my body. “Play it cool, never.” is my motto.

We would still like to change out the laminate flooring for…something else. But I think its probably best to spread out my DIY reno disasters.

Also, there is one part of the bathroom we are all still pretty dubious of…

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I don’t know what to call it. The toilet booth? The toilet of shame, maybe? It’s in the corner of the bathroom at the end of a narrow and claustrophobic hall. We all feel a little unsure about pottying there. It almost feels like a trap, as if you might go down there one day and never be seen again.

Really the above picture doesn’t do it justice. It feels more like this…

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I don’t need it *scared* out of me…

But we are trying to be positive about it…

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Just trying to make it seem welcoming. “Go ahead kids! I’m sure the troll who hides back there can be reasoned with.” ( Side note: Whenever I take pictures of myself I think “Oh geeze. That’s not flattering, let me try again…………………..nope. same thing.” )

Cheers, and happy DIY-ing to you!

Fart dogs! I need an intervention…

If Buzzfeed were to ever make a list of “Most Immature Blog Titles,” I would have crossed fingers and high hopes that this post’s title would be in the running. Am I proud to have a post with the words “Fart dogs” in it? Absolutely not. Will I be proud to look back in my archives and find a post with the words “Fart dogs” in it? Never. But this, my internet friends, is a necessary post.  You see, I have a serious problem.

In my 12 years of parenting I have spent a lot of time trying to come up with alternative swear words so that, #1. I have something to yell in times of surprise or distress and #2. so my children won’t embarrass me by repeating actual swear words. HOWEVER,  of all the alternatives available to me (darn, shoot, dadgum, etc) the only one that has stuck with me is “Fart dogs,” which was randomly created in my brain one day. No rhyme or reason to it’s genesis, for some reason my noodle landed on canine vapors as a foul yet safe sounding expletive. My poor children.

Plug your ears Mary Claire. I would tell you to do what I say and not what I do...but in this case, do neither...

Plug your ears Mary Claire. I would tell you to do what I say and not what I do…but in this case, do neither…

Here’s the question though: Are my kids worse off hearing me yell “Fart dogs!!!” when I hit my head on the the corner of the kitchen cabinet door I left open? Or, should I just yell a normal, good ol’ fashioned curse word?

Fart dogs! He fell asleep on the stairs again! Now he won't go to bed until 11pm!

Fart dogs! He fell asleep on the stairs again! Now he won’t go to bed until 11pm!

I exclaim “Fart dogs” so many times a day I loose track. I’m pretty sure the only acceptable amount of times a person should exclaim “Fart dogs!” is zero. And yet, here I am spending a good portion of my day yelling about the flatulence of man’s best friend.

Sure, this sounds like an innocent enough problem, but things aren’t so innocent when the neighbors start to question your grip on reality.  Allow me to share with you a real episode in Fart Dogging.  The other day, I was taking our recycling from the garage out to the recycling bin, while wearing my nice leopard print shoes. (I’m clearly having a mid-life crisis.) I had let the indoor trash can get a *little* too full (procrastination) because emptying the indoor trashcan requires carrying it all the way to the outside dumpster, which takes at least 30-45 seconds. Allow me to provide a visual…

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So, when I picked up the indoor trashcan for it’s once-a-month journey, the heap of plastic sour cream containers, boxes, and butter wrappers went flying all over the place like fake snakes coming out of a trick peanut can. I was left with no choice but to exclaim “Fart dogs!!!!

So, I smashed and stuffed all of the recyclables back into the indoor trashcan, because if they didn’t all fit the first time, I’m *sure* they will all fit now.  (Who in their right mind would want to make 2 reasonable trips with the trash can, when they could make just 1 ridiculous trip?)

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Well wouldn’t you know, things *kept* falling out, ALL the way over to the recycling bin and I *kept* exclaiming “Fart dogs!”  Meanwhile, since the the garage doors are wide open during this Big Hair circus, I am pretty sure my bizarre “cursing” was free to echo out to all the other houses on the street (Hello, Neighbors!)

Well, I wasn’t done with my alternative swearing yet. I had one last obstacle to cross. It turns out, between our back door and the recycling bin was a mound of trash bags filled with grass clippings.  Since my hands were filled with a toppling tower of recyclables, there was no way I was going to move the grass clipping bags. So, I just started walking across them, only to realize they had been soaked by the sprinklers. Every step I took caused water to fill my leopard print mid-life-crisis shoes. Additionally, it is a small miracle I didn’t totally face-plant, because it turns out that trash bags filled with grass, then soaked with water are like slippery quick sand.  However, the grass-clipping-quick-sand bags were very successful at causing me to again dump more recycling items all over the place.   “FART DOGS!!!!!!!!!!”

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Don’t worry, it all ended okay, and when the police arrived I just acted innocent and confused; “A lunatic screaming about farty dogs? I don’t know who that could have been….” (Kidding about the police, obviously. People were probably too confused to call the police….”Should we call the police, or maybe a dog catcher…or a psychiatrist?”)

In conclusion, I am afraid for the future. If I don’t change my ways I will most certainly be the weirdest old person in a nursing home. What will happen when I completely loose my inhibitions? Will I just be rolling around the care center exclaiming “Fart dogs!” every time my wheelchair catches on a door jam?  People who don’t know me will think I am hallucinating about troublesome gassy pets.

Please. Offer me reasonable alternatives. Save the children.