So I was standing in my closet, getting dressed for the day.

I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and noticed they were tight. Like too tight to button. And naturally I convinced myself that I couldn’t button them because they had just been washed. You know, cuz jeans totally shrink when you dry them. I mean, it couldn’t have *anything* to do with the amount of calories I took in last week versus how many I put out.

That would be ridiculous.

And involves some form of math and we all know I’m terrible at math. But I’m pretty sure the results would be astoundingly depressing.

Anyway, I finally managed to get them fastened, then proceeded to do the whole bend and stretch routine to loosen them up a bit.

And that’s when I blew out the whole crotch. In rock star fashion.

Behold. The jeans that used to not be ripped in the crotch.

Just then Ethan walked in right as I was bent over, observing the damage.

He shook his head and said, “You’re going to need a really big band-aid.”

Agitated with myself, I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked them off, and threw them across the closet. They landed in the corner with a sad little thud.

Ethan watched in awe as I threw a mini tantrum.

He looked at the jeans and then back at me. “What’s the matter, Mama?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I’m too fat for my clothes right now. I ate too much last week.”

He looked at my half naked body and said, “You’re not fat, Mommy.”

I managed a smile. I mean he *is* the most adorable little man on the planet. “Thanks for saying that, E. You really don’t think I’m fat?”

“Well, maybe just a little bit.”

And then he ran out of the closet.

For sale: One adorable little boy who *may* or *may not* fully grasp the art of lying flattery.

PS. I would never eat a sandwich that my dog made me because I know for sure that he eats his own shit. What, you really think I’d eat something a *dog* made? I bet you think I’d eat out of the trash can too, huh. Oh, wait.

Four.

conversation i just had with the e-man:

e: “mommy, my butt hurts. will you put your finga in it?”

me, sighing heavily: “what do you mean ‘put my finger in it?’”

e: “it itches. stick your finga in my butt and scatch it.”

me: “wait. i thought you said it hurts. now it itches? make up your mind dude.”

e: “mommy, i wuv you so much. you my cold tamale.”

side note: i always say to him, “come here you little hot tamale.” to which he replies, “i not your hot tamale. you my cold tamale.”

that’s our little thing. cute, isn’t it?

so then he forgets about his butt ailment and says, “mommy, where you work?”

i thought for a minute and said, “well, i work here…at home…and i’m a writer. mommy wrote a book. did you know that?”

and then he farted.

and not like a cute little baby fart that makes you go, “aawww, what a cute little stinky baby fart,” but an “OH MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU EAT?” fart.

and then he ran out of the room squealing and screaming, “I FAWTED! I FAWTED ON MOMMY!”

um, let’s say you walk in the living room to find your adorable 3 year old son with his pants down to his ankles, peeing on the coffee table–right on your favorite art book, presumably ruining it.

do you:

a. gasp, then clutch your chest in true fred sanford fashion.

b. applaud his efforts yelling, “bravo. bravo!”

c. critique his performance, pointing out the places he missed.

d. pretend you don’t notice what’s happening, u-turn, and head toward the wine cabinet.

or,

e. kill him with your bare hands.

after careful consideration, i chose option a. well, actually, it was my first reaction. i all but lost my faculties. and i couldn’t breathe. when he noticed me standing there convulsing and foaming at the mouth, he laughed and pointed at me, squealing, “mommy funny. mommy terning gween.”

i was finally able to catch my breath, help the man pull up his pants, then spent the next 30 minutes getting the vile urine (which strangely enough smelled like harvest spice potpourri) off the coffee table (well, the urine that didn’t soak into the wood–nice–it sucked it up like a sponge). the book? i’m afraid it fought a tough battle, but sadly, it never saw the enemy coming, so it never really had a chance.

and the man responsible for all this? is still pointing and laughing at me. and continues to dance around singing, “i got a penis,” while playing air guitar.

please send help.

it appears hurricane ethan swept through our house this weekend. the damage was not only destructive but very expensive.

saturday morning i went to e’s room to help him get dressed. that’s when i found him standing in the middle of his room, peeing on the carpet. i screamed, “aaaahhhh,” and followed up with “what the hell is going on here?!!” i sat him in timeout while i scrubbed urine out of the carpet.

when i was finished we chatted and he agreed with me that it wasn’t such a great idea to pee anywhere other than the toilet–or outside (otherwise known as the world’s toilet).

awhile later i went to make my bed. next to the bed i keep a little plastic box that holds my night guard. i wear the night guard because i have a major teeth grinding thing going on when i sleep. the guard keeps me from waking up with a massive headache…not to mention that it keeps me from whittling my teeth down to nubs. anyway, i looked over at the nightstand–the box was open and my night guard was gone! immediately i summoned ethan to the bedroom. i said, “son, do you know where mommy’s night guard might be?” he shrugged his shoulders and said, “i did not throw it in the trash can.”

i gasped. “you threw it in the trash can?”

he didn’t say anything. he just walked over to the chair i have in the corner of my room and sat down. he nodded his head and said, “i sit in time out mama.”

i hurried to the garbage can in my bathroom…nothing. then the trash can in the kitchen…nothing. i went back to where ethan was sitting in timeout and asked, “which trash can did you put it in?” he shrugged again and said, “i did not flush it in the toilet.”

eeekkk! “you flushed it down the toilet?”

he shook his head and said, “i did not put it in my room.”

i stood there staring at him. what was he saying? is he telling me where it isn’t?…or where it is? i pointed in the direction of everywhere and said, “go find mommy’s thingy that goes in the box.” he jumped up and ran from me as fast as he could. i got on my hands and knees and began searching for it. i wouldn’t care so much if it didn’t cost $300 to replace.

i heard him in the other room, messing with one of the dogs. the dog was barking at him and i went to check out what was going on. ethan had taken the dog’s chew toy and was teasing him with it. then ethan ran away with the toy, laughing. the dog turned to face me then and i said, “don’t look at me. i got my own problems.”

a few minutes later i found ethan in my bathroom, flushing the toilet–no dog toy to be seen. i asked, “ethan, where’s the dog’s toy?” he just smiled, shrugged his shoulders and fled the scene. for a minute i thought i’ve given birth to mephistopheles.

i looked in the toilet. nothing. an hour or so later tommy came through the house holding the plunger. “what is it?” i asked. he said, “no one use the toilet in our bathroom. it seems to be clogged.”

i chimed in, “i think ethan flushed the dog’s toy down our toilet.”

he stopped, “why do you think that?”

“well, he took it from the dog and then ran in there and flushed the toilet. it doesn’t take a brain scientist to figure out that he put it in the toilet and flushed.”

“why do you say that?”

“say what?”

“brain scientist. why don’t you say brain surgeon or rocket scientist? brain scientist sounds weird.”

“are we seriously having THIS conversation? and besides, what’s wrong with saying brain scientist? it’s a real job–google it.”

“i don’t need to google it. it’s just no one says that. no one says ‘brain scientist’ but you.”

“well, there you go. one more example of how i’m cutting edge.”

“yeah, you’re cutting edge all right.”

i rolled my eyes and said, “you gonna plunge the toilet or am i?”

he walked away with plunger in hand and muttered something under his breath i couldn’t quite make out, but i’m sure it wasn’t a glowing review about me.

a few minutes later he reappeared, defeated. i took out the phone book and called a plumber. side note: i don’t know a plumber. so i picked one out of the phone book at random, based on the ad alone. the jazzier and the more colorful the better. ooh, and i liked the name, curly’s.
so i dialed the number and when a man answered i told him my problem. he said, “have any idea what might be stuck in there?”

i said, “well, i’m no brain scientist, but i think it’s a dog’s chew toy.”

“huh,” he replied. “brain scientist? now that’s a new one.”

i sighed, “you coming or not?”

“yes ma’am, we’ll be there within the hour.”

$156 dollars and one extracted dog’s toy and we were back in business.

after lunch tommy and i lay on the bed and started watching tv. ethan joined us but couldn’t quite sit still. he took one of my pillows, stuck his little feet down in it and somehow managed to rip a hole in it. suddenly, down feathers began swarming around us. tommy and i jumped up and screamed and watched in horror as millions of tiny feathers filled the room. ethan squealed with delight and tommy and i were both frozen. finally, i managed to grab ethan and put him on the floor. he continued to chase feathers and giggle. i took the pillow, covered the hole and carefully carried the pillow out of the room without letting any more feathers escape. i returned to find tommy standing there with his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. he had a small pile of feathers on his head. i couldn’t help but laugh.

it took an hour to clean up the mess.

and then to put the cherry on the top of my day, harley ran in to tell me that she caught ethan peeing in his room. i went in there to find a puddle almost exactly where i cleaned only hours earlier.

wreaking havoc and marking his territory one house at a time, that’s my son.

and after causing over $500 in damages, i would say he had a pretty successful weekend.