There I was washing the food gunk off the high chair from dinner when it happened. Now don’t get me wrong, I trust Baby Daddy with his own child, I really do. It’s just that when the baby is in the bathtub and I can hear him talking on the phone, I kind of get that feeling that he isnt paying AS close of attention as I might be. So there I am, standing at the sink when I hear it happen. It starts with some slight murmurring, thats dad on the phone, and then splashing, which is Weasel in the tub. The entire house goes dead quiet and for a minute, I panic. I immediately have mommy-vision which always includes the death of my child in some impossibly illogical manner. So dead silence, mommy-vision of the baby drowning in the tub, and then I hear giggling. My son is giggling in the bathtub. This can only mean one thing. I listen intently, to accurately gauge where the rest of my family is located in the house. I suppose this has something to do with that sixth sense that all moms have, the same reason your mother always knew what was going on behind her back. My super low-tech sonography pays off, and I hear dad in the hallway pacing back and forth. I also hear him enter the bathroom doorway and scream. He screamed, literally, like a woman. All high pitched like he’d been kicked in the junk. Ours is a happy baby, but bowel movements make him ESPECIALLY happy. My child, like some zoo bound APE took it upon himself to crap in the bathtub. Oh no friends, this isnt the end of this story. He not only crapped in the tub, he then picked it up, with the same fingers I so lovingly kissed mere moments before, and he threw it at his father. My child threw feces at his father. The screaming subsided, and pleas of “GET ME SOME BLEACH” were made. Though when I rounded the corner to see this amazing display of father/son drama unfolding, I wasn’t holding bleach. I was holding the video camera. The resulting video is mainly of me giggling, and the camera being pointed directly at the floor while my life was being threatened. Don’t judge, I would have done the SAME thing had I been the one to take human feces to the shoe(the kid isnt a very good aim, thank god.) I was told I could never air the video(fingers crossed!) and I swore that I wouldn’t (watch my youtube feed) ever put it up on the internet.(still searching for that loophole.) Not a whole lot can shock me. This is why I blog, mostly because I am totally shameless. But this, this one is a little unnerving. Maybe we change Weasel’s nickname?

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

Dear King Soopers,

As an adult I have come to realize that the unwritten contractual agreements made between two adult parties are just as important as signing your name on the dotted line………. in blood. There are certain unsaid rules in my house for instance,  only men take out the garbage. I don’t even pretend to take out the trash, it just happens. This afternoon strolling along with my little weasel strapped into his stroller, we decide to go into your store, the same one that I have gone to at least five times a week for the last two years. I spend my grocery money in your store, not because it’s the closest or the cheapest, but because I like the fact that every time I come into the store, there waiting patiently for weasels grubby fingers, is a tray full of free kids cookies. These cookies are provided by your company in order to keep me in the store longer than I would be able to, if my kid decided that he was no longer in the shopping mood. Its a symbiotic relationship, ours, and I need you to start picking up your end of the deal. For the last three visits, there has been no cookies in the free cookie tray. This results in weasel-hysterics. To remedy this situation I will offer you a couple of options.

A. Just Fix it.

Just make some damn cookies, this shouldn’t just be a rule, this should be a  law. I shop at your store, please provide the necessary means for me to do so without threatening the life of the first person who asks me to keep my kid quiet sans proper cookie-distractions.

B. Deal with it.

If I get to the cookie counter and there aren’t any cookies, Im going to open up a box of cookies right there in the middle of the store and give one to every cookie-less child that I see. Those cinnamon raisin one’s are pretty incredible, I gotta tell you.

C. Suck it up.

If I can’t find aforementioned box of cookies that you have neglected to offer, despite the toddler-battered mommies that rush your store everyday , I will take whatever you have available. Please note, when it comes to meltdown avoidance, I have no shame and your pretty doughnuts are on my list of acceptable alternatives. Kids cookies are a mandatory part of running a grocery store. If you aren’t going to bring it, Im going to have to shop while weasel screams his way through each and every aisle. Im used to it, he’s lived with me everyday since conception, his screams no longer reach my inner-ear. I know that he is making noise, but it stopped bothering me months ago. With that in mind, I know from experience that his shrill cookie-lusting screams can (and will) break glass. Just bring out the fricken cookies. Best Regards, AntiSoccermom

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.