“I wish I were with my dad!” Ben spat at me yesterday while we poked around the extravagently priced chic baby boutique (I about died to learn that the slipcover I’d picked up for Alex’s carseat was $140. For something he will likely destroy. AND BASED ON EVERYTHING ELSE IN THERE, IT WAS A DAMN BARGIN!). I guess I’d made the error of telling Ben that he did not need a Pacifier Pod of his own for Alex, the cold hearted snake that I am.

Never have such words cut so close to my heart before. “I wish I were with my dad!”

I once read a quote (at least I think I did) about how you have to start letting your children go when they start school, but I think you have to start much earlier. Like birth.

Although we made it work, Ben’s early childhood was not one of the easiest times in my life. Initially I had to go back to work at about 2 months postpartum (someone had to buy diapers and formula, and since Nat had been laid off and therefore lounged about his parents house all day, that task fell to me), and school began a month later. I wasn’t around much, as you can imagine, and even when I was, it was a constant barrage of how ineffectual I was as a parent (spoken by my mother), so I tried to be around even less. I was living under their roof while they paid for school, and although I resented hearing about how much I sucked on a daily basis, I knew from experience that fighting it was futile.

I soon gave up my dreams to become a doctor or virologist in order to earn a quicker more high paying degree, so that I would be able to support myself and my baby son when I graduated, instead of slogging along making $10/hour working at some shitty lab while I went to grad school. As well documented my hatred for my nursing is, I’m not trying to put myself up on the cross here, I chose it, I chose wisely with the best information I had available to me at the time, and I did it and I am not sorry about it. Just whiny.

As a baby, Ben was an odd duck (mayhap this is why I like the odd people that I meet), preferring to bond with his mobile, the grandfather clock and some ugly old knobs on my parents antique hutch. He had very little use for people in general, choosing instead to personify inanimate objects up to and including all 9 (well, now 8 but this was before Pluto was ruled a non-planet) planets and box number 3 from his advent calendar, which he slept with regularly.

Between his preference of inanimate objects to people and his schedule, which sends him to Nat’s on most weekends (well, when Nat doesn’t have anything better planned), I can honestly say that although he shared my body for 9 long months, we’re not all that close. You see, I’ve been forced to let him go for so long that I realized recently that I’ve never had him as my own. All of the mother-y things I do, I do for both of my children and I do it without feeling sorry for myself (something my own mother could take a lesson from), but I know in my heart of hearts, as Ben will always be on the Autistic Spectrum, only one of my children will understand all that I do and why I do it: Alexander.

Dr. Spock (in the only baby book I read with any regularity) reminds you that you love each of your children differently, and I see this as the truth. Ben and I coexist peacefully, and I love him dearly no matter how indifferent I appear on your computer screen, and there is nothing in the world that can change this, but Alexander is mine.

When I was pregnant with Alex, I had exactly one desire: that the baby be born to love me and genuinely like it when I am around. If that sounds a little sad to you, and it probably does, remember that although Ben loves me in the best way he knows how to, if Dave were to come home and announce that I had moved to Tibet for the next 6 months, Ben would accept this and move on with his day. Alex doesn’t like it if I so much as pee with the door closed.

Kids aren’t born to us to make us feel better about ourselves and right all former wrongs, nor would I expect them to, but sometimes they heal old wounds without even trying to. This is part of what I love best about Alex, he has redeemed me in my own eyes, but it’s only a byproduct of him being less Aspy than Ben. Alex has highlighted all that is abnormal about Ben.

Ben’s quirks make him who he is, and I love him dearly for who he is: one of the kindest, sweetest, most polite and thoughtful people I have ever met. Most of the decisions I have made about my life after he was born straight down to who I married have been to benefit him in some way or another, and I don’t begrudge this in the slightest. I am proud and honored to be his mother each and every day of the week, and I want nothing but the best for his life.

Without trying to, he successfully opened up some nasty festering old wounds, the type who lay dormat for years at a time, and I was so hurt by them that I could hardly speak. I gave him the silent treatment for the first time in his life and after he left to go with Nat I just couldn’t shake his comment (which to him, was completely innocuous, as Ben has no idea how I feel about Nat and his lack of true parental responsibility. “That’s more my realm” is a direct quote from Nat when asking why he hadn’t paid the dentist yet.) for the rest of the day.

I guess kids really do break your heart over and over again, don’t they?

Somehow, I suppose, I had mistakenly hoped that it would be his choice of wife that would have done it to me.

At nearly 9 months old (on the 30th, but I’m pretty sure if you were to measure in 4 week intervals, which is what the baby books I never read go by he’d be a little older than that. I’m far too lazy to attempt math right now), I am shocked and appalled to inform you that not only has Alex NOT learned to drive a car, but he’s not been to Gymboree even once, NOR can he do EVEN SIMPLE long division. Why the other day, I handed him The Communist Manifesto and rather than engaging me in a riveting discussion of the proletariat versus the bourgeois pigs, HE STUCK THE BOOK IN HIS MOUTH AND STARTED CHEWING! On Carl Marx! WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG, oh Lord, TO HAVE SUCH A STUPID BABY?

While I have no problems with parents who have decided that they must somehow increase their baby’s brain development by playing Strauss or Beethoven, use flashcards to inflict French on them, or run them around town to various “brain nurturing activities,” I personally see no reason to do so.

If you are a brand-new parent who has never watched another child grow up, it would be extremely easy to get suckered into what all of the Baby-zines tell you to do to make your baby smarter. Why open one up for yourself and see! Most of the articles are not devoted to helping parents get a night off (which is really what’s necessary), but blaring in bold titles simple ways to increase your babies IQ. And to pour salt in the wound of a tired, bleary eyed parent who cannot remember where she put her coffee let alone what her babies middle name is by decreeing that if you DO NOT do such things, IT’S YOUR FAULT WHEN YOUR CHILD BECOMES A DROOLING CART COLLECTOR and NOT a member of MENSA.

I smell bullshit.

I’ll admit here and now that I spent a goodly time trying to teach Ben his colors and alphabet before he was a year old. I was gleeful when he eventually learned them, but I’m guessing it was a built-in defense mechanism that actually allowed him to regurgitate “red” when I demanded he tell me what color the damned stoplight was. I shudder to imagine what would’ve happened had he been unable to do so, although I’m guessing it would have been copious amounts of my own brain matter combusting through my eyeballs and spattering the windshield of my car.

It was fortunate for the both of us that due to my own brain being occupied by such matters of having to learn the origin/insertion of each muscle in the body, along with the name of said muscle, it’s action, and auxillary muscles involved with each movement of said muscle (in a week. And that was just PART of the class), otherwise The Bettering of Ben Movement might have gotten a ickle bit hairy for us all.

Let’s say a collective “Whew” for Ben and move on, eh?

It was shortly after Ben’s second birthday that I noticed an interesting phenomenon: no matter WHAT I did, the kid was absorbing stuff like a sponge. (With the aid of therapy) words became intelligable and varied, songs were sung, colors were identified WITHOUT prompting, and he figured out how to reprogram ALL of my father’s electronic devices within toddler range: WITHOUT MY HELP OR GUIDANCE (although Lord knows I’d have gleefully taught him to do this this just to piss my father off.)

We did a weekly Gymboree Day along with a Kindermusic Day and he thrived. Flourished. He started preschool at age 3 simply because he needed to socialization that I could not provide with my decided lack of other children, and it was there that they taught him French (which he now speaks fluently).

And now that Alex is here, I waste almost no time worrying that I don’t stimulate him enough and that we’re not involved in enough things to make him smarter and more accomplished than other kids his age. I considered starting Gymboree with him a couple of months ago but quickly quashed that idea when I realized that although I was apt to meet other parents there, I was still wearing my maternity underwear and no matter what, this meant I wasn’t about to start getting more social (like anyone else was likely to notice my undergarments or something.) I’m holding out until I can find a pair of unstained pants to wear.

So now I say so what if my kid isn’t as advanced as everyone else’s? I don’t spend my days OR nights reading up on what his latest developmental milestones should be because really, I don’t give a shit (besides, I get sick of being bombarded by the “you should do MORE for your baby” guilt-trip that are inherant to these books. Hell, I think this baby should do more for ME. Like make me coffee and fix my car, even if he needs me to get out the wrenches from the higher cupboards. I’ll make THAT concession for him.).

And I comfort myself knowing that in a world where all other children will be far more advanced than my own, we will always need more cart collectors.

—————–

Am I missing something about the intellectualization of our babies? I’m not sure where “good enough” became a bad thing to be, because where I came from, I’m pretty certain that my parents spent more time worrying about how to furnish their next bong rather than making sure that their kids were stimulated within an inch of their lives.

I don’t see anything wrong with just letting kids be kids, and although I bought Alex and Ben some educational toys to play with for Christmas, I have no problem allowing either of them to simply play with a cheap spatula and (likely lead-filled) metal bowl. I’m not upset that Ben would sometimes opt to play with Alex’s toys rather than more age-appropriate stuff for him, and when either of them does a totally dumbass thing, my brain doesn’t explode in frustration, I just write it off to kids being dumbasses.

But I cannot help but feel that maybe the egg is on my face here. Is it?

In a popularity contest in my house, before Alex was born, Dave was numero uno. As far as Ben was concerned, I was a mere blip on the radar, whereas Dave was the Real Deal. Instead of being hurt by this (which would have been quite easy, really), I took it as a reaffirmation of my good choice in marrying The Daver.

I got very, very accustomed to playing second fiddle, to Dave’s one man-band (well, two men, really), so it came as quite a shock to my system when Alex was born and as far as HE is concerned, there is no better person in the world than his mother, me. It was, and still is strangely flattering to me that this little person is convinced that the sun rises and sets by me (trust me, this is nothing I take lightly).

But the world keeps on spinning as per usual, and a strange development is taking place in my house: Ben has decided that I am awesomely awesome. As far as I know, I am the same person that I always have been to both of them, but something deep inside of Ben is shifting. Dave is amazing, of course, but MOM has been cast in a new light.

Here is an actual conversation that was had over lunch this week:

Me: “blah, blah, blah, blah, Britney rules! Blah, blah, blah.”

Ben: “Mom?”

Me: “blah, blah, blah, blah. Yes, Darlin’?”

Ben: “I’m gonna marry you when I grow up.”

Ben: “I can go to the store for you and stuff.”

Me (stunned): “Don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”

Me: “I mean, you’re going to be a great husband, should you decide to get married. You’re a real sweetheart, duder.”

Ben: “No, Mom, I think you’re just perfect.”

I am not even exaggerating when I tell you that my heart, like the Grinch in Whooville, grew 10 sizes that day.

I guess we’re doing something right.

In case anyone wants to email me, which is totally rad by me, even if it IS to tell me how stupid I am, my email is currently down. Which includes my address book.

Thanks to my trusty geek, however, the situation has been immediately rectified. I have a brand-spankin’ new address to be immediately filled with spam (why YES, my girlfriend IS sad because my penis is too small and keeps slipping out! Thank you for noticing, spamalot!)

If you are someone who I regularly email (and even if you’re not), you can assume that I do not have access to my address book. This makes me sad. What if Don Msurhstasthey @ supercolon blow cannot access me? WHATEVER WILL I DO THEN???

Please, PLEASE, for the love of Baby Jesus, email me:

becky (at) dwink (dot) net

I will love you for ever and ever and ever if you do.

And you can put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.

Today is November the 30th, which marks the end of an era. An era about Poop-Buckets, sleep deprivation, and apparently, how bizare I really am. You watched as I overused the comma frequently (and used parenthesis where I should have started a new sentence), Put Things In Capitol Letters That Should Not Have Been, and generally misspelleed eevenn tha siimplest oof wurds (I SOOO need a spell check for my site).

But you read (at least I’m pretty sure that you did. Without SiteMeter, I can’t be sure. Doesn’t matter anyway, does it?) and you commented, and I love each and every one of you from the bottom of my cold, blackened heart. It shrivelled a little less each time someone gave Aunt Becky a Warm Fuzzy, and was amazed each and every time Aunt Becky did not recieve a Cold Prickly. Aunt Becky knows a lot about Cold Prickly’s, laws yes, she does.

Happy (almost) December, Dear Internet, and may the month be filled of MORE posts about such titilating topics as: My Colonoscopy And What It Means To Me, Why Is The Baby Is Trying To Kill Me, (alternating between) I LOVE The Holidays and/or I HATE The Holidays, in addition to stirring subjects like Why Can’t My Family Change The Toliet Paper Roll?

No, but for serious, if you have some topic you’d like me to talk about, I’d be more than happy to oblige. Always feel free to comment, even if it is to tell me that you hate me with a passion, or that I am a complete idiot (trust me, I’m completely aware).

If you’re too shy to comment, you can always drop me a line at becky@psys.org. I love email, nearly as much as I love Christmas cards. And I loves me my Christmas cards. Anyone want to exchange them? I’ll autograph pictures of myself so you can put them on your fridge and when people ask who the hell that chick is making a corny face, you can say proudly “That is my Aunt Becky.” And then everyone will know that you MUST be awesome to have such a great aunt. (I know, I know, I’m delusional. *sigh* I better go refill my meds.)

For reals, if you want to exchange cards, email me and let me know. I stole that idea from Niobe, who I totally have a girl-crush on. Because she’s awesome.

Alex would like me to tell you that he says, and I quote, “What is UP my bitches?” I have NO IDEA where he learned such motherfucking swear words.

Ben (at age 2) would like me to tell you that he is completely ashamed of having me as his mother. He would prefer someone ELSE, like Io, or maybe Jupiter to be his mother.

But he stubbornly agrees that he’s cheeks are edible.

Ben would like me to inform you that he is NOT wearing a toupee, despite how it may appear, and Alex tells me that he’s much, much fatter now.

And as for me, Dear Internet, I will raise a glass with you tonight. Here’s to December! I just KNOW that it’s going to be a great month.

(clinks glass)

(Many moons ago, Dave and I insisted that Ben start drinking milk with dinner every night, a move that was fraught with peril. Ben was insistant that he would someday fly to Hawaii where I could not find him to make him drink his milk. He swore that he would take Alex and Dave and move away, somewhere that I could not find them and make them drink their milk.)

This is what came home with Ben yesterday,

Dear Mom and Dave,

Love,
Ben

I nearly laughed out loud when he got to the part about the milk, because that kid was FURIOUS with my insistance upon drinking his equivilant of battery acid, so much so that I had to call in for backup: Nat, to help me out.

If I had to write a letter to give to someone to give thanks, it might look like this. Well, actually, it probably wouldn’t, because I don’t like to write letters.

Dear Internet,

Thank you for not making me travel this Thanksgiving, as I cannot sleep in hotel rooms, BECAUSE I AM A FREAK.

Thank you for Fat-Free Coffee Mate (Vanilla OR Hazelnut), Healthy Life Bread, 150 Calorie Mini-Cakes, and McDonalds.

Thank you for YoBaby yogurt, which has allowed me such freedoms as occasionally letting my nipples go back into their rightful place, UNDER MY SHIRT, NOT FLAPPING IN THE BREEZE. Also, thank you to Pampers, for attempting to contain my son’s toxic ass.

Thank you for building a Target so close to my home, so that I may spend my life savings (hahaha) on frivolous stuff that I never knew that I needed but now cannot live without.

Thank you for finally breaking our nomadic moving patterns, and allowing us to live in the same zip code for over one year (although I’d imagine that U-Haul is not thankful for this, as I have not spent an insane amount of money on boxes lately).

Thank you (in advance!!) to Burberry for making the earmuffs (hahaha, MUFF!) that I will recieve for Christmas, that matches the scarf that I recieved last year.

Thank you Tiffany & Co for the lovely aniversary jewelry. Can I divorce Dave and marry you? I know that’s a bit forward, but I’ve loved you for a long time, and I know that you feel the same.

And of course, thank you for allowing me to run the Sausage Factory, each of whom makes my cold ickle heart grow larger and more complete each day. I’m looking at you, The Daver, Ben-a-bo, and Bubbly-Tubbles (yes, not only do my children have about a thousand names on their birth certificate, but they also have a plethora of nicknames).

Love,
Becky

(Happy Thanksgiving, bitches, Aunt Becky loves you!)

After nearly two years of constant badgering (like being pecked to death by an adorable chicken!!), I have finally given in and agreed to allow Ben to take music lessons.

It’s not as though I don’t see the inherent value of music lessons, of course I do, but I’ve never wanted to be one of those parents who overscheduled the heck out of their little kids, shuttling them back and forth to various lessons and sports, and not giving them a chance to be children. Soccer takes up a modest two days each week, and you know what? I admit that sometimes Dave and I get a little bitter about the imposition each and every Saturday morning, because who DOESN’T want to lounge around in their jammies on the weekend (okay, so that’s every day for me)?

Ben is thrilled, as I am not sure that any child in the history of children has ever loved music as much as he does. When we met for our parent-teacher conference this week, his teacher mentioned that he was “auditorially gifted,” which I’ve translated into “loving music” (mainly because people who mention in polite conversation that their children are gifted make me want to hurl. Remember when only the truly amazing kids were called “gifted” and not every player on a team got a trophy? I do. Hell, I still shudder when I see red ink!).

From the time that he was a wee babe, music has always soothed some savage beast within him. Having a tantrum? Put on music. Crying about having to eat *gasp* real food? Play some tuneage. All of his worries and cares vanished. I’m fortunate that things still work that way. This week, he’s gotten addicted to YouTube videos, which is nothing short of hilarious (mainly because I’ve gotten him hooked on “Electric Avenue” and Milli Vanilli.), and nearly as cute as his own renditions of “Ring of Fire” and “Jackson.”

My boy, he does love his Johnny Cash.

And The Beatles.

And The Rolling Stones

And Bob Dylan.

(My masterful plan of raising a child in my likeness is working! Cackle, cackle, cackle. Soon we will take over the WORLD!).

Interestingly (probably just to me), the only drama that we’ve had in this situation is between Dave and I. I cast my ballot for Ben learning to play the cello, not only because I played for a decade and a half, but because I OWN a cello (if I can get it back from my friend) AND it would be easier for me to teach him by myself.

(and I hate, hate, hate, hate, there are not enough hates in the world to describe the loathing I feel for the violin. Not only do I dislike it’s timbre and pitch, unless it is played extremely well, it sounds like teeth on a chalkboard. And I might argue, especially if I’m feeling superbitchy, that it NEVER sounds good. Maybe I’m a bit bitter from years of having to play the bass line, and therefore never playing the melody, but it’s the one instrument that I am not thrilled about. Oh, and the drums. Ew.)

Dave, on the other hand, PLAYED the violin for a couple of years, so is convinced of his own expertise with all things violin-related. Therefore, HE is not concerned about having to listen to squeaky-awful renditions of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” scratched out over and over again in our house. Nor is he the slightest bit upset about having to attend orchestra concerts FULL OF CHILDREN WHO CANNOT PLAY INSTRUMENTS AND THEREFORE MAKE MY EARS BLEED. Or maybe it’s simply because he works approximately 1,795 hours a week and thereby will not be home to listen to and direct said practicing of this instrument.

And as for me, I’m just going to invest in some industrial strength Valium (I should’ve named this blog Mommy Wants Valium or Mommy Wants Percocet.) and those huge Bose noise-cancelling headphones for both myself and Alexander. Then we’ll be set.

(is it just me who has to listen to other parents drone on and on about their “gifted” kids? I mean, I love my son with all of my heart, don’t get me wrong here, but I’m shy to use the word “gifted” on ANY of the kids I’ve met.)

(For those of you who read both of my blogs, this is merely a copy-and-paste deal. I was inspired by RockMomma to add this here. Because, really, who doesn’t sometimes need a bit of poo humor?)

I’m no stranger to a bit of doo-doo, in fact, I’ve always maintained that I could wipe an ass with one hand while eating a sandwich with the other (well, that would be IF I ate sandwiches, which I do not. But ‘œsandwich’ sounds better than ‘œchicken vino bianco.’). Overall, it doesn’t bother me to change Alex’s diaper (I initally typed Daver, which is all kinds of weird), nor did it really bother me to change Ben’s. Even when the turds would roll out of Ben’s diaper and be snapped up immediately by the dog (mmmm’¦doggie chocolates’¦.) OR when (like the monkey he is), Ben would shit into the bathtub then throw the floaters out onto the floor, I merely laughed.

But now something in our house is amiss. Afoot, even.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed some toliet paper stained with a brown substance sitting merrily on the sink. And winking at me from the back of the toliet. I assume that it was poo but will have to live my life wondering, because I JUST BARELY stopped myself from trying to smell it (before you judge, remember that my instant reaction to EVERYTHING is to put it to my nose and inhale'”insert cocaine joke here. I have to stop myself from sniffing my food before I eat it as it appears to be offputting to my fellow diners). Becky spells C-L-A-S-S-Y.

I clean my bathroom, on average once or twice per week. Said process involves a heavy-duty bleaching of all surfaces (and typically shocking myself on the bare socket in the process. Mental note, buy and install light socket cover thingy’s) and wiping up the stray pee drops on the floor (ah, the Sausage Factory). Since I am the only one who cleans the bathroom, I am, apparently the only one who notices when things go awry. Terribly arwy. Skidmarks on the seat sort of awry.

Someone who frequents my home is using my brand-new toliet seat to wipe their disgusting ass.

I’ve interrogated the usual suspects (myself, Dave, Ben) and no one is owning up to it (but to be fair, I will disqualify myself as I could easily just pretend that it is not there and make no mention of it). Unless one of the cats or the dog have not only taught themselves to dump in the toliet (which would be so, so, so sweet that I would completely overlook the skidmarks and make YouTube videos because that would be so amazing), I’m at a loss.

I could set up motion-sensitive cameras in each of the bathrooms, but I don’t think that I’d ever be able to watch the videos at a later date (Hello, YouTube!) because the image of my husband’s face whilst shitting would float through my head at all of the wrong times (and yes, I am referring to humping). Ben can’t remember what he did yesterday, so eliciting a confession out of him would be damn near impossible to substansiate (YES, Mom, I DID poop on the seat. When I was 3! HAHAHAHAHA! 6 also, apparently, has a terrible sense of humor.). And we’ve previously established that it is not my ass that is shitting on the toliet seat because it would make no sense (although it COULD be a fancy curveball’¦.). And Alex craps unabashadly into a Pamper (and sometimes with bonus leakage!!), so my gut tells me that it is not him.

So what do I do here?

“Mamamamamama”

“No, Alex! Say Dada, Dadadadadada!”

“Dadadadadada”

“NO Alex! Say Ben, Benbenbenbenben!”

“Babababababababa”

“NO Alex, say Mamamamama!”

“Mamamamamama”

No thanks to my mother, who at the time when I was a (oops!) baby worked on the dangerous/criminal floor of the nearby mental instituition, my first word was “Fuck,” which is still one of my favorite words ever (followed closely by “googley” which just cracks me up. Say it out loud, all drawn out….hilarity!). I said it in front of my highly conservative grandmother, which left my mother stammering, red-faced and embarrassed to explain that what I had ACTUALLY said was “Duck.”

Ben’s first word was “Tock-tock” after the grandfather clock that he spent many hours as a baby, walker abutting it, staring at in wonderment (is that a word?), oogling the pendulum and it’s constant back and forth movement.

Dave, my guess, first said something wholesome or another like “Christian” or “Crusader.” It’s purely speculation on my own part, but as the phrase goes, if the shoe fits…

Poor Alex, with all of us desperately vying for our names to be his first word, is going to grow up thinking that all of our names are “NOMommy,” “NOBen” and “NODaddy.” I think that we all need a new hobby.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to press the Play button on the tape player in his bedroom to try and tap into his subconsciousness. What is on the tape, you ask? Oh, nothing, really… okay, it’s just an audiotape of myself saying “Mommy” over and over again.

I turn the tables on YOU, dear reader, what was YOUR first word? (and if it’s a good enough story/word, I’ll send you an awesome prize (because who DOESN’T like mail?)…and no, it’s not an autographed picture of myself).

I’m fairly certain that I was An Asshole for my first Halloween. I have no sufficient proof of this, but I was one of those annoyingly colicky babies (according to family lore) who spent most of her first year screaming. Similar, no doubt to Ben, who I dressed as a Bumblebee for his first Halloween. Whether it was because he realized just how stupid he looked or because he was just An Asshole, I’ll never be certain, but he screamed so loudly that I began to call him a Grumblebee.

In fact, he screamed while being a Tiger, The Cat In The Hat, and finally settled down when we bought him a respectable minature NASA suit. It may have been due to the exhorbatant cost of said suit (damn you Pottery Barn Kids, and your adorable, yet unaffordable wares!) or because he was dressed as something that finally made sense, but he seemed quite content in it. This suit lasted for 3 years, until this year when he suddenly realized that he had options, and in choosing to exercise his free will, asked to be Darth Vader, much to my dismay. I make no secret that I dislike Star Wars, but if he’d had to be ANYBODY from the movies, I would have hoped that he’d have chosen to be Boba Fett. But 6 does as 6 pleases, so Darth Vader he was. He was (insert applicable adjective here), but I have no proof of this, as he was moving too quickly for us to get a suitable picture. 6, it also appears, has it’s own agenda.

Despite playing Whack-A-Mole (bonus Children Edition!!) prior to heading out Trick-or-Treating, it went smashingly, and the kid got even more candy than he’d gotten last year.

In order to regain my hurt feelings of control (WHY couldn’t he have been Boba Fett? Boba Fett is AWESOME!), I decided to dress my youngest in what can only be described as “additional therapy fodder.”

Introducing…

The Halloweiner!

(and no, those cuts are actually NOT from a bar fight, just a fight with his own fists of fury).