Saving Up For Future Therapy One Penny At A Time

Children are very funny creatures.

Both of mine are still quite young (5 and 1, for those keeping track), and the oldest, Bug, is showing an excellent imagination in things that May Or May Not Be Real.

This suits our family atmosphere fairly perfectly, we love monsters and creepy of all shapes and sizes and are pleased to see this carry onto our children.

He likes to make up monster stories at bedtime and is constantly curious about why their mothers let them run about at night. I have attempted to explain that monsters just prefer to sleep during the day, but he remains unconvinced this is the case.

In Bug Land, there are dozens of monster children running about at midnight with their monster Mamas hot on their trail, eager to put them into time-out. (As a note to other parents out there, I highly recommend My Monster Mama Loves Me So by Laura Leuck.)

Cut to yesterday at roughly noon.

A high-pitched scream breaks into my serene Google Reader check and interrupts baby Lyn Hippo's studious lunchtime nom-nomming (comparable to a massacre of epic proportions). I hear the sliding glass door slam determinedly closed and Bug announce, with no small amount of panic, that they're going to get inside and get us. He proceeds to lock the back door, put the bar down and close the curtains.

I half-expect him to run to the sewing machine to craft black-out curtains or run to the kitchen and arm himself.

I'm trying not to snicker, because I am horrible and haven't ever heard such a panicked, high-toned scream from my son. He's yanking me to the back door, pulling the curtain aside a mere half an inch to stab at the glass in a frantic manner. When I attempt to open the door, he dives for the couch and crawls up to safety, nearly hyperventilating and informing me once more they're going to get in.

The look I get from him makes it clear that in the afterlife, he is going to be blaming me.

"What's going to get in, Bug? I don't see anything."

"The slug, Mama. The SLUG."

". . . what slug?"

His mother's death-inviting blindness trumps fear, and he scrambles off the couch and grabs my hand tightly, braving the potential slaughter and pulling me towards the grass.

"THIS slug," he says, pointing into the grass before climbing up for safety.

The Slug

Bug's never really shown a fear of other bugs/insects/creepy crawlies before, so I frowned down at the slug in question, hefting him higher on my hip as I tried to figure out if this breed had mutated teeth or, perhaps, was brandishing a weapon of some sort. Perhaps it had stolen his Capri Sun and was mocking him with the straw.

". . . it's just a slug, buddy," I told him ruefully, patting his back and heading back to the patio after placing the threat level at Oscar.

"Mom," Bug insisted, expression clear in his belief that he was being raised by That Teenage Girl in the horror movies. You know, the one still wearing her heels in the forest and keeps looking over her shoulder. "Like Slither. It starts with one."

In Bug Land:

=

And, because I am that parent, I give him a solemn look and reply, "You're right. It does."


Never let it be said my children won't be prepared for the invasion.

Dammit

I have a blessed two hours completely to myself and what do I waste my first half hour on? Not writing! Not reworking OLD writing! Not wrestling Maya around into something that makes sense! Not doing anything that could ever resemble anything productive for my wallet!

I spend it traveling around TWITTER and laughing at Ben Templesmith.

My time-floundering skills are fucking epic.

Let's try this again.

Bugs and Birthdays

My Bug is five (amusingly, his birthdate this year was 6/7/08), which is a strange concept. Well, every birthday is strange when you have kids--the kid is reflecting on cake and party stuff and the parents get to reflect on how the hell they got so big in such a small amount of time and whether or not anyone will make it to the next one in one piece.

This birthday marks the last year he's just mine. Come the fall, he'll have school and he'll make Not Playdate Friends and he'll come home wanting a dragon tattoo and Pokemon cards. This is probably the last year for many, many years that I am his best friend. Until he's a teenager and wants money or a ride somewhere, then I'm temporarily In The Club. Unless I say no.

We got up yesterday and he helped me make his birthday breakfast (a stunning assortment of eggs, Super French Toast and strawberries topped with whipped cream), then he helped me set up all of his party decorations (Spider-Man is goddamn everywhere). The decorations were particularly fun because this is the first year we've done an all-out themed birthday party and he's so very, very thrilled about it.

Then he went and grabbed my cell and stuffed it in his pocket.

"What's with the cell phone, Bug?"

"Everyone is going to call me to tell me Happy Birthday."

". . . yes, they will. But so far, it's eight in the morning. I'm not sure if everyone is up yet."

"Mom. It's my birthday. They'll get up early. I am five, you know."

Ten minutes later, the cell phone hasn't rung and I'm beginning to get a taste of what his expression is going to look like when he's a teenager and Not-Really-But-Totally-Waiting-For That Girl to call. I sneak into the bathroom with the other cell phone and call him myself.

". . . Mom?"

"Happy Birthday!"

". . . Mom, did you leave the house?"

"No, I'm in the bathroom."

". . . are you stuck?"

". . . no."

It was a very nice twenty minute conversation regarding his birthday and what a big dork he thought I was, after I convinced him I wasn't trapped somewhere in the house against my will (Note: We have seen Monster House too many times and he was, in fact, far too lazy to get off the couch to look for me himself).

He was laughing when he told me what I dork I was, so I think it was cooler than it was dorky.

Perhaps this is just a taste of Grown-Up Kid Lingo, where subtext is everything. It's okay, I'm Female, I've got insulation against the nasties of subtext.

He was bundles of adorable all day, talking non-stop about his party and stuff he wanted and when were we going to go pick up the cake (my Mom-Fu is weak in baking) and when was everyone going to get here and could he play Katamari and would it be okay if he peed in the backyard?

"Wait--what?"

"The world is my toilet, Mom, I have a penis."

"Who told you that?"

"Unc. He said that it was okay to pee in the wilderness. We did at the beach."

". . . well. Our backyard isn't the wilderness. And our bathroom isn't broken. You're peeing inside."

"Fiiiiiiiine."

Note to self: Discuss the finer points of Educating Children today with my little brother. Also, punch him hard enough to bruise.

I reflect on this: Five years ago I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Thanks to nanny experience, I had the roughs down, but really, I had No Damn Idea What The Hell I Was Doing. Five years later, I sort of know what I'm doing.

Okay, I still have no idea what I'm doing, but at least I made it five years with only five midnight hospital visits, ten coins swallowed, one 911 call, one Emergency Dentist Visit, one strange case of scarlet fever, three Walmart Theft incidents (bubblegum in the pocket) and three occasions involving projectile vomiting.

And he's only caught himself in the zipper once.

I think we're ahead of the game.

Er?

Me answering phone: Comic Stop.
Man: Er, can I talk to your Dad, please?
Me: . . . I'm sorry? What the hell?
Man: . . . Oh God! You're not a child! I'm so sorry, I thought you were!
Me: *thwaps forehead repeatedly on counter*

Visits Are Delicious

My baby brother flew in from Virginia today and is now on his way here. This is very super-awesome, since I haven't seen him since Thanksgiving.

Also: I'm still taller than him. Ha.

I CANNOT believe I forgot this

Seriously. This is one of the best con stories and I totally spaced it. It works out well though because this really does deserve its very own post.

During some quiet time on Sunday, Quiana and I were hanging out at the registration booth, mockingdiscussing various people wandering about and mucking about in the comfortable spinny chairs (that is their official name, btw). I turned to the right and saw a guy crouched down with his magnificently pale ass completely hanging out of his jeans. I threw up a little in my mouth and then did what any good friend would do, with a tone that mustered nothing but excitement.

"Hey, Quiana! Look at that."

And she totally, totally did.

I think she spent the next half hour calling me an asshole. It was glorious. Regrettably, I didn't manage to snag a picture.

Too Little, Too Late?

Last week imploded all over me. I'm not certain I'll ever get the messy Wednesday remnants completely out of my hair. Also not certain why my week imploded--aside from how when I got back to my house on Monday it looked like a complete disaster. My utter, complete shock was utterly and completely not there. On the up side, the kids didn't look like refugees who hadn't eaten or bathed in three days. But yeah, week implosion equals no blogging. I think I have all my ducks back in their appropriate rows. I think, at least.

Emerald City ComiCon was excellent, and blogged awesomely about here (scroll down to start at bottom) and here. I'm too lazy to string together full, cohesive paragraphs, so I'm going to list the awesome stuff out.

• handing out packets all day Friday and Saturday is an interesting way to achieve Zen. Repetitive action does wonders for the subconscious mind.
• Jeph Jaques? Freaking adorable. Also, constantly surrounded by a throng of girls. His girlfriend cannot be comfortable. She was quite nice, though, since she was the one who snagged the packet from me for their booth.
  
• The black jerseys all the senior staff got were completely awesome, even if they tended to put a huge bullseye on me whenever I attempted to escape to the bathroom on Saturday. Seriously--bathroom trips took no less than fifteen minutes and the bathroom wasn't more than a hundred feet from the registration booth.
• Notice To All Con Attendees: Information Booth doesn't mean I'll find your bus stop for you. It doesn't even mean I'll attempt to try. Information does not equal Seattle-Information.com.
• Dinner on Friday was accompanied with a bright green drink in a dual-faced tiki glass. He was very, very unhappy when he was empty. Weep. And it was almost as good as a mojito. Almost. So far, though, nothing's better than a good mojito.
• Quiana and I have almost exactly the same taste in foods. Except for . . . bak choi? Something--it's a weird mushy green vegetable that was not very delicious.
• Adding 'ish' to the end of directions prevents wrongness, according to Technogreek.
  
• I lose street cred when I want iced coffee instead of hot.
  
• Saturday morning-to-afternoon registration was insanely busy and chaotic, but overall it went really well. No big problems like last year and we managed to keep the line for check-in from getting too long. I might be insane, but it's also pretty fun. Even though lanyards are a special punishment from Hell.
  
• I learned that in case I need an extra hand at registration, Hotness is the first person I should find for help. She moves like a perky dervish without the destruction.
• I made a lot of awesome friends and was reminded that I really, really miss living in Seattle. Though there is awesomeness here in Puyallup that I need to contact and drag out for food and fun shenanigans.
• Wil Wheaton was insanely awesome to have at the show and everyone adored the crap out of him. He did completely break my heart by being super-popular and awesome and running out of books before I and a bunch of other volunteers could snag one. As soon as I recover, I'll still love him. Me? Masochist? Shut your mouth.
• Ed Brubaker's wife is beyond nice. And really funny and polite and oh, right, super-nice.
• Having dinner with a bunch of other volunteers on Saturday, exchanging funny stories and getting to know them better completely made my oh-so-pained feet feel better. As did the alcohol.
• We were walking back from said delicious dinner and got almost-accosted by a lady who really did look like she was from Walking Dead (she looked like she'd escaped from the hospital, as she was still wearing the gown and had various sores all over and was very, very, very thin. Very.) as observed by FerretNick. I was startled (and reminded that maybe I need to up my expectation standards) by Technogreek's awesome chivalry when he walked between me and the terribly sad and creepy Walking Dead lady. Much appreciated. Less appreciated are the doctors/nurses/terrible security persons who let her out of the hospital.
  
• FerretNick, Dr. Zoltar and their wives-who-have-no-blogs-but-should are really awesome. And hilarious.
  
• I'm too Irish.
• Having people freak out at me regarding the whereabouts of talent is not awesome. Having George effectively take care of pest problems with more politeness than I've seen in months while still saying 'Hell to the no, thanks for trying'? Definitely awesome.
  
• Freak outs over who got handed the check-in packets for booths? Not awesome. This means you, group of females I won't name who unsuccessfully attempted to drag me into their group drama over what turned out to be nothing. Note to you: remember high school is over!
• Suicide Girls? Awesome and really very nice, most of them.
  
• There were a pair of men who entered into the costume contest who were clothed in whitey tighties and suspenders. Nothing else. They blew glitter at people and one lit their other's chest hair aflame. And they needed a tan.
• The pinnacle of Creepy Basement Nerd asked to take a picture of my hair. From the back. While I was sitting down. This fetish is . . . indefinably creepy.
• I got stopped and thanked a lot for assistance I didn't always remember giving, but thanks to the blue-purple-etc hair, I know I wasn't easy to confuse with someone else. Also, they usually stopped me by name.
• Tim Sale prints sell like good street drugs.
• I forgot my sketchbook. Not. Awesome. At. All. Got no sketches. Also didn't remember to bring the few comics I stashed aside to get signed. Next year, I will not be forgetting any bags.
• Sunday, at the post-show dinner, Quiana and I were table hunting and I spotted one of our regulars at The Stop, Shane, and his boyfriend, the awesome and really very nice Steve Sadowski sitting, so I beelined over there because a) they're great and b) I was feeling way, way too much like a twelve year-old trying to find a cafeteria table. We sat down and there was the uber-fun FerretNick sitting with someone else who I spent fifteen minutes trying to drum up the name to go to the face, knowing I knew him and finally got some whisper assistance to get the job done. Thank you FerretNick. So, it was totally Phil Jimenez, who I totally adore and totally had Infinite Crisis and a few from his run of Wonder Woman in the Forgotten Bag Of Doom to get signed. I'll drop the word 'totally' now, but not awesome. There was really excellent conversation with all of them centering around comics and even dropping over to soap operas and it was all really, really awesome. I loved tossing around words with them and hope next year I'll get an opportunity to do it again. And? Phil is really, really one of the nicest guys in comics. And adorable. He gave me some really wonderful advice about breaking into comics via the written word that I'm beyond appreciative for too.
  
• Monday morning I got to revel in not having to get up at four am to drive people to the airport. I did have two very talkative backseat passengers at seven, though, one of whom took advantage of the fact that I missed him to hit me up for McDonald's pancake breakfast. Bratling.
• Being sad in front of Palindrome disturbs him. Even if he forgets about it entirely later.
  

I'm very certain I'm missing a few tidbit stories that'll occur to me later, but I think that's the highs and the lows. Overall, ECCC is definitely one of the highlights of the year for me, it was a lot of fun and the guys ran the best show yet this year.

I think that's long enough of a post. Welcome to my over-compensation for not posting at all last week.

Also: I think I'm sad. I'm not sure why and it's strange because I am very, very, very rarely sad. It's also annoying.

My hair is purple

Sort of. Actually, it's an amalgam of blue, purple, dark pink. It looks pretty good, except for the parts that don't. Aren't I helpful?

When I'm not lazy, I'll put up pictures. Provided I remember.


This is the coolest thing I've heard in ages. I don't think Zetaman is stupid. I think he's terribly goofy and hilarious, but completely wonderful. He started out doing citizen crime fighting but shifted to helping the homeless after getting into trouble and whatnot.

"I want to help because I grew up poor and I grew up starving and stuff," Zetaman said. "I'm an adult now, I have a job and I just want to help where I can."

It's so cheesy and geeky and absolutely perfect. I really, really love what this guy is doing. Apparently the word has spread around and there are actually superheroes in other cities doing the same thing and I think this is one of the best news stories I've read in months.

"Zetaman says he's met with some of these other solo civic social fighters and an alliance may be in the works."

I can't stop laughing while reading this article--I'm actually really happy, which is so strange while reading a news piece. I'd like a Seattle Superhero, please. This guy totally deserves a key to the city of Portland and a plaque, what he's doing is absolutely terrific.

The homeless may seem like a big waste of time to some, but I really believe that a nation should be judged on how they treat their least fortunate, not their most. There should be superheroes going to foster houses and group homes too.




Rock on, Zetaman.