I apologize for the lack of witty and fascinating posts.  I know that no one else has a four year old and no one else has experiences like I have had as a mother, so I do feel obligated to share my wealth of knowledge with you.  Please don’t be sad.  Stay strong and know that the regularly scheduled programming will resume AS SOON AS I’M DONE NAILING MY SON’S TEACHER FOR CHILD NEGLECT AND ABUSE.

Yeah, you heard me.

I haven’t posted about it (which is weird because we LOVED it) but my son attended an international school of languages where he learned both Chinese and German.  (If you ever want to feel truly stupid, have your four old talk to you in Chinese and then look at your like you’re pig crap because you can’t understand him.) The school was fantastic for quite awhile and we were very impressed with his education.  The founder and main teacher seemed wonderful at first and I pretty much put my life on hold to help her in any way I could.

Cracks started to appear in her stories, facts never seemed to line up and my son came home from school EVERY day absolutely ravenous.  The crack that crumbled everything was when CPS was called (by a previous parent) and this teacher concocted the most hideous lie to cover her ass.  This alerted all of us parents who got together and started comparing stories and found a staggering amount of lies.  Little ones, big ones…you name it she did it.  As I have said several times over the last several days, lying is one thing.  Lying and using children as your cover blows it into a whole other realm.

She also left her 16 year old daughter alone to babysit our kids often.  (And, if her daughter ever reads this, we LOVE that girl.  She is most innocent victim of all here and we wish we could help her more than we have!)  But no 16 yo can handle 12 kids under the age of 5, nor should she have to.  We also found out our kids were being fed little more than Saltines and water some days (this from a woman who originally made amazing gourmet meals for them).

There is much more to this story.  Lies so big it will make your head spin.  And I won’t bore you with the details (’Cause even I know crap like this is boring unless it’s about your kid!).  But I share this with you to encourage you to TRUST your parental instincts and to check out whomever is with your children thoroughly.  You can access any school or center on your local CPS website and see any and all complaints lodged against any place in that county / state.   If the school has been closed and then reopened under another name, question why because all complaints stay with the old name (meaning you won’t see any if they keep changing).

On a more positive note, my sweet girl (well, except when she’s being a surly teenager…LOVE YOU ANYWAY, ASH!) was here for 13 days so that kept me busy as well.  Lots to post and great pics upcoming.

Excuse me while I go lay down in traffic as penance for trusting a crazy liar with my son.

A drawing by my son I like to call Anatomically Correct Flying PeePee Wearing Sunglasses.

Before I launch into my schmaltzy tribute to Neeraj, I should explain why I called him Roger in the title. Living in the US and having a (let’s just say it) WEIRD name, he’s used to people constantly butchering his name. He even claims I can’t say it correctly but he just means I don’t say it with the proper accent. (Hullo, I am white! Why would I want a funky Indian accent?)

I’ve seen him get mail addressed to ‘Neeras’ which, come on, is HYSTERICAL. Or Nerj or Nee-ridge and the list goes on. But the best was when someone called him and said something along the lines of “Hello. I am looking for a N..n…n…ner….ah hell, I can’t say it. A ‘Roger’ Bansal?”

*Sigh* Ignorant, white folks. Proud to call them my people.

So Roger, this one is for you. To toot my own horn just a bit, I’ve never done anything like this. So part of the present is the countless hours I spent actually teaching myself iMovie. (I have to point out things like this otherwise, like most humans with a twig and berries, he won’t grasp the scope of the entire project.)

This is my tribute to you. As sarcastic (and entirely pleasant to be around) as I am, I can’t say thank you enough for all you do for Rohan. You have grown into fatherhood in a way that still boggles my mind and I am so grateful that you are my son’s father. Your integrity, hard work, love, stability and pancake making skills are all things I recognize and prize and are helping Rohan grow to be a good man.

Here’s my small way of saying we appreciate all you do:

Since Austin is 167 degrees every day right now, Ro and I are living in our pool.   No seriously.  LIVING.  I have figured out the sleeping (hello, floaty island), the cooking (hello, camping stove on the edge and floating cooler).  Peeing is easy (when’s it so damn hot outside, the water heats up too so it feels almost like a big pit of warm urine..so the real pee goes unnoticed) but the small kink of the other bid-ness is still being worked on.

So we’re in the pool and my little angel is discussing the necessity of floaties.  Something deep like this:

Ro:  “Hey Mama.  I am a big boy cause I wear arm floaties now and not a swim vest.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s right.”

His eyes travel down to my cleavage and he stares thoughtfully for a good four seconds then says:

“I don’t think you need floaties because your boobies keep you from sinking!”

Yeah, thanks for that.  I already think they’re too big and now I am even more paranoid.  Way to build your mom up, little one.

Unfortunately I cannot take credit for inventing the deliciousness that is to follow, but I can do my one good deed for the month and pass it along. This is one of my family’s favorite recipes and you will see why. It may sound a little odd but I’ve had some pretty serious foodie friends even give their snooty approval (Hi Freddie! Make me some more champagne!). Many thanks to Kole Kantner for coming up with this recipe which adds a gagillion pounds to my ass every summer.

For crust:

1 c graham cracker crumbs

1/4 butter, melted

1/3 brown sugar (or white for less sweetness)

Mix all ingredients together and press into pie pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 8-10 mins. Cool completely.

For pie:

In saucepan combine the following ingredients:

1 cup water

2 T cornstarch

1 pkg Knox gelatin

1/2 cup sugar

Cook sauce until clear. BEFORE sauce comes to complete boil add:

2 T raspberry jello

Remove sauce from heat. Add:

4 cups fresh blueberries

Pour this yumminess into cooled shell.

Topping:

1 cup heavy whipping cream

8 oz. cream cheese, softened

Powdered sugar to taste

Whip the cream, fold into softened cream cheese. Add sugar to taste then spread over the pie. Chill.

Go take a shot of tequila and lie down from the pure exhaustion of cooking. Try not to eat the whole thing before your kids get home.

Dear, sweet Uncle Matt. He has been a great help lately with Rohan; doing everything from taking him to movies and toystores to making racetracks and forts. (He’s either Super Uncle or Cranky Bastard, depending on the day. But I digress…)

He offered to watch Ro while I did some errands the other day and look what I came home to:

Ha ha, Matt. (How dare you steal my idea? ) I unlocked Rohan from the handcuffs and, to distract him, suggested we all go to Amy’s (which is a local place that has gourmet burgers and beer on one side, amazing ice cream on the other and a large playground with outdoor seating and tables…GENIUS). When we got there, Matt offered to play with Rohan while I read a book with my flask of tequila (the beers just didn’t cut it). So I was relaxing and enjoying my beverage and book combo when I heard Rohan yelling for me. I tried ignoring him for 20 minutes but people really started looking at me weird, so I reluctantly went over to him…and this is what I found:

That schmuck passed out drunk on the cow! What a jerk. I thought I was the only one of the family allowed to drink to the point of neglect and inebriation.

Anyway, I slapped him and he came to and I managed to snap one more pic:

*Sigh* It’s REALLY hard to get good help these days.

My brother left a stunning piece of artwork on my desk with a note that said ‘Here’s a special new boyfriend for you.’ They say that one mark of true artist is someone who can get inside your head and, boy, did he ever. Matt, how did you know what my dream man looks like?

Presenting Scottish George Clooney:

Neeraj has been in India for three weeks and Rohan obviously misses his Daddy very much. Tonight he drew a picture for his Daddy and requested that I send it to him immediately.

So Nee, here ya go. According to Rohan, he drew a little boy that “has a happy smile but sad eyes”. He also wrote “I love Daddy” on the bottom left…you can clearly see “I love” but then the word “daddy” is perfectly backwards. Not dyslexic but a mirror image of the whole word. He does this occasionally and, after I beat him, I yell that this idea only works for the word “mom”. And Mom is the only word he should be interested in writing.

(I am kidding, people.)

Here’s your pic, Nee. Enjoy the smiling boy with sad eyes. How’s that knife in your heart?

Yesterday as I was driving, Rohan asked “Mama, how old are you?

“32 budd..”

Cutting in, “You’re FARTY TWO?”

“No, hon. Thirty-two, as in 3-2..”

“You’re FARTY TWO? EWWWW! You’re farty two because you fart all the time!!”

For a brief second I wondered if I do, in fact, have a flatulence problem that I am in such denial about that I never realize when I am actually, you know, releasing the wind? And wouldn’t that be horrifying (yet kinda funny, I admit)?

He giggled for a while…as little boys do over anything that involves bottoms, pee pee’s, farts or poop. (Oh - if life were only an funny as a nice bowel movement as seen from a 4 year old’s mind! The world would be such a better place.)

I had actually forgotten about it until I was paying for my purchases at The Gap with Rohan next to me. The woman at the register asked Rohan how old he is and he answered ‘Four!” but volunteered a little more information than I would have preferred.

“I’m FOUR but my Mommy is FARTY-TWO! ‘Cause she FARTS ALL THE TIME! Ewww! Stinky m…”

He didn’t get to finish his last word because, in one fell swoop, I picked up the polo I just purchased and stuffed it in his mouth. Then I asked for a garmet bag and wrapped him in it like a mummy.

The police report said something about child endangerment but I totally disagree. I was simply protecting my good name. Or as my cell mate calls me, “Madame Flatulence”.

Here’s Professor Facial Hair in a recent shot:

So the house we are renting has a hot tub, which was lovely to have for the 2.7 minutes that Austin weather was actually cool enough to warrant its use. Getting tired of paying crap loads of money to heat it, we decided to drain it. The pump did a spiffy job of getting the water out but left several inches in the bottom which one has to get out by hand.

I am learning alot by living in a huge, old home with a really large yard and a pool and hot tub. I am city girl. Having a massive yard and bodies of water and pesky animals that I am responsible for is all new to me (Did I tell you we had a foot long RAT in the house too?). So allow to me share a couple lessons learned about hot tubs:

Lesson #1 : Even if you see the funnel of a tornado 400 yards from you, do not leave the last several inches of water in the hot tub after you have drained it. Just hold on for dear life and get that water out.

So I left the water in and, not having the time to get in and be a human shovel, I added some chemicals a couple of times to keep the water from getting gross. Each time I would open the heavy cover, check the water, take a sip (I thought it was tequila), add some chemicals and close it up tight. (Apparently, any stagnant water is Nirvana for mosquitoes and since my son has an especially horrible reaction to their bites, I was pretty anal about making sure the cover was on correctly.)

Lesson #2: Those really heavy covers on hot tubs aren’t enough. I recommend duct taping the entire thing, encasing it in cement then perhaps concocting some sort of nuclear bomb proof metal cover.

Yesterday I finally had the time to finish the project, so I changed out of my hot pants and stilettos (my typical daily attire) put on my grubbies and walked out there. I heaved the lid open and apparently opened the gates of hell in the process. Time truly stood still but I promise in the course of half a second every hair in my nostrils burned, my eyes watered and I saw something floating in the water. I slammed that lid down quicker than my empty shot glass and instantly dry heaved.

Luckily, my brother (I LOVE HIM) was here and I ran inside gagging and dry heaving and gasped “hot. tuuub.” and he walked outside to look. My big brother (I LOVE HIM) used to work at a sewer plant, people. He has seen the grossest of humanity (or the remants thereof) and maggots as big as a man’s fingertip. He took one look in that hot tub and declared it the grossest thing he has ever seen. (See?? I am not THAT wimpy!)

Apparently, two squirrels got in there somehow (SERIOUSLY?? HOW??) and ingested some of the chemicals and died. But those little selfish bastards didn’t have the decency to die on the flat, dry seat shelf. No, they were half in, half out of the water in an insulated, enclosed space in 100+ degree weather for who-knows-how-long.

Lesson #3 If you don’t have a big brother around, scope out your neighbors and make banana bread for any male with muscles and tattoos. Every week. And add a six pack once a month.

So my brother (I LOVE HIM) saved my lily-white tookus and agreed to get them outta there (this was after 30 companies heard my story and claimed they couldn’t help). We had our yard guys here working and my brother (I LOVE HIM) walked out with a shovel and bucket. Three big guys, some with tat’s and looking tough, were a little nervous when my brother (I LOVE HIM) told them what he was about to do as they were standing in the general vicinity.

I was watching from the downstairs window with my smelling salts and watched as my brother (I LOVE HIM) opened the lid. Friends, there really isn’t much that is funnier than watching three big dudes scatter like school girls and, when my brother (I LOVE HIM) actually lifted the squirrels out, they were all dry heaving like little prissy, wimpy girls. Wait, I dry heaved. Nevermind.

My brother (I LOVE HIM) had a tshirt tied across his nose and mouth to help with the stench. He must have only been out there a couple of minutes (didn’t feel the need to linger with a cigar for some reason) and the smell on that shirt was so bad he had to throw it away.

But he didn’t flinch. He got in there and dug around and got those decaying corpses out. I had such a moment of clarity watching him. Seriously. Watching those big guys dry heaving and running away solidified that I have Superman as a brother and I will always feel safe when he is around. Safe and constantly harassed and picked on but safe.

I actually think even Superman may have lost his lunch watching thousands of maggots devouring bloated and deformed squirrel corpses. And I really think he may have lost it if he saw them crawling out of the ears and eye sockets.

So that’s the image I leave you with. Next time you want to take a bite of that chocolate cake, imagine it’s a maggot infested animal corpse. And if you’re like me, imagine this. That sip of water you want? Yeah, that’s the water that the squirrels were microwaved in and rotted in for days, teeming with thousands of maggots.

I’ve lost 13 pounds in two days and SO CAN YOU!!

P.S. Matt, I really do LOVE YOU.