1. I’ve been contemplating our neighborhood a bit. It’s an interesting place. There is an alarmingly high number of individuals in the immediate vicinity who still have their Christmas lights up.
2. There is one house on our street featuring boarded-up windows and foil accents. I’m guessing tweaker.
3. There is another house with broken glass in the garage door and a “lawn” that is yellow, serving primarily as an overflow parking area.
4. My neighbor to the left sits in his garage all day drinking Budweiser and smoking cigarettes. When he reaches a healthy buzz, he does everybody’s yard work.
5. On the plus side, our lawn looks freaking incredible.
6. And, oddly, despite the weirdness, I kinda dig this place.
7. Anyway, I’m in so deep I’ve forgotten what the surface looks like. Is there a surface? Was there ever a surface? I feel I’m at complete capacity and I haven’t even begun “officially” homeschooling the 5-year-old.
8. Speaking of the 5-year-old, next week the 5-year-old will become a 6-year-old, which sounds so much older than 5, my heart is breaking a little. I don’t know why exactly, except that he is still in that precious priceless glorious stage of childhood – where there is happiness – pure undisturbed happiness – and there is no fear and there is no worry and there is no self-consciousness and he is free. And I want him to stay there. I don’t want the world to creep in and fuck him up, making him doubt and reason and act like a “grown up.” But it will. Just as it has with Ava. And then I will only see my Rocket in glimpses – my boy in pockets, pockets of blue mohawks and breakdancing and cuddles and freckles and tears and Legos and racecar games and rolling on the floor in hysterics. Stop making me talk about this. I’m starting to cry.
9. Imagine if the world were constructed in such a way that we stayed like 5-year-olds for all our lives – not mentally , but spiritually – our souls –free and open and ready. For everything. For nothing. For life.
10. When I see those pockets in Ava – at 9 years old – I stop what I’m doing entirely and watch. Soak it in. Let her be a child no matter what it entails. And then, I try to join her. Because it’s in me too. Just obstructed by the bullshit storyline of “adulthood.” What is it anyway? A bunch of constructions, a bunch of expectations, a bunch of crap that won’t matter when I’m on my deathbed. Screw it. I’d rather act like a 5-year-old. They are happier than most adults I know anyway.
11. In other news, my dogs may kill each other. I think they’re still trying to figure out who wears the pants in the relationship. Dumbasses keep beating each other up. I figure if they don’t kill each other in the process, at some point they’ll figure out who’s the alpha and just give up the fight. I have no time to figure out dog issues. I’m having enough trouble with those of the human variety.

Anyway, I love you people. Please keep voting for me. By the way, I recently came across this photo of Rocket at the Further festival in June. Is it possible for anything to be more perfect?

I have a real toddler.

My first two kids weren’t “real” toddlers. Evidently they went through the toddler stage, but they didn’t really ACT like toddlers. They just kind of hung out. I’ve never bought those drawer or door locks or done any “toddler-proofing” (what a stupid expression).

This one, though? This Georgia character? She’s the real deal.

And holy crap my friends, this is a lot of work.

I spend most of my time averting disaster.

If she can reach it, she pulls it over. On her head. On the floor. On the cat.

If she’s in the bathroom, she’s inspecting the toilet bowl brush.

Or the trash.

She’s climbed into the dishwasher. Onto the kitchen island. Attempted entrance into the fireplace. And will leave through any opened doors.

Gets stuck under tables. Gets inside bags, baskets and boxes.

Wedges herself into all accessible small spaces. Then screams.

Topples head-first into items she’s attempting to scale, such as, the bathtub.

Climbs stairs.

In short, if there is an item in the room that is disgusting and messy or has the ability to choke her or cause some other grievous bodily harm or threaten her immediate well-being, she makes a damn beeline for it and if I’m not RIGHT THERE, there will be disaster.

Not maybe. For sure.

Everything I do I have to do it quickly, because there is a toddler on my tail. She’s gotta be RIGHT up in my business, all the time. If I’m unloading the dishwasher, she’s standing next to me grabbing shit out of it, preferably knives.

And what is she some sort of power crawler? She’s NEVER IN THE SAME PLACE for more than 3 seconds. She’s there. I look away. She’s GONE.

And then I’m bolting around “Georgia!?” (as if she’s some sort of dog that comes when called), finally finding her wrapped in the computer power cords and grinning at me like “What?”

Taking a shower. Always a treat.

Three to five minutes during which I leave the toddler unattended. I usually resort to letting her play with a roll of toilet paper or some other weirdness, because at least that way she’s not engaging in potentially life-threatening behavior and it’s a mess I know and anticipate, which somehow makes it easier.

I guess.

There is really no way to make toddlerhood easier.

This shit pretty much just bites.

Except for the fact that they’re freaking adorable and are still babies most of the time, cuddling and being fat and babbling and laughing and kissing and perfect.

Well, when they’re not eating the cat’s food.

Or pulling books off the shelves.

Or crawling into the refrigerator.

For the tenth time today.

Because your older kids just can’t seem to figure out the whole refrigerator-door shutting phenomenon.

Shiiiiiiiiit.

Let’s just look at a picture. To forget.

Or maybe, to remember.

"Who, me?"