The Life Skill of Proper Cursing

Few things bring joy to a mother's heart like when she sees her young child learn some invaluable life skill. A tears comes to my eye every time I think of my children's first steps, their arms waving erratically for balance, bobbling back and forth as they moved toward me. The bittersweet journey that turns them from infants totally dependent upon you into grown people bound for adventures of their own is marked with these milestones.
Well, friends, I got to experience one today, perhaps the greatest thus far. As I was driving down the road, my oldest boy randomly spouted, "Son of a bitch!!"
Half shocked, I turned back to see what had happened. Apparently his water had spilled on his shirt, which he clearly found displeasing.
"Ridge," I said, "that's a naughty word. You aren't suppose to say that."
The car was filled with an awkward pause as he absorbed my chiding. After he had thought about this for a moment, he explained, "Well, Momma, I just like to say naughty words, just like you do."
At first I was shocked by being outsmarted by a 4-year-old yet again. But, then I realized that I had taught my child a life skill, one he'll actually use. I mean, how often do any of you use sign language. There's no doubt that has made the world a more functioning place for millions of people, but most of us don't have many situations where it is needed. Proper cursing, on the other hand, is priceless. To understand the proper place in a sentence to insert a good "shit" or "hell" is something he'll actually use.
Now, give me my Mother of the Year prize, please!

No, My 2-Year-Old Isn't Talking About That......

Well, letting my youngest boy follow in his Thomas the Train-obsessed older brother's footsteps has turned out to bear more damage than just the cheeky little engine further dominating my life and starting up more than one brutal battle between the brothers. It is now leading to more embarrassment than I already face when taking my children out in public.
When young children first start verbally communicating, the general public normally can't understand them for several months. To everyone but their parents and perhaps a few grandparent-types, their mumbled words are gibberish. No two children have the same language. But, to the parental figures of these children, this special language is crystal clear.
As Rolan's infatuation with the Thomas and Friends has grown, he has found his favorite train -- Percy. Maybe that is because he has been strictly forbidden from ever touching some of the others by Ridge the Toy Cop. Either way, Percy is the train of his little heart. He carries a Percy toy in his hand as he darts about the house chanting his name.
But, here's the thing with the chanting. As Rolan delightfully bellows Percy's name, he leaves out a very important part of it, the part that keeps it from sounding like, er, the nether regions of female porn stars. Simply put, there is no "ER" sound, just a PU followed by SEE.
As I was pushing him in the shopping cart a few days ago, his kung foo grip on his Percy toy loosened for just a second, long enough for him to accidentally drop the green train as I pushed forward. I was so focused on my ass-kicking coupons that my frazzled mind simply did not register his frantic screams until several other shoppers had already taken notice to my boy.
"PU-SEE</span>!" he yelled. "I WANT PU-SEE! WHERE'S PU-SEE?!?!"
I backtracked through the aisles, my eyes darting under displays and around carts. With each step, Rolan continued his loud chants and the eyes of many, many others were on me. And just as I was thinking to myself that his echoed words didn't really sound that bad, a rather witty friend just happened to stroll by.
"Hey, so what's that your boy is asking for?" she quizzed with a smirk on her face.
"His train, Percy," I replied. "He dropped him and we are looking for him."
"So, you're sure it's the train he wants?"
"Ummmm.....yes."
"Really? Because it sounds like he is saying something else."
"Oh yeah. Just what is that?"
"Well, I'll just say it sounds like the apple did not fall too far from the tree. Tell Rowdy I said that."
"You're an asshole. Do you think that's what everyone is thinking, too?"
"Oh," she giggled, "definitely."

On a different note, I hope none of you hope for me to love you as much as I love Chris right now. Don't get me wrong, you are pretty rockin' awesome, too. But, Chris has definitely figured out the way to my heart. Sure, he called me a good writer and I do love him for that, but when he complimented by skills at, well, bitching, he won my heart. Check out his site.

All My Bags Are Pack And I'm Ready To Go

Rowdy went on a "cattle buying" trip last week, which is basically code talk for "you and the two kids we have are driving me nutso, so with the added children I think this is a good time to let our cattle buyers in East Texas take a break for day." Don't get me wrong, Rowdy loved having the Webb children with us, but when both they and our two spawn started puking, he was all, "Peace out, Bitch."
Now, the reason that this is important to what I am about to tell you about is that he rode to East Texas in a cattle truck that was hauling our recently bought cattle to us here in Western Oklahoma and Rowdy decided to hop on board and let that be his transportation. And, unfortunately for me, as he was heading out the front door, he mentioned to our oldest boy Ridge just where he was going -- A SALE BARN. Now, I realize that many of you don't fully know just what that is and that those of you who do don't understand why my son would be so freakin' excited about it. So you know, a sale barn is basically what it sounds to be, a barn where cattle and other livestock are, well, sold. And to my boy Ridge this is fucking Disneyland.
After the extremely traumatic experience of his father not only riding on a cattle truck without him, but also going to his beloved sale barn without him, Ridge was on high alert for this sort of underground behavior. He was suspicious and trusted no one, particularly not his mother and father.
So when they cattle truck pulled down the drive way two days ago and backed into the shoots, Ridge immediately went into action. Rowdy, of course, was down there unloading the truck and I was in the bathroom with Rolan, working on the potty training. Like a swift gust of wind, Ridge yanked a suitcase from the closet and threw his clothes in it. Before I finished in the bathroom with his brother, he had shimmied the front door open and was dragging his packed luggage down the driveway.
He was off, a free man ready to ride the open road and see where the road took him. As much as I tried to convince him his father was, in fact, not leaving on that cattle truck, he was steadfast in his disbelief. Eventually I called Rowdy and asked him to come home in order to end the rather annoying protest that was taking place at the front door. Rowdy's skeptic paranoia subsided a bit then, but still lingered some.
Since then, Ridge has insisted on only wearing clothes that come from his suitcase. But, not only that, clothes that he himself actually physically removes from it. For example, I can't go yank something out of there for him to put on, even if it is in front of his own compulsive eyes.
So, yeah, not only did Rowdy get his little trip, but now I will forever have to deal with Ridge darting out of the house, blubbering and screaming, when a cattle truck unloads two or three times a week, but I will also have to adhere to him only wearing clothes that have been prepacked.
It's like I'm God's comedy.

I Screwed Up And Let Both My Kids Become Obsessed with Thomas

As I sat down to write this post, the wise words of the big hair band of the 80s, Great White, are humming through my mind, "My, my, my, You're Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Babe."
I wish they would have been a few months ago when I rather ignorantly introduced my youngest son Rolan to Thomas the Train. Now, as I'm sure you already know, my oldest boy Ridge has taken his fascination with Thomas into obsession. I'm sure if he was old enough to have his own means of transportation and actually realized that The Day Out with Thomas that comes annually to Oklahoma City's Railway Museum traveled from city to city, he'd drop out of Rainbow Lane and follow it around like some stoned Dead Head. He knows each little train by heart, even the ones that are the exact same color and look virtually identical to one another except for their length of funnels or some such shit. The Thomas bug bit Ridge when he was about 2 and that cheeky train has been ruining my life ever since.
Because of that, you would think I would have had the fucking foresight not to introduce this Jedi mind-controlling hogwash to the little one. Clearly, I'm like kid who repeatedly sticks her hand in fire or poor dog who runs smack dab into the glass door over and over and over. I just never learn.
So now, just when Ridge's junkie addiction to Thomas finally appeared on the verge of being overcome, Rolan is waking up each morning, demanding Thomas be turned on through the magical genius of the DVR, thus giving Ridge a daily fucking reminder of just how much he still really, really loves Thomas. Instead of one boy making forceful requests as though I'm some hostage negotiator and he's got 10 kidnapped bystanders who can only be saved if the ransom of a Thomas showing is met, I have two.
For a while, I thought I had solved the Thomas crisis through the miraculous hands of YouTube. With Ridge old enough to run a mean mouse pad, I would put the boys in front of the computer, pull up YouTube, type in Thomas the Train and let them go to town. With the similar videos listed on the bottom right of the screen, Ridge just click away, buying me much needed house cleaning time while they watched an endless sea of Thomas videos. But then one day the title of one caught my eye as I walked by, picking up toys that were no doubt Thomas related. It was, "Gordon Kills Thomas," or something along those line. Yeah, apparently some asshole has made a whole collection of videos based on the series with a twist of The Shining or some other sadistic nightmare that 4-year-olds and 2-year-olds don't need to be watching, unless of course you are just wanting them to never sleep again, in which case, bombs away. I wanted to write this dude a nasty note along the lines of, "Thanks for screwing up my sweet thing, you sick bastard," but then I remembered that he's some nut job who apparently thinks turning beloved childhood icons into serial killers is hilarious. In an attempt to not end up as some sickos skin dress or cooked in their fat lady stew, I decided to withhold from the letter and just bitch about him here for the whole Internet to read. I think that's a much safer plan, don't you?
So, after the YouTube solution turned out not to be a solution after all, I had to let the boys start watching Thomas the old-fashioned way again, on the television. And as if my plight of Thomas mania wasn't bad enough, those assholes behind the PBS series have introduced a whole new handful of trains in this season's episodes. That means each time Ridge sees one of these new pricks during his daily Thomas fix, he immediately starts chanting, "Walmart! Walmart!" at the top of his lungs. He's not going to rest until we have each and every member of the Thomas fleet, which not only includes about a million rather similar trains, but also a bus, a traction engine (that's a tractor to us Americans), a helicopter and now a freakin' jet plane named Jeremy. Ridge's new partner in his bloody rebel coup, the formerly darling Rolan, is right beside him, pounding his tiny fists to the table, as he follows his brother's call to arms.
So, I just wish I would have heard The Great White song two months ago. Perhaps it would have sparked my one remaining brain cell into having a thought, which might have then lead to preventing this catastrophe. We already go through $20 a month in batteries just keeping the Thomas and Friends buzzing around the tracks scattered through our house. Will it be $40 this time next year? Perhaps $80? Who knows. Just heed my warnings, Readers, do NOT let your children watch this devilish nightmare or you, too, will be fighting this losing battle .

Have A Corporate, Corporate Christmas

When I was a little girl, we didn't have The Tosito Bowl. The Orange Bowl was just the Orange Bowl. I don't know what in the hell the super fast shipping of FedEx has to do with football and, for the life of me, I can't figure what the damn Brut Sun Bowl is.
Either way, it is clear that marketing and consumerism have become as deeply ingrained in our society as the unbriddled lust some middle aged women have for the hottest, newest Coach purse. I'm friends with a few of those Coach purse junkies. You know I love them, but when the conversation turns to these must-have accessories, theirs eyes glaze over and their mouths water like frat boys at a titty bar at the mere thought and, I swear to God, you could buy their first borns if you run a hard bargain.
We've been being screwed by the long dick of multi-national corporations for a while now. So long that we don't even seem to notice it anymore. The spidering effect of this endless marketing was particularly apparent in a conversation I had with my four-year-old son yesterday morning. His mind is so consumed with all things Thomas the Train that his obsession tops even those ladies who are searching eBay for Coach purses as I type this.
"Momma," he said, "You need to call Santa Claus to go to Wal-Mart and get me two more trains. I need Duncan and Molly."
(In case you are wondering why he demanded that I call Santa, he "hears" me on the phone with Ole Saint Nick at least three times per day making a report on the latest Christmas-busting shenanigans he and his brother have pulled. Now I realize doing this, I'm just another link in the chain of the corporate Christmas. What can I say, it works!)

I tried to explain to Ridge that Santa wasn't at Wal-Mart, that he was at the North Pole building toys with the elves.

"I don't want him to build my trains," Ridge huffed. "Just tell Santa to go buy them at Wal-Mart."
That little wise ass, I have no idea where he gets that.

Anyways, as we left town yesterday, we drove passed the local Wal-Mart, last minute shoppers crawling through the parking lot like fleas on a mangy coyote.
Ridge pointed out his window, excited by the mere sight of his Holy Land, and declared, "Look, Momma, that's where Santa is going to buy my toys!"

That's right, Readers, you aren't fooling my kid. He knows there's no damn elves diligently assembling his toys at the top of the world. He may be four, but he's no fool. Hell, the only reason he still believes in Santa is because he knows his mother's and father's asses are too damn tight to be footing the bill for all this bullshit.

Merry Christmas.

Ridge and The He Man Woman Haters Club

So, it turns out that my oldest son is a rampant sexist. Ridge only recently showed me this brutally macho side of himself, but once he let that bulky beast out of the bag, there was just not stuffing it back in.
It all started about four days ago. Just like most Sunday nights, Rowdy had blanketed our television set with an eternity of football. As one game was finally ending, he switched to another and I belted, "OH, bullshit!"
Out of the corner of the room, Ridge, the sudden cuss word cop, came flying toward his naughty mother. Naturally, I thought his scolding was because his ears were too delicate for such profanity. I turned out to be quite wrong about that. After he punished me for saying that bad word, he declared, "Only Me and Dad came say bullshit."

I said, "Oh really? You and Dad can say bullshit, but Momma can't?"

"That's right, Momma, my bullshit is better than your bullshit."

I did my best to strangle the wild laughter trying to burst out of my mouth as I corrected my son. It was definitely one of my prouder moments as a mother. I mean, not even I would have thought one of my kids would be such a successful potty mouth at such a young age. Truly an accomplishment, I say! But, not only that, I wondered if my boy was already becoming a card-carrying member of the He-Man Woman Haters Club. He's more than willing to lavish his momma with kisses most of the time, but he also seemed quite natural and at ease when he puffed out his chest and declared that only he and his dad were clearly premium, platinum gold bullshitters.
I continued to laugh about this incident, but I didn't think much more about my son's sudden flare for sexism until this morning. As he sat on my lap and stole sips from my coffee, a commercial with two women playing football came on television. Apparently this offended Ridge's masculine sensibilities.

He said, "Mom, why are those girls playing football? Girls can't play football."

I tried to explain that, while it is generally a boys only sport, girls were allowed to play if they wanted to. This rationale only sent Ridge further into his chest-pounding rant.

"No, No, No, Momma! Girls can't play football. Only boys can play football!" He insisted.

While my husband may still sport a cowboy hat, this is far from an old-fashioned home. Rowdy and I were both puzzled by this, wondering where he could have picked this up. Trust me, I've tried to play the whole "Girls Can't Do That" card when Rowdy's been dragging me off into some horrible ranch activity like dragging off dead calves or building fence. Thus far, it hasn't worked yet. One time he made me work like 400 head of cattle with him and one lone hired hand when I was like 8 months pregnant. There was certainly no chick leniency that day. So, we have no idea just where Ridge's new "No Girls Allowed" attitude has spawned and we don't know just how far his new found sexism will run.
But, we don't know this: Ridge apparently has world-class bullshit and he doesn't want any ladies touching the pigskin.

Ridge the Train Hunter

The other night I watched this Law and Order re-run. In this particular episode, this Go Go Gadget, Super Sleuth police dogs rapidly hunted down this dude simply from a brief whiff off some shredded clothes this guy had worn once upon a time. While I do know law enforcement agencies have pretty amazing canine units, I thought this scene was a bit far-fetched, that is, until my four-year-old son did a real life reenactment of this shit in front of my very eyes. Well, maybe not an EXACT reenactment. He wasn't sniffing out suspect or dead bodies. No, it was far worse. He freakin' magically sniffed out the Thomas the Train toys stuffed under a mountain of clothes at the bottom of my closet, trains intended to be delivered by Santa Claus in a little over two weeks.
I don't know if I've mentioned this to you before, but Ridge is kind of obsessed with all things Thomas. And when I saw kind of, what I'm really trying to say is if this cheeky English train was a real life celebrity and Ridge was a bit older, I fear we might have one of those super bizarre fan stalkings to worry about. And because Ridge has been utterly consumed with the cartoon and all the toys quite cleverly marketed to kids like him for about 2 years now, little Rolan was never lived in a house not blanketed with Thomas, Gordon, Henry, Purcy and the freakin' 200 other trains that shunt around Tidmouth Sheds and, somehow, Toys 'R Us. Rolan's far from the Thomas freak his big brother is, but he kinda digs him, too.
So, as you can imagine, when Ridge found these buried Thomas toys as though the actual voice of God had somehow directed him to them, a riot no smaller than the chaos that ensued after the Rodney King riot broke out in my closet.
HE WANTED TO PLAY WITH THOSE **NEW** TRAINS RIGHT THEN, RIGHT FUCKING THEN!
He screamed until his face blistered out like a hothouse tomato and each word that left his mouth sprayed the spit of a rather pissed off little boy. Of course, I couldn't let him open them. First of all, at this point we have nearly acquired each and every accessory related to Thomas. I have to give him something on Christmas morning. Secondly, while he is a darling boy, the whole Santa guidelines are clearly based on a naughty-to-nice scale. Ridge minds and randomly picks hims momma wildflowers but, let's face it, he hasn't been near good enough for two rounds of Santa gifts.
Eventually I pulled the trains from his steel death grip and hid them in a new and improved location, one that (fingers crossed) should take him at least another three days to hunt down. Until then, I will be in a constant state of pointless reasoning with a four-year-old who just wants his damn Thomas trains. He doesn't give a shit about Santa's broken heart or waiting until Christmas or any other reason I gave him to put the trains down. After all, he's been demanding a Christmas celebration each night for three days and now this. I just don't know if his heart can take it.

A Smokin' Good Time at the Zoo

Up until a few months ago, I could tell Ridge we were going to do something and then later change my mind without him noticing. But, like all good things, that has come to an end. Once the well-intended promise leaves my lips, it might as well be mafia blood debt. In other words, I better come through or my head's gonna end up in a meat grinder, or at least that's how it is going to feel as I am listening to hours of my hardass son line his mother out.
And so, that's how I ended up driving the city with my mom to take him to the zoo today. Yesterday Mom accompanied my sister's family to the State Fair, so she wanted to do something fun with my kids today. Ridge was within an earshot as she and I discussed a trip to the zoo, so he immediately questioned just what we were discussing. I asked if he wanted to visit the zoo and he answered with an emphatic yes.
However, when I was yanked from my peaceful slumber this morning by my youngest boy Rolan bouncing upon my belly as he belted, "Yeeeee Haaawwww," I quickly remembered the unwise pledge I made the day before to Ridge. I didn't want to drive a few hours to drag and chase two boys over a 100 zoo. I wanted to keep my fat ass on the coach while periodically snagging 15 minute naps. Rolan's wake-up call stirred Ridge and, before he could fully open his eyes, he said, "It's morning, Momma. Let's go to the zoo."
Before I realized it, I almost mustered some excuse. But, I knew I wanted the wishful seeds of adventure in his young mind, so I pulled myself from my comfortable bed and started my day. Mom called requesting a later departure time, admitting that she considered canceling. She heard her grandson's excited ramblings in the background and, like me, she knew we had to follow through with our plans.
After our last zoo outing, I learned that we are tram people. If you go, listen to me, get the tram tickets. It beats the hell out of chasing two boys sprinting in different directions.
As we started into the ape exhibit, I looked over at my mother to see her putting out a cigarette.
"Mom, you can't smoke in here," I said, shocked that she was sneaking a few drags.
"I know," she replied, "That's why I am putting it out."
"No, I don't mean you can't smoke in the exhibit. I mean you can't smoke in the zoo at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Ummmm....yes, there's a big sign at the front. Have you seen anyone else smoking?"
She, of course, was mortified. While I was a little scared that the men in the white golf carts were going to boot us out on our smoking asses, I had to giggle a little bit at my mom. I know she's a child of the 60s and 70s when the country was lighting up like a big chimney, but I would think you would have had to have been in a coma for the past 5 years to think smoking at a zoo was still okay.
After several rounds around the zoo, we took my delighted children across the street to the OmniPlex, Oklahoma's Science Museum. Miracously, we made it through that without either boy destroying a single thing. Ridge did wildly desire to scale the dinosaur bones, but we somehow managed to contain him.
The day was long, but well worth it. Through I didn't think so this morning, I am glad I made the promise to Ridge yesterday.

Touch My Train and I Will Kill You

When Ridge was in the ballpark of being 2 years old, he discovered Thomas the Train. It was instant love, pure and unfettered love. He would bawl at the television, mounting a protest until Thomas was played for him
Somewhere along the way, he started collecting a nice team of the trains in the Thomas series. For hours, he would push them, always with gentile care. He's quite protective of his toys. His brother, however, is not. Many a battle has erupted at our hours of the trains.
A few months ago, we lost the star of the show, Thomas. We still have many of the other trains, but Thomas got misplaced in life's daily hustle. For the most part, he has forgotten about it, but the subject does come up occasionally.
Mollie picked him up from Rainbow Lane today as she does every Wednesday. I knew immediately it wasn't going to be rosy day for Ridge when he called me at the Hog Trough, insisting I come get him that instant. Of course, Mollie is kind of a baby whisper, so she handled. (See, Mollie, I do too write nice things about you.)
In spite of the early fit, Ridge was having a fantastic time, that is, until he discovered Carson's Thomas, the same exact model as the one we lost. Now, to fully understand all this, you need to know that Ridge and Carson are almost the exact same age.
Now, everything I am about to write is hearsay, based solely on the second hand account I received from Mollie. It goes something like this here:
Ridge spots the train. "It's MY Thomas! It's MY Thomas! I am taking my Thomas and the tracks home."
Carson hears the excitement. "No, that's not your Thomas, that's MY Thomas."
The crisis apparently got heated enough that the two boys had to take to Mollie. She said she looked down the two of them, both crying, and listened to their cases.
Carson explained that Ridge was going to take his Thomas home. Ridge then confirmed that was indeed his intentions. Mollie tried to explain to Ridge that they had bought Carson the same exact toy as his old Thomas, which is why they are identical. Ridge tells everyone to stuff it, by God, that's his Thomas.
Needless to say, I made him leave the Thomas with his rightful owner and, needless to say, Ridge had a meltdown, a snotty, red-faced, tear-streaked meltdown. As we pulled down the road, Ridge still screaming like someone being tortured in one of those Eastern Bloc torture chambers, when I remembered that my mom has the exact same Thomas at her house. She lives in the close vacanity, so we just swung in and got one.
With his Thomas clinched tightly in his fists, all was right for Ridge again.

For Those Who Missed It: The Sponge Bob Conspiracy

I posted this the first time several months ago. Since this, I have made a few new friends, one of whom has been bitching about her own children's addiction to this absurd cartoon. You know how seriously I take my patriotic duty, so I am re-posting this to spread the word.

I'm not for sure where my kids got turned onto this little gem, but I have my ideas. SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS! One day they came home, chanting and pleading for me to turn it on the tv. Seemed harmless enough. And since its on Nickelodeon non-freakin'-stop, I just flipped it over and there it was. Because they seemed so pleased and entranced, I went ahead a recorded it for good measure.
Over the next following weeks, Ridge asked for it more and more while Rolan danced gleefully in the background at the prospects at watching this underwater sponge living a pineapple.
Well, one day I decided I should maybe watch this with them. I mean, I know that no tv is really that good for kids, but Thomas the Train, the undisputed champion of Ridge's heart, periodically talks about colors and letters. Plus Ridge has learned to talk like a cheeky little Englishmen, abandoning the word "mad" for "cross," i.e., "Mom, Rolan is playing with my train. I am so cross."
Anyways, let's get back on track. So, I sit down with my guys one afternoon to see what all the fuss is about. With my mouth dropped open, I was shocked at how many times this one tiny sponge could burp and fart, as though my boys need any encouragement in this department. The sponge bumbled around foolishly as some grumpy squid or whatever schemed on selling kids for profit or something, just one more thing my boys probably won't need any further encouragement with.
Immediately I banned Sponge Bob and all his ridicules friends from our house. Just put it on the shelf next to the Nascar and the Grizzly Man log-sawing contest or whatever the hell that is that Rowdy soooo loves to watch.
As soon as I erased this nonsense, my living room looked like Tienanmen Square, China, circa 1989. Ridge and Rolan were in a fully brazen protest and you know I was gonna mow that shit down like all those tanks over those freedom-starved students. (I know, I know it's probably immoral to joke about such a thing, especially coming from a self-described liberal such as myself, but I bet you laughed.)
After the Great Sponge Bob Famine of 2008 began, I spent a lot of time thinking about such a show and how it ever came to be. And before you start sending me some hate mail because you love Sponge Bob, look down at your one-hitter and your hacky sack. Yup, that's why I don't want my kids watching this bullshit.
Now, if you happen to be one of those neocons, follow closely. You are gonna love this. After all, that nutty windbag Jerry Falwell decried that the purple Teletubbie was making our kids homosexuals and you all went banannas. Here goes: I think Sponge Bob was created by the Taliban to dumb down our kids, thus setting the stage for an out-and-out jihadist invasion in about 15-20 years. I mean, if I wanted to conquer their shit hole countries, this is exactly what I'd do. I make a show that was so silly and ridicules that all kids would love it, but have the underlying message be, well, burping and farting. Osama bin Laden is behind this, I just know it.
And since I'm a sworn enemy of Osama, I'm waging war on this Sponge Bob Conspiracy and I think you should, too. I mean, do you want the insurgents to win? To quote my man Dub, you're either with us or against us. Osama is against us and so is Sponge Bob. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I bet Osama loves Sponge Bob.
I don't give a shit what former or current comic geek is credited with the creation of this little cartoon nightmare. Osama was behind it. Haven't you ever seen Super Troopers? Johnny Chimpo, need I say more.
So, there you go. I've done my patriotic duty. George Bush told me if you see something, say something. I've passed along the information. Go well, my friends.

The (future) Lady's Man

When Ridge was about 2, I purchased a 10-year-old rocking horse at an estate auction. It's one of those totally reckless numbers with the metal frame and rickety springs. I broke my sister's arm when she was about 2 herself on the exact same model. Like freakin' always, she had taken over my fabulous toy and, frustrated with her persistence in playing with it, I grabbed a hold of the tail, keeping the horse in place as Katie flew forward. She was hurt and I was in big trouble.
Like I said, they don't sell these bitches anymore. Anytime a new lady comes over, Ridge mounts is trusty steed and puts on a show. He rides that damn thing so hard that it lifts off the floor and then slams back into it. And, all the while, he is chanting, "Yeeee Hawwww!" As this little flirtatious attention grabber continues, I look at his father and roll my eyes. Up until I tricked Rowdy into marrying me, he was quite the lady's man. Ridge's eyes light up when he notices the female visitor watching him and I know exactly where he got this.
So, on our way home from Rainbow Lane this afternoon, another symptom of his future Don Juan DeMarco-ness veered its charming head.

ME: What did you do at school today?
RIDGE: Oh, we learned about the farms and I played with my friends.
ME: Who are your friends? What are their names?
RIDGE: Ummmm......
ME: Did you play with Carson?
RIDGE: No, he's a boy.
ME (knowing damn well that Carson is, in fact his friend): You don't play with boys?
RIDGE: No, I like to play with the girls, like Rylee.
ME: Oh really. What do you play with the girls?
RIDGE: I like to chase them and hold their hands.

Then I just shake my head and sigh, knowing just what his teenage years are going to be like. I'm afraid he's going to be a knock off the ole' whore-mongering block. However, unlike Sarah Palin, I won't blindly rely on abstinence-only education. Don't get me wrong, I do NOT want him having sex when he is far too young to understand it, but I also won't completely gamble on the idea that telling him not to do it will totally keep him from it.

How To Spot A Real Man

Our nightly ritual is no less than a "enhanced interrogation" at Guantanamo Bay. For those of you who don't speak fluent Bush, that's torture. We're still conditioning Ridge to sleep in his own bed, no easy feat with the strong-willed, red-haired boy. I tuck him into bed and read him three books, kiss him on his forehead and tell him good night. A few minutes later, his door creeks open, his face peeks out. And then I start the process all over again.
On round # 6 or 7 last night, he drug out the dump truck book. Now, the jest of this tale is pretty simple. Old dude has a dump truck and rides around collecting animals to slosh up and down in it. It's kinda sadistic, really.
As we are reading our nightly stories, I always encourage Ridge to tell me what's happening in the illustrations. So, when the dump truck man arrived at the farm to load up even more animals in his truck, Ridge's eyes grew round and excited. He wanted to to talk about this.

Ridge: Is that boy a cowboy?
Me: Yes. How did you know he is a cowboy?
Ridge: 'Cause he has a hat and boots. He's a real man.

I laughed until my side hurt. Then I went and retold this little exchange to Ridge's cowboy dad, who thought this was the most genius thing he had ever heard.

Oh, don't forget to come back to mommalittle later today. I'm going to post first day of school photos.

The Water is Nice, Come on In!

(None of these men are Mrs. Cowboy Chronicles. They are, however, Rowdy's friends.)

If'n you ain't figured it out by now, we's a lil' country.
If you aren't convinced, which would clearly indicate that you are deaf and/or blind, I'll throw out some random hillbilly stats:

~My husband's first name was inspired by Clint Eastwood's character in the TV series Rawhide, Rowdy Yates. As much as it pains me to admit it, Rowdy talked me into Rolan's name because, I shit you not, the theme song for that series was the "Rollin,' Rollin,' Rollin,' keep them doggies rollin,' RAWHIDE!" Seriously.

~Rowdy not only makes his living cutting nuts out of bulls, but he refers to the ballsy delicacy (I'm being cavalier with delicacy, eh?) as his "Breakfast of Champions." Once when I asked him what the benefit of all the nut cutting is, my ever-witty man explained that it takes their minds of ass and onto the grass.

~I no longer find grown men gathering in swarms to yank 20+ pound fish from a river bizarre. To quote one of these angling poets, "I told my son noodling is just like dating. If you stick your hand in a dark hole, it might come out smelling a little fishy." I can't believe Hallmark isn't printing that up my the millions for Valentine's Day.

I've been put in some twisted fishing spot protection program, so I can't print the location where this giant, kid-sized fish was snagged or my house will be surrounded by a herd of angry, sunburned men in macro-made, fringed shorts. (Love you guys!)
I have already been planning to post these photos taken earlier this week, but my quirky son Ridge spouted off something yesterday that I thought went well with all this. Probably explains his thinking, really.
Ridge will be 4 in November, so he has been swimming quite a few times, but the occurrence has grown exponentially this summer. Of course, living on the Washita River, the boys are constantly belly-aching to go down there to fish, splash around and throw mud at one another. You know cleaning that shit out of their ears is dream for all mothers.
Ridge spent the day after this monster and 3 of his similarly-sized scaly friends were plucked from a deep hole beneath the water's banks staring awestruck at the photos. Periodically he'd call it to my attention, his eyes big like half dollars.
Now, all of this might have nothing to do with perhaps one of the funniest things he has ever said, which I was sadly not present for. But, keep it in mind as I lay this out.
Yesterday afternoon Ridge went swimming at my sister-in-law's with his grandma and three cousins.
When they first arrived, my normally aquatic water boy panicked, shaking his head and protesting any possible dip in the pool. So you know, Ridge will go straight Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man if something freaks him out.
Naturally, he calmed down pretty quickly as he eased into the water, first a toe then a leg. For the next couple of hours, his 15-year-old cousin Dakota served dutifully as his personal motor boat.
Just as Grandma was rounding he and his 4-year-old cousin up to come home, Ridge gleefully hugged Dakota, face bright with excited relief, his eyes dancing with giddy relief and declared,

I'm not going to die! I'm going to live!

Isn't that the funniest shit you've heard in at least week?