Holy Half-Caff Skim Cinna-Mochaccino Hold the Whip, Batman!

My son’s weirdness is hardly a new topic. The Wee Man’s bizarro take on life and the universe he lives in give me more fodder for writing, discussion and therapy than just about anything else I’ve got going on.

His favorite toy these days is an elaborate bat cave my mom got him for Christmas. He fills it with super heroes, Littlest Pet Shop creatures he steals from his sister, the occasional Breyer horse and a scattering of utensils that I’ve obviously been looking for in all the wrong places. Much like I once did for love.

This boy is batty for the cave.

He frequently asks me to come play Bat Cave with him. This means I join him on the basement floor and under his careful direction, our various “players” have strange adventures.

They teach dogs how to fly. They go on hay rides. They remind The Joker that he shouldn’t rob banks. And they go out for lattes.

For real. I had to ask him to repeat that one a couple of times, because he’s still got that adorable 4-year-old lisp and slurred rs.

He didn’t specify that they go to Starbucks, which is of some comfort to me. But I’m quite puzzled over how he entered the coffee bar scene. It’s hardly a family ritual. I’ve been caffeine-free for months, but even before that, I was too cheap to pay for unhealthy and overpriced coffee drinks.

Not that it matters. There’s really not a logic train to follow on this one. It’s what I’ve come to expect and cherish about this magical little man who keeps me scratching my head, laughing my ass off and counting my blessings.

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Dog Days of Summer

This is a good week. My sister has moved to Colorado, and this makes me very, very happy.

But with her came a plus-1, the dog who can’t move into her new apartment with her. Because I have a back yard and no landlord, the dog is temporarily here.

This makes me much less happy. I am not a dog person.

This is Mel, our temporary house guest. It’s not that I don’t like her as a dog — she’s very cute and sweet. I just don’t like her as a creature that repays our hospitality with holes in our backyard and barking all night.

I’m first and foremost a horse woman.

This is Lilly. She is horse, therefore I love her.

We also love ponies — clearly.

And just behind equines are felines.

No, that nice lady is not strangling this kitten. We don’t do that, because we love them. Unlike dogs. Not that I’ve strangled the dog — yet

It’s not that I hate dogs. I just find them too needy, too much work and too much trouble. It’s like having another kid. Or husband. I’m maxed out on all those.

But now I have two problems. My kids love the dog.

The Roo is having way too much fun with this dog for my taste. So is the Wee Man.

 

 

 

 

My other problem is I love my sister, despite her dog. So the dog can stay here as long as she needs to.

It’s not all bad. I’m definitely banking considerable babysitting hours from Aunt Kimi, which are accruing at about 10 times the hourly rate of my dog sitting.

I should probably let her know that. Maybe that will help Mel find a new home in a timely manner.

Till then, I’m planning a trip to Peru since Kimi’s already pretty deep in the hole. ¿Qué divertido, no?

Message in a Bottle

I don’t think even the infinite vacuum force of a black hole could pull this wine bottle from my lips right now.

Yep, I’m drinking straight from the bottle.

OK, so there’s only about a quarter of a cup left, but it’s still satisfying to feel like a character in a spaghetti western watching from the dusty bar as the outlaws duke it out in the OK Corral.

Both are wearing black hats as far as I’m concerned — there is no “good guy.” They’re fighting over land rights: who gets to go in whose room. Wee Man is banging some toy against the wall, Roo is in her room screaming for him to stop. He says he’s only going to stop if she lets him in her room. She just declared he may only come in for one second, and it will be the last time in his life he ever enjoys the privilege.

It’s perhaps the dumbest fight they’ve ever had. But it’s raging on unchecked as I cuddle with my bottle of Apothic Red and type.

Typically I try to bring peace and order when my kids fight. But not tonight. I’m trying Wayne Dyer’s noninterference parenting. I heard him speak about it on Hay House Radio. He talked about how he recently presided over pool time with a mixed bag of grandson and a friend’s young children. Each time one came to him complaining of what another had done, he raised his hand and told the child he was a Taoist master, and he wasn’t interested. Eventually they stopped bugging him and peace was restored.

Dyer has been one of the best-known voices in self-help since the mid-1970s when he published his first book, “Your Erroneous Zones.” He’s since published either 1 or 2 zillion more best-sellers. He brings peace and love everywhere he goes. He’s my one of my all-time favorite authors.

Dyer has also raised eight kids, and they all seem to still like him. Granted, he has no hair, but he seems otherwise unscathed from his time in the parenting pit.

So right now I’m channeling my inner Wayne. I’m pretending like I don’t hear the nonstop screams, the toys flinging upstairs and the hateful words my kids are hurling like spears. The Roo just came barging into my room with tears streaming to regale me with dramatic tales of her brother’s evil deeds. I told her I didn’t care and she needed to work it out with him, please close the door behind her.

Now I hear her calling for Daddy. Funny, I just called the man myself. But not to tell him about how I’ll never let the kids in my room again. I just asked for him to stop on his way home and pick up another bottle of wine.