I remember the days when I’d receive early morning kisses from the kids and they’d sport that sweet-smelling puppy breath. Somewhere after Year Two I noticed the onset of kiddie dragon breath. It was bad enough to make a Mama want to turn away her darling nippers.

It has been a wretchedly warm summer here in Florida. Payback for our gloriously warm winter, I’m sure. Sparky and Braeden have taken to walking Sarah Jessica Barker to the park and running her across the open field. When they return home, all three smell like what I imagine Rocky smelled like when he “went the distance” with Apollo Creed. For the love of monkey sweat, it sends my gag reflex into overdrive.

Thankfully, there is still one delightful reprieve. It’s called lavender bedtime bath. The smell of my wee ones, after wading in this intoxicating mixture, is a gargantuan slice of heaven.

The first few years of B-Dogg’s life, we were alarmingly cognizant of his developmental stages. This was especially important because he was our first child. By the time Queen Hadlifah came around we were too busy to track her progress (I know this sucks, but I’m a second child, who survived the same fate with relatively little emotional scarring… except a mild case of dementia).

Anyway, we labored over B-Dogg’s timelines for everything from size percentiles to physical achievements to verbal skills. Unfortunately, B-Dogg was a bit of a peanut, often scoring in the 10^th percentile for height and 5^th percentile for weight. To add insult to injury, we believed he suffered from “little man syndrome” thus making him significantly more aggressive than his larger male counterparts.

As far as physical milestones, B-Dogg was off the charts in the other direction. He walked with little assistance at seven months old and ran full throttle at ten months old. In fact, we are still attempting to catch him to this day.

As far as language skills went, I knew that by one year we’d be lucky to have our boy master ten to twenty words. My logic was that we needed to make those words count. So I went for the biggies, like dangerous, irritating and ethnocentrism (not that I necessarily subscribed to the belief, but because it was one of the largest words I knew).

ethnocentrism [(eth-noh-sen-triz-uhm)]
The belief that one's own culture is superior to all others and is the standard by which all other cultures should be measured. (a.k.a. “I’m proud to be an American!”)

Darned if that little booger didn’t pick up on every word we taught him. In fact, he mastered fifty nuggets by the time he turned one and was able to speak in compound sentences by two years old. Keep in mind that this is in no way a reflection on his parents, as he is already smarter than either of us (I think he takes after CuzKim³ and CuzCodyOdy).

But I do have to pat myself on the back for trying. Just the other day, I asked Queen Hadlifah how she liked her day at camp.

“It was hideous,” she replied.

That’s from a three year old… and a BLONDE.

When B-Dogg was a colicky infant, I can remember everyone promising us that if we could survive his first three months of life the symptoms would cease. Upon hearing that news, I openly wept. I couldn’t imagine those looooong months passing. (Thankfully, we didn’t know it would take nine months for the problems to abate.)

Now six years later, I get that frosty feeling in the pit of my stomach that serves as a constant reminder that time is passing rapidly. Not only has my boy blasted through so many milestones, but my girl is rapidly catching up. This has resulted in the following epiphany:

Children are an Eighteen Year Gift.

Parents are the benefactors of eighteen years of learning, laughing, fighting, crying and most prominently, loving. We have a very brief window of opportunity to make a difference in their wee little lives.

Most days, I see my children as a cheerfully wrapped present with a jaunty bow embellishing the outside. It’s the days that I open that present to find a gigantic pile of dog poo that I dread most.

Luckily, those days are far outnumbered by the joyful ones.

With parenthood, you never know when you’re going to round that scary corner with your kids’ questions. The worst part is it’s usually brought on innocently enough and then suddenly you realize you are in the throes of a torturous conversation of which there is no escape.

Since B-Dogg loves the cartoon version of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, I thought I’d borrow the Jim Carrey version from the library. It was a pleasant enough viewing until B-Dogg looked at me and asked, “Does Santa Claus have a penis?”

Crap on a cracker.

Not wanting to be left out of the scintillating conversation, Queen Hadlifah asked, “Yeah, does Santa have a penis?”

Double crap on a cracker.

“He’s a boy, so of course he does,” I answered, praying the conversation would end there.

“Does he stop to pee in people’s homes on Christmas Eve when he’s delivering presents?” quizzed B-Dogg.

“Are you sure he has a penis?” Queen Hadlifah inquired once more.

“Queen Hadlifah, I don’t know from personal experience, but I am quite certain that Santa Claus has a penis. B-Dogg, he holds his pee all night. He’s magical that way,” I answered.

“Does he hold his pee every night? Are we talkin’ every single night? How does he do that?” asked B-Dogg, as he got more and more lathered up about the subject.

“I DO NOT think Santa has a penis,” stated Queen Hadlifah.

“Concentrate on the movie or I’m sending you guys in for a nap,” I threatened.

I should have said Santa was built smooth like a Ken doll.

The common denominator of first-time pregnant women is not distended bellies or compromised bladders. It is not the fear of another human being exiting their body. Instead, they pursue one goal – preparation. Whether it’s stocking up on diapers or painting a nursery in a soothing color, these gals feel the need to prepare for their new arrival. For me, it was childbirth classes…

Round One

We are at the hospital’s four-session course about childbirth. The room is chock full of rotund ladies and their husbands.

The nurse who is teaching the class has grown children. I’d prefer to talk to someone who carries recent scars… I mean memories… of the joy of childbirth. To chafe me even more, she is wearing a waist-cinching belt. I don’t think anyone in this room can imagine fitting in a belt again. This woman is cruel. I want to run her over with my car.

We all have to introduce ourselves (our names, when baby is due, etc.). Great, a laundry list I have to recite to people I’m never going to see in my life again. Okay lady, get to the significant points of this childbirth thing and let me get home to the couch. Ben & Jerry are waiting for me.

This torture chamber has the tiniest, hardest chairs I’ve ever had the displeasure to fit my fat arse on. One of my butt cheeks is dangling off the side and my back is killing me. There is only ONE bathroom here! Half of the class is continuously lined up outside the door with a panicked expression on their faces. Someone is going to serve us a snack soon, right? If not, show me a vending machine before someone gets hurt.

We are learning about the stages of childbirth. Nazi Nurse is taking a perverse pleasure in her graphic description about how far we are going to stretch in order for our Wee Ones to enter this world. This is not my idea of a relaxing evening.

We are ending the night by lying on the floor and practicing our breathing. Terrific! Lower twenty-five chunks onto a thinly carpeted floor and expect them to get up before the child is born. It is obvious that a man designed this course.

Nurse Sadist has decided that the husbands should squeeze our hands snugly during our breathing exercises in an effort to learn to breathe through the discomfort. I warned Sparky that if he didn’t want to experience pain in the groinular region he wouldn’t follow her instructions. Bloody Hell, Lizzie Borden, isn’t it bad enough that I have to dilate to ten centimeters two months from now?

Finally, we are leaving the class for the night. I’m hoping the feeling in my hindquarters will return. Sparky is taking me to McDonald’s for a hamburger to soothe my nerves. Good man.

Round Two of the Childbirth Scarefest

Nurse “Don’t-I-Have-Slender-Ankles-in-My-Small-Shoes?” is dispensing more intimidating information. I’m beginning to realize that whether or not I understand what is happening to my body during childbirth, that baby is coming out. I’m substituting listening for fantasizing about her Easy Spirit’s losing a heel in a random scuffle with an exceptionally irritated pregnant gal.

It’s back to the floor for more hand-wrenching breathing exercises. One of the husbands is putting on a back-saving safety belt before hefting his wife to the floor. The class is divided in two. There is the “screw this, I’ll take the drugs” side and the “I’ll brave the pain on my own” side. Guess which side I’m on?

Sparky and I are toasting our McDonald’s hamburgers, as we have snuck out during class break. We have decided to be Childbirth Class dropouts. We feel pretty confident that our Ankle Biter can navigate his way out of the birth canal, while I savor the needle in my back.

Contrary to popular belief, ignorance can be bliss.