It Hurts When You Can’t “p”

It all started with a wet bathing suit. About a month ago, I had the bright and unrealistic idea to schlep my Mac down to the pool while my kids frolicked with friends in a water wonderland. Let's just say that I was drinking the supermom Kool-Aid that day.

Anywho, one of my adorable offspring thought that I would get a real kick out of being squirted with one of those soft foam water blasters. Kids love the shit of using these things. They’re kind of cross between a Nerf ball and a bazooka and the blast radius on these bad boys rivals that of a nuclear warhead.

I never cared for having water squirted in my face, and I have to say it wasn’t funny in it’s heyday in the 1920s and it’s not fucking funny today.

Long story short, the most miniscule amount of water that did land on my keyboard shorted out the “p” key and ever since then has caused me to have to copy and paste a “p” each and every time a word or phrase has called for the use of this letter.

I have never put a strong emphasis on this letter in particular. I guess if my name was peter, paul or.......perry, I might have noticed it before. And for pc users this may not seem like a huge pain in the asp, but for those with a Mac, the “p” in Apple falls very far away from tree.

This is issing me off!

Motherhoodintheraw is back and mediocre as ever

Your Motherhoodintheraw blog is back and just like the "Rocky" movie series will hang around longer than it should but will bring you stories that you would rather forget. Either way, it's an escape. Which is why you are reading this or maybe you are really bored and your annoying facebook friend that is a new parent posts anything with the word "mom" on it. Hey, I'm not knocking. I love you gals!

Upstairs, I can hear the awful sound of a cavernous plastic bin mixed with mega-blocks, Legos and a bastard brand of Legos, spilling out on the floor. This sound is more unnerving to me than breaking glass. I am a self-confessed neat freak. However, I never know what's going to set me off. For instance, every morning a pack of determined spiders spins the most intricate webs on my kid's playset. To me it's beautiful and reminds me that I should never give up on my dreams no matter how many times my hours of work is destroyed the next morning.

Which brings me to the bin of blocks. I know that making my kids pick up every block is what I should do. And I do try. I even make idle threats about throwing away the scattered chaos on the floor. For effect, I grab a garbage bag and sway back and forth. What always stops me is the memory of buying this shit and that in a few weeks my almost four-year-old daughter will look for a small plastic princess comb from a fucking happy meal toy that she took from the lunch box of another preschool classmate. ~Breathing break~

But being a neat freak is not always a bad thing. For one, I recognize the origin of each item in my home. Mind you, I can't remember to buy coffee filters or peanut butter on a trip to the local Kroger. But I can recall that I bought that knock-off brand of sunblock (that was not the continuous spray kind) at the Walgreens around the corner from my parents house in Florida. I know when to pat down a child after a playdate or when to pat down mine.

And I remembered how much I missed writing this blog. Not because anyone asked me to start it again. But because I was watching Oprah's final episode air and I remembered that I was watching her show when I first started this blog four years ago. Which makes me feel freakin' neat to share my mundane thoughts with you. Thanks for coming back. Now move your finger off the trash button.