Living the Dream in September

It's not really a receptacle for honey

We've finally arrived at the apex of human achievement.  There's a Honey Bucket in the driveway. 

Lucien asks every day if he can go outside and poop in the Honey Bucket.  I'm trying to impress upon him that, if given the choice, most rational human beings would choose the comfy bathroom ten feet away over the Honey Bucket.  Deaf ears so far.

I shouldn't be surprised.  This is the kid who recently wrote a song entitled "Buttcheek Monster" and sings it at inopportune times, such as in the middle of his swim lesson. I keep telling him to stop singing and learn to, you know, possibly, swim.  Deaf ears so far.

Yesterday he asked me to say "cheese" five times in a row and, not seeing any obvious catch, I obliged.  He then made the most realistic mouth fart sound I've heard (the kid should teach seminars), pointed at me and laughed.

What?

 Congratulations -- it's still a boy!

September has not been our favorite month this year.  It's actually in hot contention for our least favorite.  Alex is preparing to take on a new role at work but is still working his old role, too.  Two roles at one time is a sh*tty equation that equals bags under eyes and weak high-fives in the hallway as our primary means of communication.

While Alex wrestles mental collapse, I'm handling the education situation for Lucien. We are still vacillating between keeping him where he is or sending him to private school given his recent learning disability diagnosis. I have daily meetings with any one or more of the following: school psychologists, occupational therapists, doctors, teachers, and/or potential private school administrators. I'm pretty sure it is all of their jobs to confuse me.

I'm going to figure it out, though.  I've come to think of myself as an education detective. I'm collecting clues and every piece of information I gather -- good, bad, neutral, or wtf -- is critical to solving the case.  This sometimes necessitates me crawling into a private school administrator's lap and inspecting her closely with a magnifying glass.

• Fancy Private School isn't sure they have the resources to support his learning disability -- CLUE.  
• That administrator told me to "follow my gut" and my gut was to punch her in the face -- CLUE.
• Lucien is one of 500 kids in his current classroom -- CLUE.
• All the mothers in this parking lot seem to be wearing the exact same black yoga pants -- CLUE, I DON'T LIKE UNIFORMS.

The public school tells us Lucien's learning disability, while obviously impacting his learning, is not severe enough to warrant special services through the public school system. I asked the school psychologist if we could test him again, but maybe this time I could coach him to throw it?  Tell him not to try at all?  Slip him some Benadryl beforehand?  Maybe we could encourage him to just sit there, stare into space and drool a little?

She looked at me all horrified -- CLUE.

Sometimes Alex comes home from work and steps over my overwhelmed body lying prone in the middle of the floor.  He usually says, "Do you want a glass of wine?"  and I usually say "yes" and then he says, "Do you want white or red?" and I say, "It doesn't matter, I'm not drinking to enjoy the wine tonight."  And Alex understands but he still brings me the best bottle we have and pours it into a decanter.  That's why we're still married.

Coco's school is a whole different kind of stress.  Her preschool has requested lunches be packed in environmentally low-impact packaging and contain lean proteins, fruits and veggies only (there goes the ole ziploc bag and leftover pizza slice).  They've also requested the size of the lunch "fits the child's appetite."

I guess I can measure the contents of Coco's stomach each morning after breakfast and develop an algorithm to pinpoint how much she's likely to eat at lunch.  This may be tedious for us both but -- hey, when did preschools get so bossy?

Education is hard.  Maybe I should homeschool HA HA HA HA HA.

To distract myself from the heftier side of life, I've begun focusing an inordinate amount of time on things that don't matter.  In related news -- Mantisy is thriving!  When it comes to mothering a praying mantis, I am flawless.  I caught his most recent meal straight out of the air with a pair of tweezers last night. In the seconds immediately after the capture, as I stared at the moth struggling between the tweezer prongs and realized what I'd done, I was scared of myself a little bit.

I've also painted the back of the house with five bazillion different paint samples. The house currently looks like a really ugly quilt, which has alarmed most of the neighbors.  The people at Benjamin Moore told me the other day, "You should probably just pick one because that's pretty much all we've got, lady."

The house project has encountered some delays but we're still on track for completion by 2020.

 This is our "deck."

The grass is gone thanks to the unplanned sewer line replacement.  The kids come into the house dusty or, if Seattle is being Seattle, muddy.

This is part of my scary house quilt.

Alex and I have been getting babysitters and spending Sunday afternoons together.  We talk and walk all over the city.  Sometimes we end up at Farmer's Markets where we buy mass quantities of beautiful, beautiful tomatoes.  This would be fine and good if not for the fact neither one of us eats tomatoes.

But they're so pretty.  Maybe I should smash them up and smear them on the back of the house.

What's happening to us?  The squiggly answer is obvious -- corn puffs.  Mercy! 

At least we've got a Honey Bucket -- CLUE.
MJ