A Picture Says a Thousand Words.

Weird Shit I Just Saw At the Grocery Store

A new weekly feature where I take snaps of crazy shit while buying groceries. It makes a mundane task really fun, and doesn’t at all make me look like a psycho taking pictures of yams that look like yogurt-slingers.

Seriously. In every pile of sweet potatoes, there is at least one poor bastard shaped like an old man wang. I don’t think I could peel this frigger without feeling dirty.

What yam I?

Oh wicked. A creepy, thumbless hand to get all up in your beef taco or creamy noodle.

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Oh look. Naturally flavoured MIXED BERRY cereal that contains ZERO PERCENT FRUIT. Well that’s just lovely. Nice touch with the raspberries standing triumphantly atop the multigrain frosted pillow of deliciousness there b’ys. Obviously you need to add those fuckers yourself because there is ZERO PERCENT FRUIT in this bag. Nothing like a steaming pile of LIES with a side of DECEIT to complete a well-balanced breakfast. Just as well to stog your face with bacon. At least the bacon people aren’t fucking with you.

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Well what have we here? Tea that will knock you out cold. And maybe turn you into a bear. If you need help going to sleep, try Sleepytime herbal tea while listening to a blue radio. And if you really want to slip into a coma like a hibernating grizzly, try Sleepytime EXTRA. You will nod off next to a raging fire, which is totally safe. And don’t forget the cat on your lap. Nothing like a tea-induced catatonic state to bring all the pussies to the yard, yo.

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Why is there a kid in that box? Holy fuck Choke-Me-Out-Elmo. Sesame Street, you’ve gone too far this time.

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THIS. What the fuck. Ginger sushi? Look Asians, stop trying to fool us with your fancy labels. This is most definitely a bottle of vaginas.

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The scary lobster under your bed.

Halloween. It really is for the children, isn’t it? YEAH. RIGHT. Halloween is for people with babies!

We dress our babies up like pirates and ladybugs and Jesus (yes I did) before they even know who’s looking back at them in the mirror, and people go “Awwww how cute, how adorable, here ya go baby, some candy to mash around in your toothless gob.” Of course they can’t eat the stuff. They can’t even eat raisins yet…they’re a choking hazard! So mommy and daddy do the honours. Stuffing our faces with chips and chocolate and sugar on a stick while our drooling puppet babies just sit there and watch.

Okay so maybe that’s not entirely true. Halloween is also for girls in their twenties who want to dress like skankzillas. It’s okay, Miley Cyrus, I did it too. One year I went as Pippi Schlongsucking, I kid you not. I’d post pics but I’m really not in the mood for social services to come at me right now. Maybe some other time.

AND yes, Halloween is also for children. You know, kids who are old enough to understand what it’s all about. Max is four, and I think he gets it now. I mean, he doesn’t really get it (I’m not even sure I do), but at least now he’s an active participant in the annual festivities. He now gets to choose which costume he wears, for example. Here’s our Jedi knight looking full of the force. Until last week, he was saying “May the forest be with you.” Which I’m totally selling to the eco people.lukeHe’s really embodying the character of Luke too. Last night when his dad got mad at him for taking a second cookie, Max said: “Search your feelings, father. I feel the conflict within you. Let go of your hate.” (No he didn’t. He stomped his Jedi bootie and said “Umphfft, but I WANT one!” and grabbed a cookie and hid in the closet.)

But this is progress from last Halloween when he had no idea who he was dressed up as. It’s funny because last year’s costume was quite literally the ancestor of this year’s costume. But it was a little premature — about six months before he got bitten by the Stars Wars bug, so my future Jedi had yet to discover the dark side. He was all like “Dark Fader? Huh?” Luke, I am your father…and tell your mother this costume SUCKS ASS.

vaderAt least these last couple of Halloweens he’s been able to eat some of the candy. Unlike his second Halloween when we had to keep every last thing out of his paws; the little devil would eat a lollipop, STICK AND ALL. I don’t have a picture of him doing this exactly, but look at that face. YOU KNOW HE WOULD.

devilHis third Halloween wasn’t so bad, but his costume was too small (damn you ebay) so I had to make “felt cookie extensions” for the arms and legs. With some extra felt cookie decals to distract from the ridiculous arm and leg extensions. Max also had an enormous wedgie but he didn’t seem to mind. Don’t judge me.

cookie monsterAnd by the way, yes Cookie Monster IS an appropriate costume for Halloween, because he’s a MONSTER. So there.

There’s nothing scary about Max’s very FIRST Halloween costume though, which takes me back to my initial point. Halloween is for people with babies. Max was just six months old and a lump of squishy flesh, so this was entirely for mommy’s amusement. My little lobster. Notice my totally rad props, including two kinds of lobster pots thank you very much. (Oh, what maternity leave can do to the mind…)

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Dear Fear: Fuck You

I see old people driving all slow and nervous with their hands at ten and two. I used to be all like…What the HELL is wrong with them? What the FRIG happens to us when we get older? Well, I’m starting to understand. In addition to the motor skills and reflexes getting dulled with time, it’s fear. Fear that comes with the knowledge that DEATH IS COMING FOR US. I get it, Sunday drivers. You’re driving to bingo, hanging on for dear life because the jackpot is a big one tonight, and you’d really rather not take a detour to the Pearly Gates. I’m with you.

I used to love roller coasters. Now I’m bloody terrified. My husband thinks I pulled the ol’ bait and switch, pretending to be a wild child to win his heart, then turning into a crusty old wimp face as soon as I got the ring. NOT TRUE. Something happened inside me when I entered my thirties. I got skurred. Roller coasters went from exhilarating thrill rides to a string of coffins on a track. Instead of being a great reason to go to an amusement park, they’re a reason to fake an illness, knowing my husband, Evil Knievel’s Newfie nephew, is going to guilt me into riding something called The Apocalypse or The BuzzSaw or The Corkscrew, all of which pretty much guarantee you’re going to be joining The War Amps when you get off. There should be one called The Orphan Maker (bye-bye, sweet Max, Mommy loves you and Daddy is a bad, bad man).

Those of you who follow my blog probably remember the infamous photo from last summer. Me and Max on the Ghoster Coaster at Canada’s Wonderland. A total accident, mind you. I thought it was a ride for toddlers. Um, no. It was a fucking nightmare. Fuck you, Snoopy.

coasterIt was almost as bad as that puff of air in your eye at the optometrist that tests for glaucoma, which I’m sure is much worse than actually having glaucoma.

I know, I know, I’m a gigantic candy-ass. I’ve given birth, for christ sake…With MY VAGINA…Without so much as a motherfuckin’ ASPIRIN…Why be afraid of anything ever again? I don’t know okay just leave me alone. I don’t choose to be afraid. Maybe the fact I’m a mother now makes me more cautious, more self-preserving, less all “Oh let’s ride The Spleen Buster WOOOOO” and more all “Let’s keep Max out of the orphanage, SWEEEEEET. Oh look, an ice cream stand!” Maybe it’s biological or psychological or something. Like, the way my boobs made milk when I had a baby to keep him alive, likewise my body and mind actually reject roller coasters to keep me alive so I can continue to keep him alive. Or maybe age has enlightened me with the knowledge that there are so many other awesome emotions I’d rather feel than SHEER TERROR. You know, like joy, serenity, awe, inspiration, and that wonderful feeling of knowing you are NOT about to toss your cookies or shit your pants while dangling a couple thousand feet in the air.

It’s okay, honey, I hate me too. I don’t want to be afraid of roller coasters. I don’t want to be afraid of anything! I want to live with balls! BIG, ROUND, HAIRY BALLS. Because we’re only coming this way once. We don’t get a second chance. Unless you believe in reincarnation, I guess. But even then you may not get much of a second go if you come back as a cactus, or garden snail, or an Amish girl with a lisp.

I gots to FIGHT THE FEAR, MAN. Starting with this book. (Yes, everything now leads to the book. If you don’t like it, here watch this video instead. Or buy the damn book and get it over with.) Was I afraid to write it? Hells yeah. It’s not a fear of heights or speed or coaster loop de loops, but it is indeed fear. In fact, there is a different kind of shitbakery for every page in that sucker.

Fear of criticism. (And oh, it’s coming, sister. Hold me.)

Fear of feeling stupid when someone finds its flaws. (Again, COMING.)

Fear of exposure. Putting myself and my family on display, and the subsequent finger-wagging for being such a reckless tart of a mother.

Fear of being called a redheaded freak, which is totally correct but it’s still hard to hear from people who don’t know me.

Fear of being called a narcissistic strumpet. GONNA HAPPEN. This photo was a contender for the book cover but some of my advisors thought it was a litttttttttle too naughty and would give people extra reason to hate me. (Good thing I didn’t go with the twerking idea.)

©David Howells 2013And also, apparently ravers suck on pacifiers while doing drugs so they don’t swallow their tongues or something. Who knew?

And THEN, to top off the big scary shit pile, there’s the fear of being afraid. Fear of fear itself. Great. Fear that, if I back down or give up or run away and hide, I’ll regret it FOREVER. That is the scariest thing of all. So in a way, this fear of fear is what makes me brave. Thanks for the reminder, FDR, who famously said “only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” And maybe polio.

At the end of the day, YOLO. Also known as: Who gives a fuck, yo? Fuck the fear! I have some funny shit to say, some important points to make about what it’s really like to be a mom and a woman and a nutbar. I is good writer. I might sell all of 17 copies, but at least I’ll never be able to say I was too afraid to try. I’m sounding like an after school special now. Fuck after school specials. Fuck Degrassi High. Now I’m sounding like Joel Thomas Hynes. Fuck Joel Thomas Hynes, but here’s a link to a crappy video of him reading his fuck-everything manifesto which is pretty funny I guess.

Conclusion. Fuck everything that would keep me in the fetal position sucking my thumb. FUCK FEAR. Fuck it right in the face. Someone pass me a roller coaster, I’m sitting in the front.

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Planes, trains and autoOOOH SHIT.

The theme of Max’s trip to Ontario? Transportation.

1. First, he got to ride on a BIG AIRPLANE. Sweet action.

But I soon realized flying Porter, with two stopovers en route to Toronto, was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. (The smartest thing was taking the iPad; Porter doesn’t have TVs.) When we pitched down in Halifax, Max simply could not understand why we were not getting off the plane. I mean we had landed, there was an airport right there, others were getting off, but we were just going to sit here and rot??? WTF, MOM! Let’s get off this hunk o’ junk and get the apple juice flowing already!

I managed to keep him in his seat until all the Halifax-bound passengers had gotten off. Then, with 20 minutes to kill, I let him march up and down the aisle for a bit to stretch his legs. But soon there was congestion at the front of the plane: a lineup to the lavatory, a flight attendant sorting through her pretzels, a pilot emerging from the cockpit to drain the main vein. I lost sight of that orange head I’ve grown accustomed to seeking in crowds, so I began to make my way to the front of the aircraft. When I got there, I saw Max standing near the door on the verge of tears. I asked him, “aw, were you afraid you had lost mommy, honey?” He replied with a pout, “No, they wouldn’t let me get off the plane!”

2. Next up – the much-anticipated TRAIN RIDE. If you know Max, you know he has two obsessions: popsicles, and trains. (Forget the popsicles – focus!) Here in Newfoundland, we haven’t had any moving trains since the 1980s. And there are only so many popsicles you can give your kid to compensate. So we were really looking forward to this ride on a classic steam engine. Running from Waterloo to St. Jacob’s, the railway is operated entirely by volunteers. One of them – playing the friendly old conductor – even punched our tickets.

3. Next on the agenda – AMUSEMENT PARK RIDES at Canada’s Wonderland. (It’s okay – this time I’ll be kind to the wankers.) Max rode all sorts of things here, from Snoopy’s airplane to a high-flyin’ (not really) swing.

4. And then there was the ride to end all rides. The GHOSTER COASTER. Now before you get caught up in what is quite possibly the world’s most hilarious photograph below, let me explain. We were in Snoopy Land or Snoopy’s Village or Snoop Dogg’s Crib or whatever the frig they call the area of the park for little kids. It is total snoozeville – strollers everywhere, toddlers on lame-ass rides, nobody is over four feet tall unless they are pushing a stroller or handing out cotton candy or a giant ass kid who was born with a full set of teeth. So Max and I happily make our way along the various rides, trying this one, lining up for that one, having a time. Eventually we come to a ride – yes, still right here in the land of the teacups – the Ghoster Coaster.

Now for those of you quite familiar with Wonderland and are now gasping with shock – bite me. I didn’t know the Ghoster Coaster was a 4 out of 5 on the scary scale. I couldn’t see the rickety old track from the ride entrance. At a glance it looked fine to me, and the other kids lining up to get on were not much bigger than Max. Surely if the ride was located right here in the land of bunnies and clouds and babies, it was suitable for Turbo Ginger. Right? Right?

By the way, if you’re wondering where daddy is during this moment of weakness, daddy was lining up to ride the Leviathan – the freaky new roller coaster at the other end of the park. If he had been with us instead off getting his thrills elsewhere, he probably would have prevented this epic mistake. But he would have also prevented this picture…

So it turns out Turbo Ginger is not fearless, after all. But it’s okay, son. Your mom – the love child of Carrot Top and the Incredible Hulk – will protect you.

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Speak of the devil.

Turbo Ginger. Savage Patch Kid. Demon child. Beelzebub Boy. My little prince (of darkness).

Not everyone’s a fan of the monikers I’ve given my fiery-haired toddler. (I got your emails. Thank you?)

I get it. Bad mommy.

My mother even hates it when I call Max a “little devil.” Needless to say, she was not a fan of this Halloween costume:

What — he’s a helluva kid! Sheesh.

But I guess I understand the skepticism. I mean, how can a child this cherubic wreak so much havoc? It’s just not possible.

I’ll have you know – this ice cream cone was stolen.

Okay I confess, I’m a chronic exaggerator. I take moments of chaos and embellish the excrement out of them, omitting all the sweet moments in between. Moments when he is an absolute angel.

So, due to popular demand (from bat-shit crazy people) I now give you the gentler side of Turbo Ginger, in 6 snapshots. Max Murphy: Munchkin. Philanthropist. Humanitarian.

1. A champion of quadriplegics everywhere, Max cuddles up in his favourite blanket to watch TV. Nothing like watching Treehouse as a human stump. The light through the window isn’t sunlight, by the way; it’s Jesus giving Burrito Boy two thumbs way up.

2. A friend to all animals and woodland creatures, Max is especially kind to his bearded sister.

3. Ever respectful of the earth, he gently collects its fruits in nanny’s plastic measuring cup and devours them on the way back to the car.

4. He may be a joker, smoker and midnight toker. But he is also a gangster of love – kissing and hugging with ginger fervour.

5. I caught him with a knife once, but he’s no butcher. He’s a baker! And an advocate for old lady perms everywhere.6. He’s ambitious but humble, destined for a desk job. Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with a little middle management. Motto: Popsicles now, cubicles later.

See – nobody wants another mommy blog about how cute her kid is. So all you buttmunches out there telling me I should have my uterus removed with a pitchfork, this blog’s not for you. It’s for the funny-boned folk out there who can appreciate photos like this one.

Behold, my little angel…

You’re welcome. And I win.

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Hell hath no fury like an unphotographed wife.

I’m a mommy blogger. Naturally, my main subject is my main man, Max Murphy.

But marriage is so intimately tied to motherhood – you know, if you manage to survive the turbulent toddler years without killing each other – that my husband often creeps up in my writing. Not unlike the way he crept up into my bootyliciousness some eight years ago at a club downtown.

In spite of inevitable marital disputes, I try to respectfully hold back on the husband bashing. But I reckon after two consecutive long weekends of fishing, golfing and drinking, followed by a night out with his friends that delivered his hairy ass home at 4:30am reeking of George Street sausage dogs and whores – he’s fair game.

See, some husbands must endure the wrath of the wife who nags, yells, throws things, and generally freaks her freak.

And some husbands are subject to the wife who gently types. La la la, I’m typing, I love to type, typing in my favourite.

He needn’t know that with every key softly pecked I’m stabbing someone with a rusty butter knife and a smile.

Not that he even reads this thing. He probably just scans it for the words “husband” and “Andrew.” Maybe he should also start scanning for “douchebag” and “tit head,” starting right now.

See, I found some photos on his camera. Photos of him and his fishing buddies spooning in a tent, lovingly feeding each other beans from a can, and getting jiggy under the light of the moon.

Just kidding.

It was actually much, much worse. Brace yourself. The photos were… NOT. OF. ME. Gasp!

I mean obviously he didn’t take any photos of me on his fishing trip. Because I was not there on the bloody fishing trip. I have bigger fish to fry, thank you very much.

My point is – he never takes pictures of me. Ever. Not pictures of me. Not pictures of myself and Max together. According to the camera roll on his iPhone, we don’t exist. Not even the George Street pirate hookers get to see how cute we are.

I mean, God forbid he acknowledge my classic ginger beauty with an art form that does not include slapping my ass and yelling “giddy-up!”

Maybe if I had three months to live, he might consider immortalizing my image with a camera. I mean maybe. Possibly. If he didn’t have anything better to do. As long as it’s not fishing season.

But it’s not that he doesn’t take any photos. Oh, he takes photos. Of fish. And fish next to beer bottles to show how big (and photogenic) said fish are. Now that’s something special right there.

I’m always the one behind the lens. (What – producing an heir wasn’t enough? Now I am also the sole photobiographer of our lives?) There are so many snapshots of Andrew and Max, I was able to make an epic slideshow for him for Father’s Day.

Number of pics of me and Max? Four. And all four of them were taken during this scene:

There’s nothing sexier than a cow right after she calfs. I’m surprised I wasn’t the one snapping the pictures here – newborn in one arm, Nikon in the other, knob in an armchair across the room eating a popsicle.

Let’s go upload this sweet-ass birthing suite snap to my Facebook and watch as the number of would-be suitors pours in like afterbirth into a bowl.

I’m being a dramatic sloptart. Obviously Andrew has taken more than four photos of me in our time together.

He has taken five.

And here’s the kicker – all five of them I had to ask him to take.

There are few things in life I love more than begging someone to take my picture. I mean, it just makes me feel so humble and modest and not at all obsessed with my own face. He sighs, giving in. Now that’s a sound that really makes a girl feel beautiful; just let me take my clothes off right now. And my smile as he carelessly snaps the picture – it just doesn’t get any more genuine. And look at the sparkle in my eye…

That’s not a sparkle, honey. That’s a volt of electric rage. I made you a fucking slideshow!

After he takes the shot, he hands the camera back or pockets the phone immediately. That’s it, one shot. No need to see how the ol’ cow turned out. I could have had my eyes closed, my tit hanging out, anything. It doesn’t matter. He exerted so much energy, depleted every ounce of creative juice with this one act of photographic genius, he couldn’t possibly take one more for good luck.

And just to clarify so all you bushpigs out there don’t come at me with comments like “get over yourself,” I’m not asking him to take my picture because I think I’m hot as balls. I’m asking him to take it so that, in the event of my untimely death, Max will know I bloody well existed! Is that so much to ask? How much do you remember from age three? Exactly. If I die tomorrow, all Max will have to remember me by is a mop of red hair, this silly blog, and a handful of crappy photos.

But I’m not going to give up on my other main man just yet.

Next time our little family finds itself someplace magical, with the salty Atlantic breeze tossing our ginger manes to and fro, the setting sun casting the perfect golden light on our freckled faces, I will give him the opportunity to make his move. I will give him the chance – about 45 seconds – to stop taking pictures of his balls and emailing them to his friends, and start taking pictures of something bigger. Something beautiful that, sadly, just won’t last.

Enough with the tadpoles, honey. It’s time to take a picture of allllllladis. The catch of your freaking life.

Douchebag.

Tit head.

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Max, Most Sportsmanlike Toddler Ever. NOTTTTTT.

Max hates potatoes.

He hates ’em baked.

He hates ’em mashed.

He hates ’em french-fried.

Okay that last one’s a lie. Damn you, Ronald McDonald.

But the rest is true. He hates virtually all forms of potato. He won’t even play with Mr. Potato Head.

But when someone’s passing him a hot one – you know, during a game of Hot Potato at a birthday party – he will cling to it like sour cream on a chive.

At a birthday party last weekend, Max was one of seven kids, all aged five and under, sitting on the floor playing a game of Hot Potato. Now normally during Hot Potato, you want to get rid of the darn thing; pass it to the next kid as quickly as possible, because if you’re holding it when the music stops, you’re out.

But this game of Hot Potato was essentially the game of Pass the Parcel, where the prize is wrapped a dozen times and passed around, a layer of paper removed each time the music stops by the kid holding the goods until there are no more layers just sweet victory. Except in this case, the prize beneath all that paper was, well, a potato. So we called it Hot Potato. It just felt right. And it’s way more fun when the kids think it’s going to burn their hands.

But not when my stage-four clinger is in the circle. Apparently Max likes to feel a good, deep burn. The sought-after spud would come to him and, despite all pleas to pass it to the next eager child, he just could not let it go. Parting is such sweet potato sorrow.

At one point, the music stopped just as I intervened to flick the beloved tuber from his grubby paws into the hands of the next child. If we did a slow-mo replay of the action, it would show that it was indeed in Max’s hands at the moment the music stopped, but it had been there for the last two to three bars of music! It should have been halfway around the circle by now. In fact, it should be halfway around the neighbourhood, in a pot up the street next to a few carrots. The next kid got to take off a layer of paper while Max kicked and screamed and sobbed, spudless.

Last time there was this much fuss over a potato, it was 1741 Ireland.

I could chock it up to the terrible-twos or almost-threes. Toddlerhood is an emotional time. But here were a handful of kids, all around Max’s age, and he was the only one freaking his freak. I was so proud, so very proud.

But I didn’t let this potato drama boil my water. Instead I thought, How do I fix this?

Do I yank him from the circle as punishment for misbehaving? Show him that if he can’t play properly, he doesn’t get to play at all.

Or do I sit down in the circle with him and force him to do what is required of this game (and this life!) so he sees what’s happening and, hopefully, learns? I mean maybe it’s all a bit confusing for my little guy: This irresistible mystery package is plopped into his empty hands, and then, in a fraction of a second, he’s expected to give it up to the next guy.

If I were at Neiman Marcus and the sales lady said, “Congratulations – you’re our millionth customer, you win this Gucci purse! Here you go. Uh, oh wait, no, you’re our 999,999th customer, sorry, my bad. Could you pass that cherry red genuine leather luxury handbag with the gold hardware to the nice lady behind you, please?”

Waaaaaaaaaah. I’d be heartbroken. And I’m not three years old.

So I opted for plan B. I sat down next to him in the circle, cradled his sticky hands in mine and proceeded to facilitate the receipt and passing of the stupendous spud. I also refrained from making inappropriate jokes like, “Idaho who’s gonna win this game!”

Each time the potato made its way around to Team Ginger, I plucked it from Max’s death grip and passed it on at lightning speed; I didn’t want him holding it when the music stopped, not even to take off an upper layer of paper. If he got to take off one layer, there’d be no stopping the human vegetable peeler from hitting pay dirt. And plus, the potato is hot, remember? “Toss that tuber, kids! Save your fingerprints!”

But lo and behold, despite my fast-handed action and good intentions, the little frigger won the game. The music stopped when the potato, now barely concealed by a thin layer of pink tissue paper, was fair and square in Max’s mitts. Turbo Ginger’s maniacal laughter broke through his tears. It was terrifying.

Victory was the worst possible outcome. Today’s lesson in Toddlerville: Have more hissy fits, get more stuff.

Damn it.

He unwrapped the final layer of paper and there it was. He had no idea the potato-shaped parcel that we were all calling the hot potato was really a… wait for it… potato. Kids are so wonderfully dumb.

The long-awaited prize looked him in the face with a hundred gnarly eyes and said, Surprise, kid. What’d you think I was – a truck?

What the heck?, Max thought.

Then, Ah well, Idaho who’s gonna give this a go.

He traded in his potato for a real prize, of course: a pair of wind-up fish that swim around in the bathtub. He didn’t let the precious cargo out of his sight for the rest of the day. They were donated organs on ice, en route to the operating room.

A second game quickly ensued, but this time I ejected the spud champ. I couldn’t risk the greedy bugger winning for a second time. It would go right to his potato head.

 

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Aw, what a beautiful… baby? Is that a baby?

All babies are beautiful.

And all their mothers are virgins.

C’mon Stevie Wonder, you know that just ain’t true. Look at your newbie. Yes, yes, he’s precious. He’s precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire.

Seriously. Does your heir look a little queer?

Is your offspring looking a little off?

Is the son you grew kinda gruesome too?

It’s okay. Not every baby is a babe.

So what if Anne Geddes would put your baby waaaaaay in the background. Perhaps she would encapsulate your lil’ tyke in a big tulip with just his foot sticking out. She’d probably insist he wear the little wool hat… with the face mask.

Listen up, ye makers of ugmo minis: there is hope. Allow me to demonstrate.

This is Max when he was just two months of age…

My, that’s a cute… elephant.

My kid was a pizza with male pattern baldness.

A pimply pint.

The star of the first half of a Clearasil commercial.

Such cruel irony. I deliver this child drug-free and he winds up looking like a crystal meth junkie.

And check out those jowls — I had given birth to Winston freakin’ Churchill!

But boy did I love him. I mean, how could I not, with such a kick-ass impersonation of John C. Reilly. His first full sentence? “You must call me Night Hawk.”

I was recently contacted by a blogger in Oregon who had come across the shot above when googling “ugly baby.” First of all, yay for search engine optimization. Second of all, ouch. He was about to blog about ugly babies and apparently mine was the epitome of ugly to compliment his words, from all the ugly babies to be found on the World Wide Web. So he asked my permission to use the photo. I said yes, of course, as long as he included my url to drive a bit of Oregonian traffic my way. Check out his blog, Oh God My Wife Is German. His German wife (whose hilarious utterances are top fodder for his blog) had seen an ugly baby with its mother and said, “Her baby looks just like her, which is not a present.”

But my lil’ gremlin was morphing right before my eyes. Within a few short months, his acne cleared up, his hair grew in, and he gave up the crystal, cold turkey. (He’s strictly apple sauce now.)

Soon, my son was God’s gift to midget women everywhere. The little girls at daycare even started putting their phone numbers in his backpack. Of course, it’s impossible to figure out which order the magnetic digits go in, so he never calls any of the little floosies.

And this week, Sir Maximus Handsomest made his big debut in a campaign for GM Goodwrench. Check it out now: the funk soul ginger.

Score for Team Red, fo shizzle.

But don’t worry. I won’t let the fame go to his carrot-top.

And if Anne Geddes calls, she’s a little too late. The only flower that’s gonna capture Turbo Ginger now is the world’s largest and toothiest Venus Flytrap.

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A mid-autumn night’s dream.

There are few things in life as cute as a sleeping child.

Exhibit A:

Brussels sprouts. Fair enough.

 

Exhibit B:

Another couple inches and his gut could be a pillow.

 

Exhibit ZZZZZZZ:

Chum chweet.

But what the heck do they dream about? I mean, at the ripe old age of two, what could Max possibly have to conjure up in his subatomic little egghead?

Everyone dreams, and Max surely is no exception. He often has night terrors, waking during the wee hours to scream out “mommy!” or “daddy!” in sheer toddler terror, then falling off to sleep once again.

But last night, around 3am, we heard him scream something else. Something that revealed the unfathomable depths of his munchkin mind. In a burst of pure rage, he yelled…

I HATE STICKERS!!!!!!

Followed by a solid thump on the wall, probably a fist or a skull, then silence until 8am.

Frightened the living shit out of us. But damn it was worth it. Amusing – and informative! Santa will appreciate the tip.

 

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