Halloween and some REALLY R Rated stuff. Tread carefully.

I bet you thought there’d be pictures. Sorry. It’s midnight to my poor soccer mom’s body. Not that there’s anything wrong with soccer moms, of course.

Trick or Treating was a smashing success. By the end of the loop around Page Hill (it’s a real place, I’m not making it up) ToddlerA had the hang of reaching in, carefully and ever so agonizingly slowly choosing her candy, and then gently placing her loot in the pumpkin bag. Unless the Loot made any kind of noise, at all. In that case, she’d reach into the bowl for a matching box or bag and then strut off shaking her candy like maracas. The last 4 houses we stopped at must have looked like home for ToddlerA, or perhaps she was just ready to take a load off and sit a spell, because she tried to cross the threshold of them all, practically knocking the homeonwners down on her way in, and shrieking like I was peeling her skin off when I picked her up and retreated, calling “sorry! thank you! sorry!” over my shoulder as we trampled their manacured, freakishly green lawns. I know they were all totally aware that ToddlerA’s trick or treating was All About The Parents, too. Just because they bought a house in a subdivision with no trees doesn’t mean they can’t smell a greedy candy monger a mile away. I’m boldy unapologetic. They can’t kick me out of the Homeowner’s Association, what’re they gonna do? Boycott our yard sales? All the people who gave out Dots and those tiny dum dums can have all that crap back, too. Resees and Snickers people-we love ya. Keep up the good work.

Because chocolate and Runts candy wasn’t enough for me and I didn’t have anything with which to wash down my Smarties, I called Someone We All Know and Love, and somehow convinced her to leave her sick family and drive over here in her nightgown to bring me a coke. Michael says we should get her a beeper and create a special set of codes. 911-7 means COKE, STAT! 112 Means “Puking Kid, need fruit!” 888 means “I’m about to throw the baby into the road you better get in your car so you can be the first one to happen by and toss her in.”

Hannah went as me, circa 1988. The pictures are too precious not to post, so I promise I really really will post them in the morning.

We tried to get into the scary movie watching mode, but we’re all just so tired, and boring, and OLD now, that M went to bed at 9:30 and I killed many many many brain cells in front of But Can They Sing and Laguna Beach. It’s a slippery slope, folks. I can only pray that someday soon one of us has the wherewithall to sever the cable. I fear we may soon cross over to a dark place that there’s no coming back from. I had to stop myself from putting TV trays on my Amazon Wish List today. Help me.

On that note: and here is a disclaimer to any of my inlaws who read this: You can close the window now, because it’s time for me to update the Internet on my love life, and I’m sure you could do without a taste of THAT conversation.































OK. So we want another baby. To that end, very soon we will be moving upstairs. What’s so sexy about the upstairs, you ask? Let me tell you a little story, about an 18 month old baby, who when she learned to talk, was a hilarious mimic. She was SO FUNNY and loved to make people laugh SO VERY MUCH that one day, she threw herself on the floor of the kitchen where I was having coffee with my roommate and her boyfriend and guess what she did?

In-laws. really stop reading now.

She squealed. Wanna know what? I’m fuzzy on all the details, because I went on a three week bender after that so I could avoid thinking about the therapy bills in my future. But it went something like this: “Oh Chris! Oh Chris! Oh Chris!” and was accompanied by her laying on the floor on her back. When my roommate and her boyfriend stopped spitting coffee everywhere, we decided that I should probably get a place with a separate bedroom for TeenHer.

Fast forward to, um, now. We sleep 4 feet away from ToddlerA, who tonight learned to say “boo!” and who gets our attention in the morning by rattling the bars of her Baby Jail and throwing her suckies at us.

And I’ve been dogging myself for not being in the baby making state of mind, which admittedly, is more fun than my New York State of Mind but much more difficult to attain and maintain.

TeenHer is moving downstairs and we’re moving into the Purple Room of Love. ToddlerA is on her own in the Tiny Room for Babies. When she’s 6 and she has someone to work the seesaw with her, she’ll thank us.

How weird is it that I don’t want my IL’s to hear about us doing stuff, as if they don’t kind of already know that we’ve feasted in the garden love at LEAST ONCE?


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