A Grown-Ass Man Catcalled My 11-Year Old

Photo is of a smiling 11-year old girl named Snugglebug,
with shoulder-length brown hair and sunglasses,
standing on a balcony with a pond, green lawn,
and trees visible in the background.

***The events of this story are shared with Snugglebug's permission.***

Monday afternoon, the girls and I took a walk to the nearby grocery store. Snugglebug and Curlytop took turns pushing Pumpkin in the stroller, and we caught Pokemon along the way.

As we transitioned from the sidewalk to the parking lot, a truck slowed down. The thirtysomething driver rolled down his window, and said, "Hey, baby..." while making eye contact with Snugglebug.

She's 11, y'all.

She plays with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and plays Minecraft and Animal Jam.

She doesn't want to wear makeup, even though some of her peers do, and if I can get her to brush her hair in the morning, I consider it a victory.

This is not a kid who has been sexualized, or pushes the boundaries of age-appropriate behavior or appearance.

And... she was pissed.

"THAT GUY JUST CALLED ME 'BABY.' HE TALKED TO ME LIKE I WAS HIS GIRLFRIEND. THAT IS NOT OKAY!"

I hadn't heard the exchange. I was talking to Curlytop when it occurred. I'd seen the truck slow down, but assumed it was slowing because the driver was being cautious of us pedestrians.

If I'd heard it, I would have lost my Jesus with that man.

I agreed with her, and I told her that sometimes, "putting up the middle finger" at someone is an acceptable response.

Yeah. I gave my kid permission to flip off an adult.

She mentioned the offense several times during our shopping, and several more times on the walk back home.

"What was I even doing? Why did he do that?"

"I think he was looking at my butt." (She was wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. She didn't even feel her butt was safe from his violating gaze in sweatpants, y'all.)

"That made me really uncomfortable."

"No adult man should talk to a kid like that."

She's right, you know.

And, as furious as I was at the grown-ass man who took it upon himself to sexualize my baby, I was dedicated to letting her speak her mind, and to process it, with me as a sounding board. 

As she did so, I realized something: 

• At her age, my two best friends and I had already been molested by my sixth grade teacher. When we told the principal, our teacher was forced to apologize for any "misunderstanding," and we were sent back into his classroom every single day for more abuse, until the end of the school year. 

• At her age, those catcalls from grown men in my community were commonplace. We girls were told to ignore it, and we learned to giggle and roll our eyes.

• At her age, one time when I was riding my bike, a grown man yelled out, "Life would be so sweet if my face was that bicycle seat!" I didn't know what he meant until years later, and when I realized, I was retroactively grossed out, ashamed, and embarrassed. There were several other men standing with him, and they all laughed. No one admonished him.

• At her age, I'd already had one man expose his erect penis to me when I got separated from my mom in Kmart. After I found my mom and we reported it to store security, we were told that the man had mental health issues, and probably didn't know what he was doing.

• At her age, I'd been told so many times to change behaviors that weren't "ladylike," I was already self-conscious of everything I did in view of adults and peers.

• At her age, I'd already learned that being objectified was part of my female life, and the sooner I learned to accept it, the less painful life would be.

• At her age, I lived in a strange, dichotomous world where I played with Cabbage Patch Dolls, read Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and climbed trees, but also had my breasts and thighs stroked by a grown man. 

• At her age, I learned that anger and outrage weren't feminine, but silence and submission were.

• At her age, I learned that the attention of grown men was something I couldn't escape, so I had to learn to accept it.

And you know what? 

I renewed my vow that my daughters will never be 11-year old me.

No one will ever tell my daughters they're overreacting to the bad actions of grown men.

No one will ever tell them to "get over it," or "just ignore it."

No one will ever tell them that being objectified is part of female life, and the sooner they accept it, the less painful life will be.

My daughters are the owners of their bodies, and they get to protect those bodies.

Snugglebug was outraged because she knows her body is hers, and when someone objectifies her, they are the one in the wrong.

She was outraged because that man treated her with a level of familiarity she had not given him permission to use.

She was outraged because she had not done anything to call attention to herself, yet received it, anyway.

She was angry because she knows she is a child, and she knows that adults who sexualize children are gross, and capable of criminal sexual violence. (She reminded me that her plan -- if any adult man ever tried to touch her body without permission -- was to "kick him in the balls, as hard as I can, and get away while he's on the ground in pain," and I applauded.)

She was angry because she was just trying to enjoy a walk with her mom and sisters, and some grown-ass man had to ruin it for her.

She was angry because she has every right to be.

My daughters will never be 11-year old me.

Anger and outrage, today, to me, are no longer anti-feminine.

Appropriately applied, they are the epitome of feminine power, and I won't allow my girls to be silenced into submission.

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The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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Normalizing Adoption

Snugglebug and Mama
Photo by Mad Rooster Photography.

Snugglebug is now six years old, and tends to favor the dramatic. Mr. Wright says we've solved the Nature vs. Nurture question, right there -- despite being adopted, she's completely "inherited" my sense of melodrama.

Blame it on the coveted Cabbage Patch Kids dolls of my childhood, but I've always thought of adoption as completely normal and, in fact, a matter of course. Even as a pre-maternal teenager, my plan was always to "have two, and adopt at least one."

Regular readers will know my plan didn't work out exactly as intended, but the general principle was met when I had one, inherited four, and adopted two. So far.

Mr. Wright and I have always tried to impress upon Curlytop and Snugglebug that they're special, because they were adopted. They were "chosen," and are cherished because they were a gift, and part of God's plan for our family. We read books about adoption, celebrate National Adoption Day, make cakes for their adoption anniversary, and talk, talk, talk about how they came to be ours.

So when Snugglebug, in tears, woke me a few nights ago, the last thing I expected her to be upset about was the concept of adoption. Perhaps she'd had a bad dream, or she had a tummy ache, or maybe she was stressed out over the national budget... I think I mentioned her love of the dramatic, so her tears were no surprise. Whatever it was, my motherly instinct kicked in, prepared to fix the world so she (and I) could go back to sleep.

"What's the matter, Honey?" I asked, while making room under the covers for her.

"Baby Kade," she sniffled, climbing into bed next to me.

"Kade" is the seven-month old son of my cousin, Mistie Dawn, whose name I have always been jealous of because it's so much cooler than mine.

"What about him?"

"Why hasn't he been adopted yet? I'm so sad his family hasn't found him, yet," she said. "They must be looking for him. I'm going to miss him when he gets adopted!"

Oh, dear... How must the world appear to a six-year old, who lives with two parents but has two other parents? Add to that mind-bender six brothers and sisters who grew up under one roof, but all had other parents, as well, and kids who only have two parents begin to appear an anomaly.

It was midnight, for crying out loud, but I wanted to put the issue to bed (so to speak).

"You know, Sweetie, when a baby is born, sometimes the mommy and daddy don't have a place for the baby to live. Or enough food, or money for diapers and other things a baby needs. And sometimes, because they love their baby very much, the mommy and daddy will find another mommy and daddy to adopt the baby, so the baby can have a crib, and food, and toys, and lots and lots of extra love," I explained. "But other times, mommies and daddies have everything that baby needs, and they don't need help, so they can just love the baby a lot, by themselves. Cousin Mistie and Kade's daddy have everything he needs, so he's going to stay with them. Does that make sense?"

"Oh," Snugglebug said, cuddling closer to me under the covers. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you and Daddy adopted me."

You know, sometimes I look back on those three and a half years between placement and finalization of the girls' adoptions, and remember what a nightmare it was -- the paperwork (ad naseum), the fear that our state or their tribe would change their minds and pull "their" children from our home, the absolutely driving frustration that forced me to be an advocate, the sleepless nights, the endless questioning... "Are we doing the right thing?"... and know, with all my heart, I'd do it all again.

This is our "normal." Welcome to it.



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Can't Argue with Pre-K Logic

I don’t know what I’d do without Curlytop and Snugglebug. They always have an explanation for things which might otherwise confound the world.

When reminded they can’t play outside alone, my faith-filled girls assure me, “It’s okay, Mama. God is with me.” Um, no. I follow too many missing children cases to let my little ones wander beyond the front door without the watchful eye of a Trusted Big Person.

Interestingly, inside the house, those same girls won’t even go to the bathroom alone, never mind pick up their room without an adult hovering over them. The tune quickly changes to, “I need you to come with me! God isn’t with me—I can’t feel him!” Now, I’m not a theologian, but I suspect my wee philosophers are simply seeking my attention.

My insistence that certain activities are for grown-ups only has finally sunk in, ensuring Curlytop and Snugglebug understand there are just some things that can’t be tackled until they’re older. Driving, for example. In fact, the girls are so accepting of the concept they’ve decided to selectively apply it to other activities, as well. The other day, I tried to coax Curlytop into trying a new dish. “I’ll do it later, Mama,” she said. “Like, when I’m a grown-up.”

Our mild and sweetly aging family dog, Perseus, went missing the other day. For the record, he’s never lived up to the image of his adventuring, battling namesake. He’s what we call a “watch dog.” In the event of a burglary, Perseus would assuredly “watch” the perp haul off the stereo, the television, the computer…

Anyway, we searched and searched for our loyal canine, calling and whistling for him outside, walking through the house to scout where he may be hiding. A minute short of calling Animal Control, fearing he’d wandered off, I walked into Curlytop and Snugglebug’s bedroom. They both looked completely angelic and nonchalant, watching a video. Too angelic, in fact. “Girls, have you seen Perseus?” I asked. They glanced at one another before answering, in unison, “No, Mama.”

I turned to leave, and heard a muffled scratching sound. “What’s that noise?” I asked. Curlytop and Snugglebug both shrugged their shoulders, turning their attention back to the movie. As the scratching grew more urgent, I followed the sound to the closet. I turned the knob, pulled the door open, and struggled to keep my footing as Perseus burst out, nearly knocking me over.

“How did Perseus get in the closet?” I demanded.

Curlytop shrugged her shoulders again, but Snugglebug cleared up any speculation with a wide-eyed explanation of astonishment. “It must be magic! Perseus is a magician! Isn’t that cool, Mama?”

Cool, indeed. I must be the only pet owner in the world with a magical dog who not only disappears himself, but also traps himself in closets.

Speaking of pets, Mr. Wright recently “fished” a piece of chewing gum out of our aquarium. The reason the gum ended up at the bottom of the tank? “Fish love to blow bubbles.”

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I'm Alive... You?

It's waaaaay past time for an update, and for that, I apologize. Didn't mean to leave you all hanging. As far as you know, I'm still in Miami, right? (More on that next week.)

I took a hiatus from blogging and my column in order to address some family issues, which are settling - I hope. Anyway... Here's what's happened since we last chatted:

1. Mr. Wright and I returned safely from our hard-earned vacation to Miami, Key West and the Bahamas. Well, pretty much "safely." Watch for my column next week.

Key West... "Hemingway Pissed Here"

2. I went to Las Vegas for the Pure Romance National Convention, joining a bazillion of the coolest ladies in the biz (and by "biz," I mean the sexual heath consultant biz). I flew on more than one airplane by myself, and lived to tell about it. In the meantime, I'm romancing between writing and the general hubbub that comes with the Gonzo clan. You can see my product line - from mild to wild - here.

3. The vegan dessert cookbook I'm co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is coming together, after many stops and starts and a general feeling of sheer horror that I wouldn't be able to produce enough content for the book. Turns out I worried for nothing, and now that I'm getting all the parts and pieces stitched together, I feel like a sillyhead. All that worrying for nothing! If worrying was an Olympic sport, I'd have a collection of gold medals to rival Michael Phelps. Let the record show no one has ONCE suspected me of using performance-enhancing drugs - either a testament to my purity, or ineptness.

4. We're adding some additional service for Curlytop, as her IEP only provides for limited therapy during school hours. She's had assessments at the same center Snugglebug attends for speech therapy, and the administrator noticed the same thing I do about Curlytop's learning style - she's a tactile learner. If you can get her to DO something while learning, she'll soak up the information. I'm currently trying to figure out how to engage the school district and her educators to take advantage of this. Any ideas?

5. I recently signed a contract with Momicillin.com to become one of their regular contributors. That means you'll have one more place to get original content from me, me, ME! I'll be contributing featured posts, short bits, and stuff I love, so bookmark or subscribe to the site, and watch for the magic! And look at the cute author caricature their artist made of me:

Image by Momicillin.com

6. Pockets got his driver's license. You've been warned.

What have YOU been up to?

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The Unhappiest Place on Earth and Other Vacation Tales

Curlytop is NOT down with Disney.

For children with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), Disneyland may not be the carefree wonderland promoters would have parents believe. In fact, for some SPD kids, it may be something closer to one giant house of horrors.

We weren’t thinking about that when we forked over a month’s worth of grocery money at the hallowed gates of the theme park. We were thinking about the memories we were creating with our children.

Memories, indeed.

I’ll never forget Curlytop and Snugglebug screaming in terror at the sweet face of the wooden puppet who came to life during a gently ambling journey through a darkened ride which featured a blissfully beautiful good fairy and a kindly old man. Snugglebug reviewed the Pinocchio ride with carefully-crafted restraint. “It was scary, and I hated it.”

Next up was a ride so sweet and mild, adults dread it and children adore it. After all, it really is a small, small world, and if the syrupy song doesn’t give you a toothache, the angelic faces of children from around the globe certainly will.

Unfortunately, our mid-November visit meant the ride was outfitted for Christmas, and played not only that most-dreaded song but a Christmas carol in alternating blasts—and sometimes in tandem. The usually charming children were all but hidden behind blinking, glimmering, aggressively-featured holiday decorations. Add all that visual and audio busyness to chilling blasts of air to simulate snowfall, and it’s the perfect recipe for SPD meltdowns.

Oh, yes. We were “that family” on the Small World ride. The family with the shrieking kid who just won’t shut up? That’s us.

I got Curlytop to agree to board a carousel—on the condition that we’d sit on a bench, not a moving horse—only to have her burst into tears as the music started, resulting in an emergency disembarkation.

The crowds, smells, larger-than-life cartoon characters, noise, lights and general chaos of Disneyland must have felt like the equivalent of a straight-to-video horror flick for my girls. I’m ashamed to say I drank the Disney kool-aid, and never considered my children would be anything but thrilled to see Mickey’s stomping grounds.

The next day of our vacation was exceptional, by comparison. We hit Knott’s Berry Farm, with its old-school, carnival-type rides and games. The park lacks the hologram-filled adventure rides of Disneyland, but Curlytop and Snugglebug loved “driving” race cars and semi-trucks around a tiny track without sensory assault, and were perfectly content to hang at Camp Snoopy for hours.

Plus? It’s half the price of Disneyland.

While the little girls played with Mr. Wright, the older girls and I embarked on a quest to ride every rollercoaster in the park. While Princess loves a good ‘coaster, she’s a bit more selective than the rest of us—no vertical drops, and no rocket launches.

That put her on snack patrol with Curlytop and Snugglebug, while Mr. Wright begrudgingly agreed to be my seatmate while Pepper rode with GirlWonder on the Xcelerator—a ‘coaster which starts like a pinball machine, pulling the car back, then launching it at 82 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds to a height of 205 feet, then drops essentially straight down before hitting two overbanked turns and gliding to a stop. To top it off, it’s pink. It looks for all the world like the Barbie Dream ‘Coaster—not an encouraging thought.

Xcelerator at dusk.

It was amazing, and no one soiled their pants.

The coup de grâce was the notorious GhostRider wooden rollercoaster, which my fellow junkies and I waited two hours in line to board, due to a sudden cloudburst. Apparently, the ride can’t be run in the rain and, while we love a good shot of adrenaline, we’re more than happy to leave such judgments to the professionals. We’d like to stay on the track, and make it to the end in one piece, thank you very much.

It was dark by the time we finally boarded our car. Riding the rails in the dark made the experience even more exhilarating, and sealed our status as Knott’s devotees.

The drive back home to Washington featured a near-brawl in a supermarket parking lot, a highway flooded with spilled port-a-potties, sing-a-longs to Fleetwood Mac, carsickness, drive-thrus, and 1,100 miles of memories I wouldn’t trade for a month of Disney.

Eat your heart out, Mickey… The happiest place on earth is where is my family is.

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Things I Accidentally Taught My Kids

Curlytop, age 15 months
"Shhhh, Mama... you've said enough, already."

I’m the proud mother of two of the best little mimics on the planet. That means Curlytop and Snugglebug say, “No, thank you,” when they actually mean, “Not if my life depended on it,” and “Bless you,” for coughs as well as sneezes—because their mother believes a coughing body needs as many blessings as a sneezing one. Instead of “I hate that,” they dutifully respond, “That’s not my favorite,” when offered a food they don’t care for.

Unfortunately, they’ve also picked up some rather curious lingual patterns.

They’ve confused more than one waitress by expressly requesting a “cow burger,” because I feel it’s important for them to know hamburgers are made from cows, not from ham. They’ll also vocalize their preference for either “cow milk” or “soy milk,” depending on the kid, the day, or the mood.

Neither of my darlings actually knows how to “pet” an animal, but they routinely ask, “May I ‘softly’ the kitty?” due to my repeated cries of “Softly! Softly!” every time they reach for an animal.

I had no idea how deeply my chronic migraines were affecting my kids until I asked Curlytop to pick her dirty clothes up from the floor and she refused, claiming, “I need to lie down in the dark, ‘cause my head is making me sick. You just need to leave me alone and be quiet, okay?”

Ever vigilant of the girls’ sensitivity to food dye, I had a proud moment a few weeks ago when Curlytop refused a red lollipop from a bank teller, saying, “I’m allergic to Red Dye 40. Do you have a yellow one?”

This morning, Snugglebug disagreed with me about the best use of her time. I suggested she put her dirty cup in the sink, before she wanted to play outside. Tears ensued. “That makes me very, very serious,” she insisted. This, my friends, was the moment I realized I only say, “Listen to me—I’m serious!” when I am, in fact, running out of patience and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. My poor kid thinks “serious” is a synonym for “ticked off, and about to boil in my own rage.”

I got another dose of my own medicine the other day when I denied Curlytop a sixth gumdrop, and the enraged kindergartner fired my own words back at me—“Don’t you tell me ‘no.’ That’s not a nice way to talk!” In my defense, I was a bartender for years, and I’m well aware of the signs of over-service. The kid had reached her gumdrop limit, and probably should have been cut off after the third.

Some kids relish the thought of an adventure, but no phrase will ruin Snugglebug’s day like hearing, “You’re going on an adventure with Daddy!” Somewhere along the way, she figured out “adventure” is code for “a very long day, cooped up in the car while Daddy takes pictures of property for his real estate business.” I’m a fan of deductive reasoning, but do they have to learn so quickly?

I overheard Curlytop cry, “Are you kidding me?!” the other day when a crayon broke while she was coloring. I’ll confess to being the source of that phrase of frustration—one I adopted only after Mr. Wright insisted I stop using more colorful exclamations within earshot of the children.

Last week the girls were playing with their dolls in an adjacent room, and I heard the sounds of an imagined family scene—a mother making food, a father working, children playing… It wasn’t long before the mother doll’s “voice” instructed the children, “You don’t have to like your food, but you do have to eat TWO BITES before you can leave the table,” closely followed by, “I am NOT impressed with that behavior.”

It turns out I’m not the only role model around here.

A couple weeks ago, Snugglebug said, “When I get big, I want to have a big, big tummy… Just like Daddy!”

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I Mean This in the Nicest Way Possible

The pen is said to be mightier than the sword,
but that doesn't mean I'm not tempted to test the theory.
Photo source

The deadline for Sweet and Simple Vegan Desserts, the vegan dessert cookbook I’m co-authoring with international best-selling author William Maltese is growing nearer. I’m actually not even sure when the deadline is, because I’m afraid to review my publishing contract. For some reason, though, “August” is written in bright red letters across my brain.

Mr. Editor once advised me, “No one cares that you’re writing.” At first, I thought he meant no one cared what I’d written. As my hate mail file clearly demonstrates, that is not the case. What he meant is no one—including, and perhaps especially so, my husband and kids—sees me banging away on my keyboard, with beads of perspiration running down my face, and thinks, “Wow! She’s really busy. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt her.”

Um, no.

As far as I can tell, the sight of me typing on my netbook triggers an irrational, desperate, and immediate need for my young children to start an un-caged cage match, and for Mr. Wright to be mysteriously unavailable to send the fighters to their respective corners. Strangely, my tappity-tap-tap is also the signal for Mr. Wright to start unloading every small bit of trivial news from his brain.

“Did you read what Johnny Whosit posted on Facebook this morning?”

“No, Honey. I didn’t,” I sigh. “I’m sort of working, here.”

“Oh, well, he was just commenting on how the House Republicans need to blah, blah, blah-ity blah…”

“Mmmmhmmm…” Tappity-tap-tap.

“…and so I said, blah, blah, blah-ity, blah-ing blahblahblah. Pretty good comeback, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” TAPPITY-TAP-TAP. “Hey, could you pull Snugglebug off Curlytop? I think she’s starting to draw blood.”

Mr. Editor is right. No one cares that I’m writing. My amazing, generous, talented, handsome and patient co-author, on the other hand, certainly cares that I’m NOT writing. Sweet William doesn’t have seven children, or a very-cute-but-slightly-oblivious husband, so he doesn’t fully understand that when I said, “I’ll write a cookbook with you,” I actually meant, “I’ll attempt to bang out 140 pages while working in the domestic equivalent of a demilitarized zone, with chaos erupting on every side of me.”


Frankly (and I mean this in the nicest way possible), I want my family to shut their ever-loving mouths, get out of my personal space, and for crying out loud in the dark— let me write.

No, Mommy won’t open the pool for you, because her battery is low, and her extension cord won’t reach that far.

No, Mr. Wright, I wasn’t planning on making dinner, and yes, I was actually expecting you to feed yourself and the kids.

I’ll just have coffee, thanks.

I’m sorry you’re having trouble figuring out how to update your social media sites, Dear, but you’re just going to have to figure it out, like the rest of the world. I’m not your personal social media guru. Believe it or not, I’m an author—or, at least, trying to be one. Last time I checked, authors actually write books.

Yes, Mommy would love to play “princess” with you, as long as she gets to be the poor princess trapped in a tower by the evil queen. The game is even better if the evil queen forces her to make words with a mystical electronic device. Throw in a curse that doesn’t allow anyone to talk to the princess, tug on her arm, or try to climb in her lap, and we have mutual acceptance on the deal.

I considered running away to a cabin in the woods, Thoreau-style, but realized it’s difficult to write a cookbook without a proper kitchen, and considerably more so without power.

A hotel room with a full kitchen is outside my budget, what with the cost of vegan powdered sugar and all. I have a friend in Sandpoint, Idaho who offered to let me stay with her to finish the book, but she’s allergic to gluten, and I’d hospitalize her with my beignets and brownies—not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to co-author a book of “killer” vegan desserts.

What’s a writer mama to do, besides tappity-tap-tap—“Stop choking your sister!”—tap?

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A Bit Rash, Don't You Think?

Photo source

If you’re a longtime reader of The Gonzo Mama, you know I’m cursed with the most sensitive skin on the planet. You also know Mr. Wright is a bit—um—“frugal.” Throw those two circumstances into a shaker, add ice, and you have the makings for a Marital Murder Martini, straight up. All you need to do is toss it into the spin cycle.

As I may have mentioned, we’re moving. The home we’re moving into was previously set up as a vacation rental—it has four bedrooms, a pool, and a hot tub. Who wouldn’t want to vacation in such a haven? Well, us. We want to live in it, all the time. The owners are out-of-state. What that means for us is, in addition to moving all our things in, we also have to move all the previous instruments of comfort and convenience out.

Mr. Wright found some powdered detergent in a decorative glass jar in the laundry room. Obviously, the mystery powder couldn’t just be thrown out! After all, it was FREE, and in Mr. Wright’s world, that’s an acronym for Found, Ready, Easy and Economical. So, he washed a load of towels. He washed a couple loads of the kids’ clothes; a load of his clothes; and a load of my clothes, including my favorite boy-cut chonies, yoga pants, t-shirts and socks. Essentially, my loving launderer ensured that every particle of fabric coming into contact with my skin this week was clean—and toxic.

At first, I thought it was my new after-shower moisturizer. I’ve launched a new in-home party business (“I sell bath, beauty, and bedroom accessories. And by 'bedroom accessories,' I don't mean nightstand lamps.”), and my favorite product is to be sprayed over the entire body after showering and rubbed in, for all-day hydration of the skin. There I was, faithfully spraying and rubbing every day, even as the bumps began to appear. I checked the label, carefully reading the ingredients, and didn’t see any obvious triggers, but I stopped my daily ritual, just in case.

The moisturizing, I mean, not the showering.

A couple days later, my skin had morphed into dry, scaly patches. “No wonder,” I thought. “I haven’t been moisturizing!” I dug some sensitive-skin lotion out of a yet-unpacked box and greased myself up, the way Mom used to slap butter onto sheets of cinnamon roll dough before rolling them up in her old bakery. It wasn’t my sweet-scented, pheromone-laced favorite, but surely the lotion would lock in some moisture.

By the end of the day, the hives began populating. Around the same time, Snugglebug shed her clothes, complaining, “Mommy, I hurt. And my tummy has red dye on it.” Snugglebug and her sister, Curlytop, are both allergic to Red 40, a common food additive, and they’ve been trained to spot suspect products. “No, thank you; that has red dye,” is a common refrain.

Poor Snugglebug’s belly was covered in raised red patches, rivaling her mama’s. Indeed, it looked as if she’d been sprinkled with red dye. She may be adopted, but there’s no doubt she’s mine. My little four-year-old hadn’t yet discovered the miracle of after-shower moisturizers, so I was left scratching my head—and every other imaginable body part.

I’ll spare you the details.

It was a few long, itchy hours before Mr. Wright got home. He walked in the door, wrapped his arms around me, and drew me in for what would have been a passionate hug, had I not screamed, "Don’t TOUCH meeeeee!” It was a fiery, burning embrace, and not in a good way. Every cell of my skin was ablaze—and angry. Taken aback, and deprived of his wife’s back, Mr. Wright retreated to the room I most love to see him in: the laundry room.

I tried to muster an apology as he sorted clothes into the washing machine. Then, I watched as he dipped a measuring cup into an unmarked glass jar, scooped out some powder, and loaded it into the washer’s detergent cup. “What brand is that?” I asked. Mr. Wright shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I shed my clothes—an act which usually inspires a favorable response from my husband. This time, his reaction bordered on disgust.

“Yuck,” he managed. “Have you been moisturizing properly?”


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You Know You're a Great Role Model When...

I've been trying to get across to the members of my family that Curlytop and Snugglebug are like over-sized camcorders these days. Anything we say or do is likely to be played back for us by one of our little cinematographers - most likely at the most humiliating or improper moment.

So far, this has included choice phrases uttered by adults and teens in the household (not terribly appropriate for either set, and definitely inappropriate coming out of the mouth of a kindergarten student). Sometimes, it includes an interesting pose or gesture.

Sometimes, it includes both.

Yesterday, Snugglebug walked up behind Curlytop, grabbed her sister's posterior and declared, "Ooooh... that's NICE!"

Pepper and I stared at Snuggle in disbelief, then looked at each other. "Did she just do what I think she did?" Pepper asked. I nodded. "Where did she learn THAT?" Pepper wondered aloud as I explained to Snugglebug we don't do that and it's not okay and her sister's bottom is her sister's bottom, and we don't touch it.

I knew the answer, of course, but Pepper confirmed it when her father came home, entered the kitchen, kissed my cheek and copped a squeeze. "Ooooh... that's NICE!" he announced to everyone within earshot and a decent line of vision.

Then, he scooped up the four-year old attached to my leg.

Where did she learn that, indeed?

Soup, Interrupted

The code word... Do I have to spell it out for you?
Photo source

When Mr. Wright and I were cultivating our first crop of kids, we crafted a code word for Grown-Up Time: soup. As in, “If we can get all the laundry done, the dishes washed, the kids to all their appointments, dinner made, and I can get a shower today, there’s a microscopically slim chance I’ll feel up to having soup for dessert after the wee ones go to bed.”

Last night was one of those rare nights when the stars aligned, and Mr. Wright and I set about preparing the ingredients for a steamy batch of soup.

Just as things were about to come to a rolling boil, we heard the distinct sound of a pair of children’s’ size almost-nine feet stumbling up the stairs to our loft bedroom. “Go on without me!” Mr. Wright cried, but there simply wasn’t time.

Snugglebug crested the top of the stairs, crossed the room, climbed onto the bed and wedged herself between us. Sometimes she arrives half-asleep and conks back out quickly, and Mr. Wright can carry her back downstairs to her own bed.

Last night was not one of those times.

She was wide-awake, and talking up a storm. “Mommy, that’s GirlWonder’s phone. She really, really wants it.” (We’d just implemented a new plan to get the kids to sleep better – collecting their phones at bedtime so they aren’t up all night, texting. Genius, right?) “Daddy, it’s dark in here. We need to turn on the light!” It was well after midnight, and she was running a verbal marathon.

“We need to watch a movie!” Snugglebug announced.

Mr. Wright scooped her into his arms, suggesting a movie would, indeed, be delightful – downstairs, in her own bedroom. Snugglebug resisted, throwing her head into his shoulder in protest, resulting in blood gushing from her tiny nose.

Now, before you call in a report to Children’s Services – and if you’ve known my family for any length of time, I’m sure you have them on speed-dial – I must disclose that Snugglebug gets a bloody nose every time she sticks a finger in her nose, sneezes, or simply looks at herself too long in the mirror.

As Mr. Wright rushed into the bathroom – Snugglebug still in his arms – for the haz-mat material (a.k.a. toilet paper), I fetched the vessel-constricting nasal spray and handed it over to Mr. Wright. This is a modus operandi which takes place a few times a week and changes only in which parent holds the toilet paper to her nose and which retrieves the spray.

There are times, as an adoptive mother, I marvel at how much like me my kids actually are, thus settling firmly in my mind certain portions of the nature-versus-nurture mystery. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Snugglebug is my child by the phrases she uttered during our late-night nosebleed adventure:

“I can NOT do this anymore!”

“Daddy, it makes me sad when you do the nose spray. It hurts my feelings!”

“NEVER AGAIN. Do you understand? I never want this to happen again.”

She cried. She whimpered. Finally, blessedly, she stopped bleeding. By that time, it was pretty much a given that she wasn’t going to go back to sleep in her own room, which was fine – the moment for soup-making had long passed, anyway.

With Snugglebug cuddled between us, Mr. Wright and I marveled at how much she’d grown since we brought the six-pound, three-ounce five-day-old wonder home. “I’m sorry about missing the soup,” I whispered. I really, really was. You have no idea how sorry I was unless, of course, you have seven or more kids yourself. In that case, you know all too well the sense of loss I felt.

“There’ll be other soup,” he assured me. “I wouldn’t change a thing about our lives.”

I agreed with him as Snugglebug began to drift off to sleep. “I wouldn’t change a thing, either.” We smiled at one another and he reached over our youngest miracle to hold my hand as the sound of children’s size-eleven feet echoed up the stairwell and Curlytop’s ginger-colored ringlets found a pillow to rest upon.

Naïveté at the Nativity - Revisited

This is one of my favorite holiday posts, because it demonstrates so perfectly the dynamics of my family. In fact, it may just become an annual post. Enjoy, and please feel free to share your holiday program mishaps... You know, so I don't feel so dysfunctional and whatnot.

My kids make up eighty percent of the children and youth in our church, so there’s little question that they will be cast in the Christmas production each year. The competition for roles is—what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yes… “nonexistent.” In fact, it’s not unusual for a single child to play two or thirteen different roles in each year’s program.

In 2006, a three-month-old Snugglebug made her stage debut as baby Jesus. During rehearsals, we’d placed her in the wooden manger (filled with shredded paper instead of hay, due to her asthma) several times so that she wouldn’t be startled by the sensation. There was some discussion of a song that would be sung during the manger scene, but we never ran the scene with the music. Our director said things like, “This is where everyone is gathered around baby Jesus in the manger. Is the baby in the manger? Okay. Now, there will be music here, so everyone will just be still and look at the baby, okay? Okay! When the music is over, the curtains will close, and the baby can come out of the manger.”

We actually didn’t hear the music until the performance. Mr. Wright and I were backstage, assisting with costume changes. There were many. Shepherds became angels who became sheep who became shepherds, and so on. Snugglebug was napping in her infant carrier, and I held out hope that she’d stay that way through her big scene. Naturally, just before her cue, she woke up, hungry and fussy.

A volley of urgent whispering took place behind the drawn curtain, with Princess (“Mary”) asking, “What do I do? She’s crying. I can’t take her out there while she’s crying,” and me thrusting a bottle into her hand and directing her to “wing it.”

Nestled into the manger with Princess holding the bottle for her, Snugglebug calmed down, and no one even brought up the anachronistic use of the plastic bottle that fed the infant savior. Then, the song started. It was “What Child is This?” With two verses down and just the slightest discontent stirrings from Snugglebug, I thought we were in the clear. I prepared for the curtain to close, planning to whisk her offstage before she let loose with any serious wailing, but the music went on. And on. There must be thirty-seven verses of “What Child is This?” that I have never heard.

Snugglebug began making the small whimpering sound I recognized as the prelude to full-volume, fist-clenching, rage-filled screaming. Mr. Wright heard it, too. We looked at each other. “What do we do?” we mouthed.

As luck would have it, I married a genius. Mr. Wright grabbed a pair of donkey ears from the pile of costume accessories, put them on, and entered the stage. What’s one more donkey, in a manger scene?

It did raise a few eyebrows when the large donkey stole the baby Jesus from the manger, but I’m sure the wisemen would have called in an Amber Alert if they truly thought there was cause for alarm.

This year, Curlytop and Snugglebug couldn’t wait for their cue to enter as angels and followed “Joseph” and “Mary” on the road to Jerusalem. “Oh, look!” a chuckling Joseph ad-libbed. “The Lord has sent guardian angels to watch over us on our journey. God is so good!”

The unscripted guardian angels appeared in several scenes, including the manger scene. When Snugglebug saw her Cabbage Patch doll resting in the wooden trough, she shouted, “That’s not baby Jesus!” over the playing of “Mary Did You Know?” With haste, our precious cherub yanked the doll from the manger and tossed it across the stage.

Taking note of the empty manger, Curlytop pulled off her wings and crawled inside. “I’m not baby Jesus,” she announced to those who may have been confused. “I’m not an angel now. I’m a little girl. I’m gonna use the baby Jesus bed, okay?”

In fact, the only scene Curlytop and Snugglebug didn’t participate in was the Choir of Angels scene they were cast in. Instead, they ran, screaming, down the aisles of the church. It’s tough raising divas.

Call me naïve. Call me an optimist. Call me out of touch with reality. The fact is, the church Christmas program only happens once a year. That means I have ample time to forget everything that went wrong with the previous year’s program, and get excited about the current year’s performance.

Merry Christmas, and may the Lord richly bless you in the coming year!

Beware the Kindergarten Teacher

Curlytop woke up excited this morning. She knew today she'd be starting kindergarten.

Bring on the recess and school lunches!

It's been a long, hard road, readers. Curlytop spent last year as the only preschooler not potty trained and, while we suspected she had the ability to go diaper-free, she was sadly lacking in desire.

We finally resorted to bribery and outright lies to get her out of her pull-ups and into panties: We told her she couldn't start kindergarten if she went potty in her pants. Somehow, it was the motivation she needed. She hopped up on the toilet, did her business, flushed, and exclaimed, "I get to go to kindergarten, now!" And so it went, all summer long.

I'm wearing panties. No, you can't see them.

To tell the truth, I'm relieved that school finally started, because I feared she'd start backsliding with her backside care if she heard "Soon, Sweetheart, soon" one more blessed time.

She has no idea how we've manipulated her. I say it's worth it.

Snugglebug will be commencing preschool this month, but it doesn't start until the 20th. Poor Snuggles was miffed to learn that she wouldn't be catching the big yellow bus today with her sister. Suddenly, the excitement about school took an ugly turn...

"I'm going to kindergarten, Snugglebug!" said Curlyop.

"I go to preschool," Snugglebug countered.

"No," I corrected. "Not today, Snugglebug. Your school isn't open, yet."

*glare from Snugglebug*

"But my school is open!" Thanks, Curlytop. Twist the knife, why don't you?

"You not like kinnergarben, Curlytop. It make you cwy (cry). Your teacher will bite you and kick you and make you bleed. You will bleed, and come home 'cause you'll need a band-aid. Kinnergarben is not nice, Curlytop!"

Left behind, and a bit bitter about it, too.

Huh. High marks for creativity and detail, but where on Earth did she get that idea?

Nonetheless, Curly remained excited and giddy about starting kindergarten, in her big girl panties, this morning.

She's adorable. Who's the haggard mommy-type with her?

She really is a bit of a masochist.

“My Dad has a Yacht of Girls”

Curlytop and Snugglebug have made great strides in their language development since we first consulted with a speech therapist over three years ago. Still, there are some words they use which can only be understood by family; and Curlytop still serves as a Snugglebug-to-English translator all too often.

Music Store Bob’s wife, Brenda, watched the girls one night while Waterdog, the band featuring Bob and Mr. Wright, played a local venue. She commented on the girls’ speech patterns, likening it to “twin speak.” Even though Curlytop and Snugglebug are thirteen months apart, they function pretty much like twins, and they do appear to have words that they use exclusively with one another. This phenomenon of secret or made-up language is called “idioglossia.” When it occurs in twins, it’s known as “cryptophasia.”

Some of their speech, though, is just difficult to understand. They’re speaking English, but the average listener can’t decipher it. Since I’m their mom, I consider myself to be an above average listener, and I’m often able to simultaneously translate for the listener as the words come out of my girls’ mouths.

For example, “chex monks” are not cereal friars, but chipmunks. “Hizzards” are scissors, but the singular form, “hizzard” is a lizard. A “jam witch” is a sandwich, whether or not it’s made with jam (which is actually “jwelly”); though it’s often made with “pea gut bunner.”

Toward the end of the month, the girls eat a lot of pea gut bunner jam witches, but when payday comes around, they’re living high on the hog with pea gut bunner and jwelly jam witches.

A “cow; oaty” is obviously a coyote, and “a yacht” is simply a phrase meaning many; a lot. Therefore, the statement “My dad has a yacht of girls” really just refers to his five daughters, who don’t even come close to filling up a yacht – not that we have one to fill, anyway.

Then, too, are the words that are spoken plainly, but signify something other than their original meaning. A “princess” is a dress, no matter the royal status or title of the young lady wearing it. “Cow,” not to be confused with “cow; oaty,” refers to beef or anything resembling it and intended for consumption. A “wiggle” is any skirt that provides a beautiful swish when the wearer wiggles her groove thang, and “break-uh-ull” (breakable) refers to anything they aren’t allowed to touch.

Okay, maybe that last one is my fault.

I’ve provided my little ones with many terms that have become commonplace in their language, such as “coffee,” which indicates any beverage Mommy is allowed to drink but they aren’t (I thought “Southern Comfort” a little too formal) and “working,” which is anything Mommy is doing at the computer that she doesn’t want interrupted.

Because, you know, “Facebook” is a pretty complex concept to explain to a preschooler.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kygp/2868456244

My Mother had Magical Balls

When I was a child, my mother drank. A lot.

While I may be tempted to assign blame for my Southern Comfort habit to dear Mom, her choice of beverage was loose tea, which she brewed in little stainless steel balls. The balls in question had screw-on tops and small holes to allow the steeped tea to escape while keeping the leaves inside. The finishing - and ultimate - touch was a small chain from the top that ended with a tiny hook to slip over the edge of the tea cup while suspending the ball in hot water.

They were magical, those balls. If I was good, I got to play with them, grasping the hooks between my small fingers and swinging them above my head like medieval weapons. They were also excellent for hiding small objects inside. I'm sure Mom delighted in finding rocks, leaves and other such childhood treasures each time she set about brewing a cup of tea.

Mom had all sorts of tricks and rewards for keeping my brother and me on our best behavior. One of my favorites was being allowed to strum a wooden spoon over a baker's cooling rack while Mom was busy in the kitchen. For extra-special behavior, we might be allowed to beat on a saucepan with a rubber spatula.

I tried it with Curlytop and Snugglebug. They beat each other with the wooden spoons.

Another of Mom's tricks was the Goodness Cup. In reality, I believe it was an orphan from a punchbowl set that Mom scored at a rummage sale, but I can't be sure because the cut glass sparkled like every young girl's fantasy, and it may well have been made entirely of diamonds.

The idea behind the Goodness Cup was that whichever kid was the most kindhearted, the most compliant, the most sweet during the day got to drink from the cup during dinnertime. At least, that was the theory. I don't remember ever drinking from the cup, but I do remember the wrestling matches that took place between Bubba and me when Mom announced who won the evening's Goodness Cup. When the fight broke out, the cup would return to the cupboard, never touching a child's lip.

Kids today are different. They all have cooler stuff than me... what would they want with my tea strainer, when they have handheld video game machines and mp3 players?

What kind of mom am I? There's nothing left to bribe grace them with.

Photo: Young Gonzo Mama with brother, Bubba. Angelic, aren't we?

Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake (Recipe)

I've had many requests for my prized vegan cake recipes from fellow vegans - and from friends who are looking for cholesterol-free desserts. Did you check your calendar today? Because today's the day I'm going to give away my top-secret recipe for my never-fail Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake!

This recipe makes one tall, decadent 8-9" round:

1 2/3 c. all-purpose flour
1 c. packed brown sugar or evaporated cane juice crystals
1/4 c. cocoa powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 t. loose chai tea
1 c. water
1/3 c. olive or canola oil
1 t. apple cider vinegar
1 t. vanilla

1/2 c. dairy-free chocolate chips (Did you know Kroger Value Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips are dairy-free and amazingly cheap? I get them at Fred Meyer!)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients and mix. Add wet ingredients and beat on high with mixer for 2 minutes or beat 150 strokes by hand.

Pour into greased 8-9" round cake pan. (Note: I cut a circle of wax paper and place it in the bottom of the pan to help it come out of the pan easily. I highly recommend you do so, too. This recipe doesn't have any eggs to bind it, so the wax paper helps the bottom of the cake stay together when it's warm.) Sprinkle chocolate chips over top of batter before placing in oven.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, or until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean.

Let cool in pan for 15 minutes, then turn out onto a cooling rack. Wait another 15 minutes, then turn right-side up onto a pretty plate.

This sweet cake needs no frosting, but you may dust with powdered sugar, if desired.

Photo: Snugglebug and Curlytop love helping make this cake. They ALMOST get as many chocolate chips on the cake as they do in their mouths!

A Girl and Her Dog... Meat?

In our house, the source of meat is no secret. Mighty, mighty hunter that he is, Mr. Wright is very forthcoming with the kids about what they're eating. Plus, our kids visited the Angus in our freezer, back when it still walked the pastures of Bullet Bob, our friend and proprietor of Gyurkovics Ranch and Wedding Chapel. Bullet Bob married me and Mr. Wright (to each other, of course).

Snugglebug and Curlytop describe meat by the animal it came from. "Daddy, I want some cow," or "I want more deer, please." It's enough to turn a vegan mama's stomach. I used to wonder how the girls would respond when we got to the point in our Native American heritage studies where we discussed whale hunting, but now I just worry about how I will explain it without crying.

Curlytop's speech therapy has paid off in a huge way. We're so proud of her! She's speaking in complete sentences and using vivid, active words to describe what she sees and feels. There are still a few phrases she gets mixed up on, like instead of saying, "I want to show you something," she says, "I want you to show me something." We continue to work hard every day.

This morning, as Mr. Wright cut up a roast to put in the crock pot, Curlytop stood on her toes to see over the counter and asked a question. I was sure I'd either heard her wrong or she had some words confused, so I asked her to repeat herself.

Sure enough, she said again, "Daddy, is that meat of puppies?"

"No, Sweetie. It's cow."

"Oh. Not puppies? I want some cow!"

"Okay, but we have to cook it first, alright?"

Curlytop shrugged. "O...kay," she pouted. Mommy's little barbarian.

I got Curlytop off to school and pulled Snugglebug into my lap while I fired up my computer. When chaotic mornings allow, I find I actually like working with her sitting between my arms while I type. "Mom, I love you," she said as she got comfortable. Awwww... those heartstrings pull to the point of breaking, sometimes!

I should have known she was just buttering me up because she wanted something.

Snugglebug pulled off both of her socks and turned herself so she could put her feet in my face. "I want piggies," she said. Please understand, in my world, This Little Piggy goes a little differently than some of you may remember:

This little piggy went to the farmers' market;
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate tofu (not "toe food");
This little piggy had naan.
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

As the girls have grown up a bit, I've begun letting them choose their own piggy adventures. I start the story for each piggy, and let the girls finish. Today's piggies went like this, with my part in italics, and Snugglebug's in bold:

This little piggy went to... the new house!
This little piggy stayed... at the new house!
This little piggy ate... PUPPIES!
This little piggy had... PUPPIES!
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

Was there a butcher's special on puppy meat? Should I be concerned that piggies are having puppies? Our dogs are beginning to look a little nervous, and Kobi just asked me to double-check his AKC lineage.


Oh, have I mentioned you can pre-order my book now, and save tax and shipping? Do it because you love me.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/josefnovak33/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0