The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

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And that’s why Speech Pathologists are bad mofos.

Today was Bucket Head’s first day of Speech Therapy for the new school year.

It seems like just yesterday he was referred for a speech screening… the day I accidentally wore two pairs of underpants to church. Ah, good times. And let’s not forgot the IEP last year where I made all those dick jokes. There must be a special place in Heaven for Speech Pathologists who have to work with the children of parents like me.

I’m thrilled that he is going to get the help he needs, but I’m also sad at the thought of losing his adorable little Bucket Headisms. That kid sure does make us giggle (secretly) with his unique way of speaking.

It will be good though when he stops saying things like:

“I wanna rape.” (Which means “I want a grape.”)

“I yuv cheese dicks.” (“I love cheese sticks.”)

And my personal favorite:

“May I have a douche bag?” (“May I have a juice bag?”)

Bucket Head’s Speech Therapist is my new hero. She’s so sweet and positive and patient…with both of us.

And the more I’m exposed to it, the more I’m convinced that you have to be a pretty bad mofo to be a good Speech Pathologist.

Not only do they have to frequently work with unstable parents, but also, they have some of the coolest and most dangerous lingo you’ll hear in an educational setting.

Take my sweet little Bucket Head, for instance. The phonological processes he is in need of help with are:

Cluster Reduction
In Speech Pathology, that’s what you call it when someone reduces the number of sounds in a blend, like saying “ream” instead of “dream” or “wack” instead of “black.” This can be a dangerous speech impairment, particularly if one lives near the ‘hood and/or near overprivileged suburban white kids who speak in an urban dialect for show. For instance, saying “That boy’s shirt is wack,” could be misinterpreted as a dis which could lead to violence.

Personally, I would like to use the term cluster reduction in regards to my extended family life, which can often be one big cluster f*ck, particularly after adult beverages have been consumed. So now you’ll know what I mean when you hear me say “Shoot y’all, we need some cluster reduction up in huuuur,” at the next Beard Family Reunion.

Fronting
To a Speech Pathologist, this means that a sound that is normally made with the middle of the tongue in contact with the palate towards the back of the mouth like /k/ or /g/, is replaced with a consonant produced at the front of the mouth like /t/ or /d/. Bucket Head says “titty” instead of “kitty.” That’s always a real crowd pleaser.

However, in other circles, “fronting” means you are acting like you are more, or you have more than what really exists. As in “Prudence wore those fake Chanel earrings like she was made of money, but that bitch was straight up fronting.”

If you are a Speech Pathologist in an urban area and you tell a parent that their child is “fronting,” you better be prepared for a response like this:

 

and,

Gliding

In Speech Pathology, “gliding” means someone replaces the “liquid” consonants /l/ and /r/ with /w/ or ‘y’. So when Bucket Head says “I yuv yickin’ yemons, Mommy,” he is gliding his liquid consonants.

However, according to the Urban Dictionary, “gliding” is short for “glidin’ dirty,” an unhygienic form of “homie gliding,” which is defined as a sexual act between two male heterosexual friends, usually involving alcohol, lubrication, and too much free time.

Thus, I would strongly encourage Speech Pathologists in urban settings to avoid using the term “gliding” at all. Mmmmkay?

Just something to thing about.

Now go hug a Speech Pathologist! They deserve it!

Signing off, without a lisp, thanks to MY speech therapist many moons ago,

-Leslie

Have you hugged an SPL professional today? They have one of the most gangsta jobs in any school setting. Read why one suburban mom thinks Speech Pathologists are such bad mofos!

© Copyright 2011, Leslie Marinelli, The Bearded Iris. All rights reserved.


Aw, nuts. Or, how puppies and testicles are related.

 

My five-year-old son just discovered his testicles.

photo of my son bucket head after he made an exciting discovery (his testicles)

It all started with a routine trip to the local dog park. There was a beautiful grey Pit Bull Terrier there who was unneutered. Every time he ran past us, my son Bucket Head would giggle, point, and enthusiastically blurt “Look at those things hanging from his butt! He’s got butt-hangers! That’s silly!”

It was very entertaining to the guy sharing our bench. He and I sheepishly made eye contact and I shrugged my shoulders as in “He’s five. What am I gonna do?”

Butt-hangers. That’s a new one. I made a mental note to tell my husband so we could laugh about it later.

Now, it is a widely known fact that I enjoy making up new words for genitals possibly more than anything else in life, but when it comes to my kids, I’m a stickler for proper anatomical verbiage. Never underestimate the power of pretty teeth and a good vocabulary. Just imagine the reaction Michigan House Rep. Lisa Brown would have gotten if she had referred to her “vagizness” or “goody basket.” Not kosher.

Yes, I was bound and determined for Bucket Head to learn the correct terminology for his fruit salad. So later that night, during Bucket Head’s bath, I reminded him of the Pit Bull and his silly “butt-hangers,” and then said “You know, you’ve got those too. They’re called ‘testicles.’”

“WHAT?! I have butt-hangers like that dog at the park?!” His face snapped away with a bang and his eyes immediately focused in on his happy place.

“Yes honey, all boys do. Your brother and Daddy do too. And they’re called testicles, not butt-hangers.

“I thought that was called my penis,” he replied, confused.

“No, your penis is the thing you pee from and your testicles hang down under your penis…they’re in that wrinkly thingy which is actually called a scrotum.”

“Oh, you mean my lumpy things?” he asked as he grabbed his little nutsack and attempted to yank if off to examine it more closely.

“Dude – be careful with that thing!” I cautioned. “I want grandchildren someday!”

Unfazed, his neurons started to fire. I could see the proverbial lightbulb appearing above his curly little head. I could also sense that his mouth and his brain weren’t on the same page. That happens a lot due to his speech impairment. “But Mom? Ike (our dog) is a boy and he doesn’t have cuticles.”

“Testicles.”

“Where are Ike’s tentacles.”

Testicles. They’re called testicles, honey. We had them removed when he was a puppy.”

“WHAT? Why?” (the horror!)

“Because we didn’t want him to make puppies with other dogs.”

“THOSE BUTT-HANGERS TURN INTO PUPPIES?!”

{OMG} “Testicles, and no. But dogs who don’t have butt-hangers, I mean testicles, can’t make puppies.”

I don’t think he heard that last part though because he had commenced kneading his scrotum like a flesh colored foam stress ball. I wasn’t sure if I should turn my back and give him some privacy, smack his hand away and tell him to “drop it,” or start searching WebMD for emergency testicle rupture advice.

The next few days were touch and go…literally. Bucket Head was absolutely riveted by his newfound anatomy. I honestly think he was watching his gooch closely to see if it would morph into a small litter of puppies.

At one point I had to pull him aside and gently direct that he go and explore his testicles in the privacy of his own room or in the bathroom behind a closed door. He was fine with that.

The next morning, Bucket Head walked by my husband with a look of determination on his little face. “Where are you going?” his Daddy asked.

“I’m just going upstairs to explore my testicles.”

“Okay. Thanks for the update.”

My husband immediately came to find me. “Did you know that Bucket Head is going upstairs to explore his testicles?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. He’s totally into his junk now.”

“Oh. Okay. How’d that come up?”

“He saw an unneutered dog at the park the other day. He’s been obsessed ever since. I’m trying to encourage him to stop dropping trou in public.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh—and honey? If he sees you naked, he might think he’s getting a puppy.”

******

This isn’t the first time Bucket Head has let his freak flag fly around dogs. If you liked this post, you should definitely read about the phase he went through last summer.

Welcome to Funky Town, population: ME.

Have you ever unwittingly rounded the corner in your own home only to discover one of your children doing something SO stinkin’ cute you thought your heart would pop right out of your chest and roll down the hallway?

If you are a parent, you surely have. Even if your babies are the fur baby variety, this is probably a familiar scenario. Right?

And of course, you never have a video camera rolling at that moment, or even a camera of any kind within arm’s reach.

God forbid you were to run for said camera because you just KNOW that by the time you returned the moment would be gone.

So you freeze and hold your breath and press the “record button” in your mind, hoping to never ever ever forget what you are seeing.

Well, as luck would have it, I walked in on my 4 year old son Bucket Head getting down to the song Funky Town by Lipps Inc. the other day. You know the phrase “dance like nobody is watching”? That is exactly what I witnessed. I’m telling you, it was a sight to behold.

But it wasn’t just his resplendent dance moves, oh no. Homeboy was singing along while he was shaking his money maker.

I held my breath and slapped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t chortle and ruin the moment, but once I gathered my wits about me, I realized he was totally botching the lyrics in the most delightful way…and not just because of his well-documented speech impairment.

You know the part in the song that goes “…talk about it, talk about it, talk about it, talk about it…”?

Bucket Head was singing:  “…taco body, taco body, taco body, taco body…”

Hand to God. I will never be able to sing it any other way for the rest of my  life. Instant classic. I’m talking, “Hold me closer, Tony Danza” classic. 

As predicted, once he realized I was watching, he froze up like a deer in the headlights. But because his performance was such a show shopper, I thought I might be able to get him to do a repeat performance on camera.

Boy oh boy, was I wrong.

The following is what we’ll call Just Another Precious Motherhood Moment:

This is why seasoned professionals know better than to star alongside children or animals.

Live and learn. And probably do laundry and/or tend to my personal hygiene more often.

yours truly,

-Iris

Linking this up to Yeah Write because something tells me that those bloggers know a thing or two about how to bring the funk to any potluck.

ADDENDUM: This post won “Lurker’s Favorite” over at Yeah Write this week, which is purdy durn awesome, if you ask me! Thank you Erica and Q!

I get why some species eat their young: a tribute to WTF Tapas.

My fiesty friend Allison over at Motherhood, WTF? has a fabulous regular feature she calls WTF Tapas. It’s where she shares little snippets of the crazy funny shit her kids do and say that aren’t really big enough for individual blog posts. It’s brilliant. Do yourself a favor and check her out if you haven’t already (the links are at the end of this post).

We’ve had a lot of such moments over here in Beardsville lately so I thought I’d give Allison’s clever model a go. Incidentally, and I think Allison will appreciate this, most of my recent “Tapas” reflect those special parenting moments that make a mother look longingly at her spawn and think, “Maybe wolf spiders and hamsters are onto something.”

May I now present: Bearded WTF Tapas.*

*Not to be confused with Bearded WTF Tacos. That’s a whole ‘nother story. Feel free to  help me come up with a better name that’s less vagina-centric. ‘Preciate it.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Bucket Head (4 year old son): “I wish I could touch a dinosaur.”

Me: “Oh yeah? What do you think a dinosaur would feel like?”

Bucket Head: “Kinda like your arm.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Nature Boy (12 year old son): “Mom, (giggle giggle)…you totally have a muffin top.”

Me: “Haters gonna hate.”

Nature Boy: “And potatoes gonna potate. Maybe you should do some sit ups.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Me: “You know, Bucket Head, if you ever get lost, honey, you should look for a nice friendly Mommy that you can ask for help. A nice Mommy will help you find me, okay?”

Bucket Head: “Otay. (sic) Or I could find a friendly animal and ride him back to you.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Mini-Me (9 year old daughter): “Mommy, don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m TOTALLY grateful for all the things Santa brought me this year, but…well…Kelsey and Rachel got some really cool stuff for Christmas.”

Me: (deep breath, trying to suppress my rage) “I’m totally taking that the wrong way. You got EVERYTHING you asked for…EVER-Y-THING. Next year, do a better job asking for what you want.” (Then I’m pretty sure I made the “Mmmm-hmmm” face, wagged my pointer finger in the air, turned on my heel, and muttered “Bitch” under my breath. Awesome.)

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Mini-Me: “Mom, do you like that sweater?” (Pointing to the new Christmas present I was wearing that my mom actually bought for me in Ireland.)

Me: “Yes. Why, don’t you?”

Mini-Me: “Well…it’s just that…it’s so…Momish.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Bucket Head (furious with his big sister Mini-Me): “I HATE YOU! I’m going to fart on your penis, you POOP HEAD!”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Okay, I don’t want to end on a violent note, so here are two silly ones:

Bucket Head: “Please can I buy this cool Spectifyer?”

Me: “What? What’s a Spectifyer?”

Bucket Head: “This!” (pointing to a Pez Dispenser)

(You can read more about Bucket Head’s Speech Impairment here.) 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Nature Boy (at the Christmas Tree Farm): “I wonder, is that a horse or a pony?”

Bucket Head: “It’s a horse. Ponies live in the sky and they have rainbows and horns on their heads.”

(I have no idea where he got that.  *cough cough* He’s obviously confused…)

(and/or watches WAY TOO MUCH TELEVISION)

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Yeah, if they weren’t so cute, I’d definitely eat them. No question.

[DISCLAIMER: Human cannibalism is a crime punishable by law. The Bearded Iris does not endorse consuming children.]

Thanks again to Allison at Motherhood, WTF? for the WTF Tapas inspiration!

Keep it classy,

-Iris

© Copyright 2012, The Bearded Iris. All rights reserved. Don’t be a poop head or Bucket Head will fart on your penis, whether you have one or not.

It’s just a phase…I hope.

So we took the whole mishpucha to the local Farmers’ Market the other day. I have as much fun people-watching at these places as I do noshing on the free samples.

Keeping track of three kids in a crowd is never easy. Even with two adults, we’re always playing zone defense. Bucket Head, the 4 year old, makes it extra challenging. He’s small, he’s fast, and he’s mischievous. It’s like  playing “Where’s Waldo” 24/7, minus the striped hat.

At some point between the cheese table and the fresh flowers, I lost him…again. Frantically scanning the crowd, I was not watching where I was going and bumped right into this gorgeous lady:

I was so startled to feel FUR on my face that I think I may have yelped a little. {Like, “Oh my God, kids…why did your Dad take his shirt off at a farmers’ market?!}

Oh phew! It’s just a little dog…

…in a Baby Bjorn.

Wait…what?

Thankfully, she was very nice about the fact that I had just accidentally groped her little dog and she permitted me to take some pictures. Personally, I was just relieved that I hadn’t accidentally “yiffed” someone in public. Oh just google it, Grandma. I don’t have time to explain all the freaky new sex fetishes the kids are up to these days.

I had never seen a dog carried in this manner before, so I chatted her up for a minute. While we were talking, Bucket Head appeared out of nowhere.

"May I please pet your fur-baby?"

He was entranced with this pretty Mommy and her pets. And she was so sweet to him!

She totally let Bucket Head pet her fur-baby. (Not a euphemism.)

Then Bucket Head got caught up in the moment and decided to let his Freak Flag fly:

Yep. That’s my boy…smelling her dog’s crotch. I was all: “Heh-heh-heh {nervous laugh}…he’s going through a phase where he likes to smell stuff. Just ignore him and he’ll stop.”

Luckily for us, she was very understanding. Plus, with Bucket Head’s speech impairment, she had no idea what the hell he was saying.

"Mmmmmm. Your fur-baby 'mells so dood!"

Oh my God…look at the poor humiliated dog! She’s looking away like, “Really? First you put me in this ridiculous baby carrier and then you let strange kids smell my junk? Just wake me when it’s over.”

You and me both, my diminutive hostage canine sister.

Just another day in the life,

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris. All rights reserved. Get your own fur baby.



A Fresh Start

Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about. — W. H. Auden

Well I’ve been back in the blogosphere for about a week, diligently writing every day. If you are an old friend of this blog, you may have noticed two things this week:

1.) I added my picture and started including pics of my kids.

2.) I’ve attempted to clean up my act a little and focus on what I know, which is, in a nutshell, homemaking, motherhood, and storytelling.

Hopefully, this hasn’t frightened you away or bored you to tears. And if it has, well you’re probably not here reading this right now, so suck it, fair weather friends. If you ARE still here, thank you. I appreciate you and your loyalty.

Why the change in format? Well the secret blog/double life thing was exhausting. I’d rather just be myself, if that’s okay with you.

In order to move forward in the spirit of authenticity, I’ve removed many of my old posts. Some of them were mean. I’m talking Ricky Gervais at the Golden Globes mean. That’s not me. I’m actually pretty nice, unless you cross me, then watch out.

Some of the old posts were polarizing and political. Also not me. Sorry.

And lastly, some of the old posts were just over the top in the naughty department. I was going for the easy laugh there. Sorry. I’m actually not that bold, sexually deviant, or well groomed. Again, sorry.

I’ve tried to keep the posts that represent what I think are the real deal, or pretty close to it. Especially posts that are relevant to my new focus.

I hope you will bear with me as I ease my way back into this marvelous medium. I’ve missed this online community and the support and friendship that we share. Thanks for taking me back with such open arms.

One last thing.

Not even 24 hours after I convinced my Mom that *all* bloggers put their pictures online and promised her that I’d be safe and not endanger my children, someone found my blog with the google search: “dirty panties.”

Ewwww.

So much for a fresh start. Clearly I have lots to learn about how to use the tags and categories feature in WordPress.

Yes dear readers, we bloggers have ways of knowing how each and every one of you is referred to our blogs. We can see what search words and phrases you use when you are googling. And it is very educational.

Don’t worry Mom. I removed that tag from yesterday’s post. It was an innocent reference to an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction and I didn’t realize that someone would stumble across my totally non-sexual post about The Blessed Sacrament, my child’s speech impairment, and my static-cling woes by googling dirty panties. Problem corrected.

And to those of you with the dirty undies fetish, I apologize for wasting your time yesterday and hope that you found what you were looking for… far far away from me.

Authentically yours, and now with less static-cling,

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris

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