You should know that Mr. GreatMama is Hispanic and speaks English and Spanish fluently, so it’s not like I’m asking him to split an atom.

Unfortunately, what Spanish our kids know they have learned from Dora the Explorer.  So what did I do?  I decided to take matters into my own hands and teach our children to speak Spanish.  I had Spanish in school; I even made A’s.  My high school Spanish teacher, Senora Dickens, would be so proud!

Día Número Uno (that’s Day #1 for all you gringos out there)

I’m in the kitchen (as usual) at the crack of dawn (as usual) preparing breakfast (as usual).  I hear my three-year-old awake (who I affectionately call #2).  She sounds like a little Sumo wrestler as she heads towards the kitchen.

Mama Mamá:  Hola!  Buenos días, mi amor!  (Woo-hoo!  Spanish is easy!)

#2:  (Looks at me puzzled.) Mama, I dirsty.

Mamá:  (Crap, what’s the Spanish word for juice?  She’ll just have to drink water.)  Agua?

#2:  Huh?

Mamá:  Agua?????

#2:  Huh?

Mamá:  AH-GOO-WAH??????  (Am I not speaking plain English, er . . . I mean, plain Spanish to this child?)

#2:  Uh . . . no?

Mamá:  (Oh!  Listen to my smart girl!  She already knows the Spanish word for “no!”  I should reward her!  After all, rewards work when you’re training a dog.  Let’s see . . . what do I have for a reward . . . AH HA!  Cheese doodles!!!!!)

I cram a cheese doodle into my 3-year-old’s mouth at 6:00 a.m. in the morning and pat her on the head.

Mamá:  Muy bien Melissa. ¡Muy bien!

My 6-year-old daughter (#1) and 22-month-old son (The Boy) enter the kitchen.

The Boy:  Mama?

Mamá:  Sí, sí!  Yo soy mamá. Eso es muy bueno.

I cram a cheese doodle into The Boy’s mouth and pat him on the head.

Mamá:  Yo soy mamá.  Sí.

The Boy:  See?

The Boy is obviously a master of the Spanish language!  I cram another cheese doodle into his mouth.

Mamá:  Buenos días, Lauren.

#1:  Uh . . . . hola?  Are we going to Taco Bell or something today?

Mamá:  No.  No Taco Bell (I felt like this wasn’t an exact Spanish translation, so I said it will a REAL heavy Spanish accent).

#1:  What’s for breakfast?

Mamá:  Un momento por favor (Crap!  How do you say eggs in Spanish??).

#1:  Is it pancakes?  Because I don’t want pancakes.

Mamá:  (How do you say eggs?)  ¿Cómo se dice eggs?

#1:  I don’t want eggs, if that’s what you’re saying.

I can hear the baby crying in her room, waiting for me to come and get her.  My three older children all begin to talk at once.

#1:  (whining) Why don’t I ever get what I want to eat for breakfast?  I’m tired of you picking out what I eat!

#2:  Mama?  I want more cheese doodles.  (she chants) Cheese doodles!  Cheese doodles!  Cheese doodles!

The Boy:  Mama!  Mama!  Juice-juice!  Jooooooose!  Joooooose!  Uh-oh . . . stinky.

Mamá:  ¡Silencio!  Er .  . . . ¡Alto!  (This is not working.  Oh, crap.)  Caca.

#1:  Caca?  What is caca?

The Boy:  Caca?  CAAAAA-CAAAAA!  CAAAAA-CAAAAA!

#2:  (Still chanting) CA-CA! CA-CA! CA-CA!

Spanish.Lesson.OVER.

Wanted to share this; a little grown-up Halloween entertainment.   Not for kids or the easily offended.

This year we will have a vampire, a ladybug, a spider and a bumble bee for trick-or-treat. I plan to walk behind them with a string of garlic and a fly swatter.  It should be great fun.

Hope your Halloween is great.

The previous Wednesday The Boy was diagnosed with strep.  I had missed a lot of work the past two weeks with him and the baby having strep and really needed to go to work Friday.

Friday morning is when it hit me . . . . the stomach virus FROM HELL (please imagine scary voice with cool sound effects when reading “from hell”).

I manage to get my three girls off to school and daycare.  The Boy is home with me because he still has a fever.  It’ll be ok, he feels bad and will sleep most of the day.  I can do this.

Me:  (puking) I don’t have time for this.  I’ve got to find a Daisy Girl Scout uniform. (Wretch.)  I’ve got to post on my blog and properly thank the Chalupa for my award. (Barf.)  I have a bloggy-crush on the Chalupa in a non-creepy, non-stalker kind of way so I need to get it done before she thinks that I don’t appreciate it. (Blaaahhhh.)  I’ve got to make a cake for the frigging Harvest Festival.  At least The Boy is in a Motrin-induced sleep.

The Boy:  Mama.  Stinky. (points to his diaper)

I change The Boy and put him back down to sleep.  I now have the headache FROM HELL (please imagine sounds effects again.  I’m kind of low-tech.)

The Boy:  Mama.  Juice.

I give The Boy some juice.  I think I’m gonna puke again.  Here come the chills.

The Boy:  Mama.  Outside.

The Boy has miraculously been cured.  He is bouncing off of the walls, ready to go outside and play.  Traitor, can’t you see that your mother is dying?  I can’t do this.  I need help.

I grab my cell phone.  Oh, God . . I’m going to die.  I send an emergency text message to my brother.  He’ll know what to do.  The text simply read, “i sick”  This was no time to punctuate or form complete sentences.  It was an emergency, by God!  Within minutes my phone rings . . . it’ s my mother.  Thank God.

Mom:  What’s wrong.

Me:  VIRUS (Yea, it’s the sound effects again.  I was an inch from death so I’m allowed to use it).

Mom:  Oh, no.

Me:  My mother will save me.  She will swoop in and take The Boy to her house.  She will make the necessary arrangements for my girls.  Then I can lie here and die in peace and know that my children will be well taken care of once I’m gone.  I wonder what kind of tombstone they will choose . . . .

Mom:  I can’t leave work.

Me: Oh, shit.  I’m REALLY gonna die.

The Boy:  Outside!  Outside!  Uh-oh . . .  stink-stink.

Mom:  The children can come to my house and spend the night when I get off of work.  Your brother will pick up the children from daycare.

Me:  I made a noise that indicated that I understood and accepted her offer.

I hung up the phone and lay on my daughter’s Dora pillow and wrap up in a baby blanket.  The phone rings again.  It’s my father.

Dad:  What’s wrong.

Me:  I’m dying.

Dad:  Um-hmm.

He doesn’t sound impressed.  He’s so droll.

Dad:  I’ll be over in a minute.

My father arrives with a grocery bag filled with Coke and the largest bottle of Pepto Bismol that I’ve ever seen; his cure-all for every ailment.  He leaves and takes The Boy to his house.

Once The Boy is out of the house I proceed to make my way to the medicine cabinet .  In the very back, behind all of the cherry and bubblegum flavored crap I give the kids is a bottle of Phenergran; that’ll stop me from puking.  Let’s see . . . . expired in 2007 (I don’t care), may cause drowsiness (I don’t care), take with food (not gonna happen).

Four hours later I awake.  Head, still hurts but not bad.  Stomach, no longer churning.  I scrub the bathroom.  I shower.  I vacuum the living room floor (if I’m gonna be home alone, I’m gonna do it with a clean floor).  I sleep some more.

When I awake, I can drink something and keep it down.  It’s 6:oo p.m.  By now, my kids are at my mom’s house.  I feel okay; I’m at 90%.  I look around.  The house is clean and quiet.  Dad is working out of town.  I am home alone.  This hasn’t happened in years.

I feel guilty.

Ok, guilt-trip is over.  So what does a Mama do who is home alone and mostly over a stomach virus?

1. She reclaims her garden tub and evicts the six, naked Barbies that have taken up residence. Go on, Barbie tramps!  You’ve got a pool!  I should know, I bought it.
2. She takes a nice long bath.
3. She goes to the grocery store alone and buys only what she needs. No gum, no toys.
4. She watches the news.  I had no clue that there were Miners trapped for so long in Chile.
5. She makes herself a snack and eats it in the living room while watching a rated R movie and doesn’t have to share her food.

All in all . . . . best.stomach.virus.EVER.

Our next category is always a tough one to judge . . . . the “Rock the Germ” award.  This year there were many deserving mothers but there can only be one winner.  This year’s winner not only “rocked” strep throat just this past week, she rocked it in such a way that only one of her four children caught strep.  Great Mama Experiment, come on up and accept your award!

The Great Mama Experiment looks shocked to have won an award as she makes her way to the stage.  She looks great in her floral, holey pajama bottoms, 10-year-old t-shirt and flip-flops.  She approaches the podium and accepts her trophy from Carrie.

TGME:  Wow.  I don’t know what to say . . . this is so un-expected.  I guess first I’d like to thank my 8-month-old daughter and the mother who sent her kid to daycare with strep throat.  Without you two, this award would not have been possible.

Carrie:  Ok, now on to our next award . . .

TGME:  (Using her best “Mom voice”) I’m not done, Carrie.  I said “First I’d like to thank.”  Pay attention.

Carrie rolls her eyes.

TGME:  (Still facing the audience) Don’t think that I didn’t see that!  Anyway, next I’d like to thank my dishwasher and washing machine.  Your sanitize cycles were invaluable.  You are the only items in my home that work as hard as I do and your efforts do not go un-noticed.  You are my favorite appliances and I love you dearly.

Carrie starts to approach the podium.

TGME:  Carrie!  (TGME gives Carrie the “mom look”)  I have already told you once.  Now, stand in your place and I’ll let you know when you may come back to the podium.  Don’t make me have to tell you again young lady.

Carrie looks a little frightened but stays in her place.

TGME:  Next, I’d like to thank the makers of Folgers Coffee and Mountain Dew.  Without you two I would have been dead on my feet after the first 24 hours.  I’d also like to thank the makers of Pedialyte for keeping my sweet girl hydrated and Dominoes Pizza for nourishing my other kids.  Last but not least, I’d like to thank a very special someone.

TGME points out into the audience.  Everyone turns to see who TGME is pointing at in the VIP section.  It seems as if she is pointing at the empty seat in between Keifer Sutherland and Tim McGraw.  No, wait a minute . . .the seat is not empty.  It’s Elmo!  He’s just to short to be seen.  Keifer gives Elmo as boost up so that he may see better.

Elmo:  Thanks, Keifer.  Elmo loves you!

Keifer looks annoyed.

TGME:  There you are, Elmo!  Everyone!  I’d like to especially thank Elmo.  I don’t know what it is about you but you hypnotize all of my kids.  This allows me the time for frivolous things such as showering and brushing my teeth.  I couldn’t have done it without you, you furry red bastard.  I love you, man.

Elmo:  Ahhh.  Elmo loves you!

My oldest daughter was hugging me the other day and said . . . .

Daughter:  Mama, do you know what I love the best?

Awww . . . she’s gonna say her mama.  Thirteen hours of labor with no pain medication was worth it.

Mama:  What do you love the best, baby?

Here it comes . . . . I’m about to reap a parenting reward!!!!!

Daughter:  God.

Well . . . I can’t compete with God.  Smart girl.

Mama:  I’m glad you love God the best.  You should; he loves you the best.

Daughter:  Mama?  Do you know what I love the best next?

I BETTER be #2 on this list.

Mama:  What’s that?

Daughter:  You.

That’s what I’m talking about.  Mama’s #2!  Mama’s #2!  Number 2?  Eww . .  . that doesn’t sound too appealing.

Daughter:  Mama, do you know what I love #3?

No brainer . . . she’s gonna say Daddy.

Daughter:  Doritos.

Snicker, snicker!  I didn’t see that one coming.

Mama:  Mama is awfully fond of Doritos too.  What’s next on your list?

Daughter:  Daddy is #4.  Then, even though she is the newest, I love the baby #5 because she doesn’t bother me and she’s cute.  Then Samuel is #6.  Melissa is last . . . . she hogs the blanket at night.

So on my daughter’s “love list,” I rank between God and Doritos.  I’m not complaining.

I watch Glee.  I’m a fricking nine-year-old girl.

I can’t explain it.  The show encompasses everything I detest.  Well, a lot of things I detest.

• The characters break out into song and dance at any given moment.
• There is teenage drama.
• The male lead could almost pass for a girl.
• The plots are predictable.
• Did I mention that the characters break out into song and dance A LOT?

I watch the show in secret.  If my two oldest girls found out they would want to watch it too.  This week I held The Boy in my lap while I watched it (he was sick).  I knew he couldn’t rat me out, he only knows about 20 words.  Just in case, I bought The Boy’s silence with potato chips.

I do, however, really enjoy Coach Sue Sylvester.  She’s a hoot.  That’s right . .  I said hoot.

While I’m at it, I also like the Bee Gees.  I’m a Gleeking-Bee-Gee-Loving freak.

Feel free to hiss and boo.

I’m talking about boogers.

Let me tell you, my kids are in vogue.  My three in daycare are currently sporting snotty noses.  The Boy is even using his snot for hair gel.  They are very fashionable.  The parents of the “clean nosed” kids are jealous; I can tell by the way they look at me.

Excuse me while I make a haughty-French laugh.  Feel free to hold your nose and laugh with me.  That’s right, this is an interactive post.

Oh-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh.

Trust me, it sounds better in my head.

All my kids are stylish and on Benadryl.  You’re probably jealous now, too.

Kid:  Are you awake?

Mom:  (it’s 4:50 a.m.) No.

Kid:  Can I use your toothbrush?

Mom: No.

Kid:  Can I make a chocolate chip cookie sandwich?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I watch the Chipmunk movie?

Mom:  No (I really don’t care, but I’m in the zone.  The “No-Zone Layer.”  Hee, hee!  I crack me up!  I know.  I’ll stop now.).

Kid:  Can I get in the shower with you?

Mom:  God, no.

Kid:  Can I wear my boots?

Mom:  No (temps in the mid-90s here).

Kid:  Can I change the baby’s outfit?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I have some Pepsi?

Mom:  Bah-humbug (I’m just trying to shake things up a bit).

Kid:  Can I wear my boots?

Mom:  NO!!! (plus she gets “the look.”  I’ve already told that child once and I don’t like having to repeat myself).

Kid:  Can we go back home and pack a different lunch?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Can I change the music?

Mom:  No.

Kid:  Are you going to miss me today?

Mom:  No.  Oh, sorry baby.  I was on a roll.  Of course I’ll miss you today.

I guess I should just be happy that they still ask permission to do things.  At least I get a chance to say no.  Look at me, trying to be all “glass-half-full” and shit.

COMMENTATOR #2:  And not in a good way, C#1.

They both laugh.

C#1:  That’s right, C#2.  These two don’t fight often, but when they do it is a humdinger.  It’s going to be endurance rather than skill that wins this epic battle.

C#2:  How about a little background information.

C#1:  It all started with Mr.GME and his cell phone issue.  You see, Mr.GME assumes that GME will take care of said cell phone issue for him since he is working out-of-town.

GME’s point of view is that Mr.GME passes the cell phone store everyday and that he should leave work early one day and handle his own business.  GME’s lunch break is already cram-packed with errands for the family.

Mr.GME’s cell phone is no longer working and GME couldn’t be happier about it.  Let’s tune in now and see what is going on.

Crickets chirping.

C#2:  Uh . . . C#1?  Nothing is happening.

C#1:  That’s right, C#2.  Mr.GME is a master of the passive-aggressive fighting style.  GME is having to adapt to beat him at his own game.  It’s not in GME’s nature to be passive-aggressive but she does LOVE to win.

Hold on a minute . . . GME is going to the cell phone store.  It’s only been two days.  Is she caving?

C#2:  Yikes!  She’s upgrading her own cell phone plan.  That.is.cold.

C#1:  Sorry, Mr.GME . . . that’s gonna leave a mark.

DAY 6 . . . .

C#1:  We’re still here with GME and Mr.GME.  These two are still going strong.

C#2:  GME is loosing her form a bit.  News of a hurricane that may be going through Mr.GME’s place of work has her nervous.  I’m betting that she’s gonna cave.

C#1:  Oh!  She’s going for her phone!

C#2:  Looks like she’s calling Mr.GME at work.  I can’t believe she caved first.

C#1:  What’s this?  GME is getting off of the phone and is looking really angry.  She’s calling her sister to complain.  Seems Mr.GME didn’t even know they were fighting!  Well played, Mr.GME!

C#2:  Folks, that’s all the time we have.  Tune in with us tomorrow; we’ll be showing the highlights from the next 24-hours.

NOTE FROM THE GREAT MAMA EXPERIMENT:

Don’t worry.  Mr.GME and I only have disagreements where we act like we are 12-year-olds about once every 5 years.

And yes, it is still going on.

And no, there will not be highlights tomorrow.

Even her shoes annoy me.

I have a confession to make.  I have a love/hate relationship with Mary Poppins.  The movie, not the person.  Well, if there were an actual Mary Poppins then maybe the person.

I find her singing and her hat and her flying around with the umbrella to be annoying and a bit disconcerting.  Yet, she mesmerizes my children.  I have days when I play the movie just so I can pee by myself.  It makes me feel dirty and used.  Maybe I have something against perfection because we all know that Mary Poppins is perfectly perfect in every way . . . . the hussy.

This week the Dons announced that this week’s Word Up, Yo! challenge features the word indubitably.  What’s the first thing that pops into my mind?  These lines from Mary Poppins and Bert performing Supercalifragilistic- expialidocious:

Mary Poppins: You know, you can say it backwards, which is, Dociousaliexpiistic- fragilcalirupus. But that’s going a bit too far, don’t you think?

Bert: Indubitably.

Oh, that smug Poppins bitch.

Which brings me to another point.  Since I had my last child I cannot say the word indubitably unless I’ve had a six-pack.  I blame the anesthesia (really I do) from my tubal ligation.  Some other important pieces of my brain don’t work since that day (like programming the coffee maker).

I can spell it, I can define it . . . . hell, I can put it into a sentence and conjugate it for ya but don’t ask me to say it.  I’d be more than happy to sit here and down beer all day long so that I could say indubitably, but alas it interferes with my child-rearing duties.

I know, I’ve got issues . . . . indubitably.