Beware of Peppa Pig on YouTube

Parents, if you listen to nothing else today, please heed this warning. Peppa Pig can lead to very questionable content on the internet.

Like most parents, my children enjoy watching videos on YouTube. My daughter has been a huge fan of Peppa Pig for years, and aside from the annoying random snorting, I’ve never had a problem with the pig herself or her sweet British family. I often hear her snorting from across the room and typically think nothing of it.

I frequently double check to make sure my children aren’t stumbling upon inappropriate videos their little eyes shouldn’t see. The other night, I was going through my daughter’s browser history on her tablet when I came across a series of very disturbing videos.

Multiple random videos featuring fecal matter and defecation loaded onto the screen. I clicked on not one, not two, but several videos about poop. Literally a load of shit appeared before my eyes.

Disgusted and aghast, I immediately called my daughter into my office and questioned the content.

“I wasn’t watching poop videos, Mom. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, what is this then? It most certainly looks like you were watching videos about poop.”

“I was trying to watch Peppa Pig. I promise mom. That’s gross. I don’t want to watch anyone pooping.” Who would really? (5.9 million people. That’s who.)

“Well, you cannot watch YouTube anymore, and frankly, if Peppa Pig leads you to these videos, then I don’t even want you watching Peppa Pig at all. Ever.” I ushered her out of my office holding onto the tablet for safe keeping.

Later, I decided to investigate further and asked my daughter to tell me how she managed to watch so many poop videos.

“I was typing Peppa in the search, Mom.”

“You were typing Peppa?”

“Yeah.”

I sat looking at the videos clearly not featuring an animated pink pig wondering how she could have stumbled upon the videos.

“Did they start off as Peppa videos?”

“No, they were poop.” She wasn’t even being funny.

I thought for a little bit trying to make sense of this.

“How did you spell Peppa, sweetheart?”

She wiped the tears off of her face and looked up at me with her bright blue child eyes, and with 100% certainty spelled out, “P-O-O-P.”

“Mmm hmmmm. What makes you think that’s how you spell it?”

“I asked Kell (big brother).”

“I see.”

And then I promptly grounded big brother from his tablet for a week.

You see, Peppa Pig videos can lead your child to inappropriate content. Particularly if her brother thinks he’s funny.

Consider yourself warned.

peppa

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What I Really Want For Mother’s Day

“What do you want for Mother’s Day, Mom?” My son asked.

I thought for a minute.

I want to sleep in, and by sleep in, I don’t want a child coming to my side of the bed during a middle-of-the-night thunderstorm or with an iPad that doesn’t work or a boo-boo that needs a band-aid. I want to sleep uninterrupted until my body tells me I have to get out of bed.

I don’t want to brew the coffee or make breakfast that will go un-eaten and left abandoned on the table for me to clean up. I don’t want to pour the orange juice or argue over which cup each kid wants. I want to pour my coffee and drink it while it’s hot. I want it refilled for me only to leave the cup on the coffee table for someone else to pick up and wash.

I don’t want to pick out clothes or find underwear or matching socks or tie shoes. I don’t want to fix anyone’s hair. I don’t want to even walk up the stairs before we have to leave the house.

I want to shower without feeling rushed, alone in the bathroom with the door closed and listen to music as I put on my make-up and fix my hair. Alone.

I don’t want to decide what we eat for lunch.

I don’t want to wipe anyone’s bottom or clean anyone’s nose or pick up dirty clothes or mop up any spills.

I don’t want to spend an hour cooking a meal that everyone will complain about when I serve it after setting the table myself and pouring everyone a drink.

I don’t want to bathe the kids, or fold the laundry and put it away. I don’t want to go through the back packs and decipher what needs to be done for the upcoming week.

I want to sit on the couch all day and watch mindless  television  or get sucked into a good book and ignore the world around me. All day long.

I want to go to bed and fall instantly asleep without worrying about how everything will get done the next day.

I suddenly realized I had an answer for my son.

I looked at my little boy and said, “I want to be Dad.”

He laughed and with a big crooked smile said, “But you’re a girl.”

A girl can dream of dreaming

A girl can dream of dreaming

Could I Have This Dance

Occasionally, someone strolls into my life and just fits right in and becomes an instant friend. Today I get to introduce you to one of those people. Briton of Punk Rock Papa is one of the kindest bloggers on the internet. He is always quick to help out if you need something or to just send a “how’s it going?” message. He makes me laugh, and hearing him talk about his wife,  his twin toddlers, and brand new baby boy warms my heart.  Please give a warm welcome to my new friend, Briton. 

**********************************************

What an honor to be here!

After talking to Mandi, I ran out and bought some shoes to dance and groove in. Then I realized, I can’t dance!

Much to the dismay of probably every follower of Mandi’s, I am not the cool gay Briton she danced with in Kansas City.

My insecurity is rising and anxiety from being in over my head is swelling to a burst of full-blown panic attack.

I must find something interesting to share with the one or two people who haven’t yet exited the screen when they realized I am not Gay Briton from Kansas City.

—–

When my wife and I found out we were having twins, I almost fainted. Tunnel vision set in. My life flashed before my eyes. There was no way I could handle two babies at once!

Eight months and a scary emergency C-section later, there I was! Holding two of the most handsome babies to ever grace the world with their beauty and life. (I’m allowed to be biased; I made these little guys with my skilled unprotected coitus). I assume parents everywhere know that feeling when they first hold their offspring – the swell of happiness and love that fills your chest. It’s a really spiritual moment, even for those not spiritually inclined. You feel the bond, like an invisible umbilical cord, between you and the child.

I didn’t sleep for a month after my kids were born. Absolutely terrified of SIDS, I would get out of bed intermittently and jab my kids in the stomach with a finger to make sure they were still alive. If I was working, the wife would get a “poke the babies” text.

Flash forward six more months. (We are at around seventh months of life for those not very good with counting)

“Killian and Nicolas Underwood?”

Here we came around the corner at the doctor’s office. Dad and kids. It should be noted that I was *carrying* the kids by the front of their winter bear suits. Here we come, Papa Bear and his Cubs, arms and legs wildly dangling.

The look on the face of the nurse at the pediatricians office said everything.

Shock quickly turned to laughter. The kids and I are rather popular at the doctor’s office. We laugh and joke and hate the nurses who give shots. Usually when we’re called in, I’ve got one kid tucked under my arm, newspaper-style, and I’m dangling the other one upside down.

Why do you care, why does this story matter?

Rewind! (I know, bear with me.) (See what I did there?)

After finding out we were expecting twins, the first place we visited was the bookstore. From What To Expect When You’re Expecting to Twins, Multiples, we got All The Books!  Even found some dad books for me to read!

And read, I did

By the end of the first book I had to check and make sure the author wasn’t Stephen King.

The second book had me calling a doctor asking for a prescription to quell my parent anxiety attacks.

SIDS! Sidebumpers! Cradle Cap! OH MY!

The first month of parenting I leaned on these terrifying books. They are the cousins to the whole “if you have unprotected sex you will get an STD and die!” style of teaching. Their motto is, “If you don’t do this, your child will die of SIDS!”

After the first month, I was ready to purchase bubble boy suits for the kids.

I can’t remember the exact moment I realized I had been worked up into a frenzy. I just remember it happened after about a month of sleep deprivation and being alert to every possible sign of baby sleep apnea. I had to dial back. I couldn’t live in fear that my Nemos might run into something bad at the drop off.

Flash forward! (Hop in my DeLorean. We are going Back to the Future!)

My kids are almost two. We have a blast. All my friends have largely fallen off the radar, so my kids take up that space and time. From wrestling to running around, I simply love fatherhood. Even snuggling up and watching Kipper the Dog is time well spent. I still poke my kids occasionally to make sure they’re breathing, but I don’t have nearly as many heart attacks as I used to.

And the best part?

We DANCE!

Yes, this has all been a big build up so I could follow up on Mandi’s awesome dance post with ANOTHER post about dancing. We have the most fun kitchen dance parties! Nothing like two toddlers and a dorky dad moving and grooving during lunch time. So, on a late night in Kansas City you might be able to catch a ride to dance at the gay bar with Briton. You can also, if you’re inclined to do so, come catch an afternoon kitchen dance party in New London.

Either way, life should be fun! Whatever you’re doing – from dancing late into the night, to shimmying around a kitchen with toddlers, live in the moment  – and enjoy it.

briton

Briton “Punk Rock Papa” Underwood is a proud Parent, Writer and Original Bunker Punk. His passion for writing is second only to his passion for parenting. Co-founder of the Original Bunker Punks, Punk Rock Papa enjoys helping people’s thoughts, stories and emotions be heard. You can find him on his personal blog or on the Original Bunker Punks writing about what he loves, the people around him.

To learn more visit: Punk Rock Papa, Original Bunker Punks

Connect with Briton:

A Case of the Mondays and the Martians

I know it’s Thursday.

Whatever.

But Monday happened, and I feel compelled to share this with you. It’s necessary for my psyche, for my sanity, and maybe so that when I end up on an episode of Snapped, you will all understand. You’ll say, “Oh, well she’s the girl who woke up to shit prints that morning when she was peacefully dreaming about sexing with Adrian Grenier.” And maybe you’ll riot outside of the courtroom with signs that say, “Set Mandi Free For Adrian” or not. Again, whatever. I’m not planning on murdering anybody. (There you go detective. It wasn’t premeditated.) I digress. Continue reading

Leapin’ Lizards

“Mo-om!” My three year old daughter called from the bathroom. I slowly shuffled to where she was brewing with excitement with what awaited me. I helped her get herself in order. Then I washed my hands, dried them, and started heading out into the small hallway by my bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in my bedroom. I quickly completed a status check in my head. It took me about half a second to realize son and dog upstairs, husband in his office, daughter and I in the doorway of the downstairs bathroom, but something moved in my bedroom.

I turned my head quickly and held my hand flat against my daughter’s chest to keep her in the bathroom. Just then, I saw a tail. Continue reading

Did Somebody Say Cake?

I may be a little late to the party, but there is no way I’m missing this one.

Happy Frist Birthday to the Ten Things of Thankful hop!!

I may not write a post every week, but I do in fact read several of the thankful posts, and I am always so inspired by all of you who are able to find the sunshine through some rather rainy days and post about gratitude.

Having a bit of a rainy week myself, and not just because it started out in fact raining, but because…pfft…life, I thought it might be difficult to summon ten things, but as it turns out, I have a lot for which I should say “thanks.”

My mother is going through the mean stage of her dementia this week, so I’ve spent most of the week on the phone to her getting berated and feeling terrible and helpless and wondering what I can do to help my father. In the middle of an almost all out breakdown on my part, I decided it was time to check my mail, which I’m pretty sure had not been done in over a week because…pfft…life.  I sifted through bills and catalogs and junk mail, and then laid my eyes upon an envelope that was addressed to me in writing I did not recognize, and I instantly knew that my favorite Brit in the entire world sent me something.  Immediately, my frown turned upside down and I ran into the house and carefully opened the package excited that there might be my first official glitter bomb waiting to explode. Inside was not just a glitter bomb, but a very pretty decorative ornament that is just so Lizzi, a beautiful and kind letter written way before my mother started her downfall, and a poem that is so perfect and so beautiful that it should in fact be song lyrics.  Wow. To be loved by Lizzi, how did I get so lucky? And the timing was just perfect.

My son plays baseball with other kids his age (7), and although he had a rather good season last season, he has struggled this year and had a difficult time finding his mojo among his team who all seem to be more advanced in skill than he.  I worried for a while that he was going to want to give up with all of his strike outs and missed outs, etc., but this week, something clicked in him as we made up three rained out baseball games, and he found his mojo. He hit the ball, and scored, and even got a kid out on second base, but most importantly, he scored the  tie-breaking winning point, which with aged 7 year old boys is not that big of a deal, but his coach made a huge deal about it, and my son’s esteem soared. He said to me on the way to the car as I was forcing him into a hug with mom, “Hey, Mom. Did you know that won the game for my team?” And the smile that spread across his face, and the pride in his shoulders almost made my heart leap out of my chest.  That boy…sometimes I wonder if he makes the world turn.

Having had such a great game, we treated him to a late dinner at his favorite restaurant, where he got to tell the waiter about his glory and order the dessert of his choice, and while we were there, my three year old daughter finished her dinner and with a messy face and sticky fingers climbed into my lap, and fell asleep in my arms. I’m not sure there’s any better feeling than having your sweet child sleep on your chest.

 

Sleep Baby Sleep

Sleep Baby Sleep

Early in the week, my best friend, Kimberly, called and invited me to the first official “sister day” with her and her two sisters. Being that I have no sisters of my own, I adopted Kimberly and her sisters the minute that we met. These girls and I share our childhood. We grew up next door to each other and lived in each other’s homes. Where they were, I was. Where I was, they were. Without them, I wouldn’t be me. We’ve been through everything together: first loves, first heart breaks, first marriages, teenage pregnancy, loss, so much loss, and we’ve held each other’s hands and loved each other and cheered each other through every heartache and every milestone. This is our 30th year of friendship. That’s right…Thirty Years.  And I have no doubt that thirty years from now, my pseudo sisters will still call me and invite me to sister day. I am so thankful to share my life with these gorgeous amazing women.  Oh, and we watched Dream a Little Dream (a childhood favorite of ours), from which I’m pretty sure I learned life’s most valuable lessons.

So happy birthday to the most uplifting blog hop I’ve seen in the blogosphere.  Cheers!!!

 

TenThingsBanner

Sex Dreams and Shit Prints

He brushes a curl out of his eye then leans down and kisses me, soft but sensual, sending electric bolts of desire through every inch of my body.  Stubble tickles my chin.  He pushes me to the bed, and I feel his weight on top of me.  We kiss again.  This time, hard and hungry. I wrap my fingers around his curly locks and pull him closer, arching my back.  Our faces are so close that our noses touch.  My eyes meet his.  Green with need, asking, begging.  I nod my consent.

He leans in a little more, takes a long, slow breath and says, “Mom.”

Wha?

“Mom,” he says again in my six year old son’s voice.

“MOM!”

No. No. No. No. No!!!!

“Mom.”  I close my eyes, envisioning him again to no avail.

“Mom.”

My blurry eyes try to make out the time.  I think it says 5:24…AM.

“What is it, baby?” I ask the dream sex interrupter.

“Have you seen the helmet that goes to my police officer?”

I want to scream, “Are you effing kidding me?  You just interrupted my sex dream with Adrian Grenier for a Lego, a tiny little centimeter sized helmet???” But he’s six, and I haven’t explained sex dreams and their importance to him, and his world revolves around Legos.

“Buddy,” I say as sweetly as my 5:24 awake self can, “It’s still night time,” because the 5 o’clock hour is still night time in this house, “Go back to bed.  Don’t turn on the lights, and don’t play with your Legos.”

“But mom..”

“No ‘but mom’.  GO!!”

I roll over, put my hand under my pillow, close my eyes, and summon the picture of my celebrity crush back to my mind.  I start to float in the softness of a sleep cloud willing the sex dream to reoccur when….BANG!  My bedroom door flies open and slams into the wall.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  Wah wah wah!!!” In nails on a chalkboard whine.

“What is it, baby?” I ask my 2 year old daughter while looking at the blurry clock again.  5:39.  Awesome.

“I’m all wet.” Oh dear God.  Please tell me this isn’t something involving a bodily function.

I reach out in the dark and pat her down.  Dry.  “You’re not wet, baby,” I say to her softly trying to keep her drama at bay.

“No, mommy, yook.  I’m all wet.  Yook.  See?”  She shoves her arm in my face.  I feel a trace of dampness on her sleeve.  Not even slightly wet.

“You’ll dry.  Come on.  Let’s get you back in bed.”  I sigh, hesitant to leave the warmth of my bed and sleepily walk up the stairs holding her hand.

We get to the top of the stairs when it hits me.

“What’s that smell,” I ask, already knowing the answer.   Then I feel it, cold and wet on the bottom of my bare foot.

I scream explicits in my head and tip toe to turn on the light avoiding getting anymore of what’s on my foot on the carpet.  The light confirms my suspicions illuminating a trail of child sized shit prints from my daughter’s room to the bathroom.

I take a deep breath, a deep cleansing breath.
I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.

I lift my foot into the bathroom sink and begin to scrub the shit off of it. “What happened here?” I ask my big blue eyed daughter who seems completely unhinged by the amount of shit everywhere.

“I pooped.”  Like it’s not all over the floor.

“How did it get all over the floor, baby?”  It’s not even 6:00 am.  I’m never getting back to the sex dream.

“I took my pull-up off.”  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Deep breaths.  Picture a happy place.  There he is again.  He’s so so pretty, that Adrian.

I quickly assess the damage.  Said shitty pull-up sits in the middle of the floor taunting me, laughing at me, begging me to take it and toss it across the house, but I don’t have time because I still have a stream of shit prints to clean, and now with the lights on, a three year old who needs a bath.  Desperately.

I toss the child in the bathtub, filling the water with heavily scented baby wash. I run downstairs and throw on some pants, grab two towels and the carpet cleaner, and run back upstairs.  Daughter is happily singing “Let it Go” from Frozen in the bathtub.  I clean up the shit prints with a wet towel first.  Then I grab the carpet cleaner, and start to spray the prints.  “Foof,” says the empty bottle of carpet cleaner as I spray again and again.  I turn it upside down and try it that way.  “Foof,” it says again as nothing comes out.  I’m pretty sure, it’s laughing at me. I shake it.  “Foof.”

Dammit!!!!  Of all the times to run out of carpet cleaner.

By this time, the six year old is no longer pretending to be asleep in his room with the light on.  He comes out to see what’s going on, so I send him down to the laundry room to get my stain remover.  I mean, I have shit prints here, and no carpet cleaner.  I gotta do something.  He brings it to me.  I spray all of the prints, scrub the shit out of them…literally…soak the entire area in Gain scented Febreze , scrub my hands for 14 minutes, and then get my daughter out of her bath.

And we haven’t even had breakfast.

I coax my children to the kitchen, take out the Cheerios, and pour them each a bowl.  They’re happily arguing with each from across the table, so I sneak to my bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my uniform: yoga pants, sports bra, and tank top.  I make it back into the kitchen just in time to see my daughter reach up to the counter to grab the box of cereal with her slippery little hands.  Crash.  Cheerios everywhere.

Le’ sigh!

I scoop a handful from the floor and put them in her bowl. (Don’t judge.) As I’m getting the broom out to sweep up the remaining honey oats, my husband enters the room, completely oblivious to my morning struggle.  He stretches and yawns, letting out a huge groan (like he’s spent the last thirty minutes cleaning up shit prints).  Then he looks at me and says, “Can I have some coffee?”

“Get your own mother @#^&&%#@ @#^@ @#%^&* @#$$@@ ^#@#^ coffee!!!” I reply…calmly.

He looks at me like, what?  Then says, “What’s your problem?”

I answer under my breath…You’re not Adrian Grenier.

tired mom

Can I go back to bed? Please?