Oh the return of insomnia! Grrr. I have so much to do today. I suspect a link.

I also just had a minor heart attack when Mort told me his apple "had blue spots inside."

At first I brushed it aside, but then I went over to look and it truly did have blue spots. And then I started thinking of all the various horrors and poison possibilities. And then I noticed he had blue marker on his fingers that was transferring onto the apple.

I'm waiting for my 60 second nail polish to dry so that I can start chopping up green peppers to use as fingernails atop the mozzarella " fingers" I'm making. I just had a flash in my head of how I used to assume mozzarella sticks were always deep-fried, because why wouldn't they be? But then I became a mom and now I assume they are just sticks of pure cheese with no funny business. You should see all the typos I've got going on because of my probably-not-wet-anymore nails. Yay spellcheck.

What I really wanted to document was the card Mort had made for me that read: "Friends forever, Mort and Mommy." Yeah, I got all choked-up, too.

Hmm. you would think that 60 seconds would be over by now. Maybe I should have done all my important stuff BEFORE painting my nails.

Also, Courtney Cox really needs to lay off the Botox or plastic surgery or whatever it is that has made her face so immobile and waxy.

And if you are going to plaster your automobile with a giant banner that reads "JEEP GIRLS DO IT ON ALL 4'S," please note that fours does not have an apostrophe and should be spelled out. I will be using that as an example when I'm helping with the literacy centers in Mort's classroom.

I'm interrupting my exam to bring you this very important news: Fuzzy Wuzzy has been replaced by Fuzz Ball. I thought Mort took the news of Fuzzy Wuzzy's demise rather well. Except the first thing he asks upon seeing me is, "How is Fuzz Ball?!" Like I'm some kind of caterpillar killer. Um.

Reason # 4,723,982,135 that I love Duke: When he goes for a run, he stops to pick-up any snakes that are sunning themselves on the road and deposits them safely away from traffic.

Today's Benjamin Franklin words of wisdom: When it rains, it pours. And no, I don't know if we can attribute that one to BF, but I think it was in The Little House on the Prairie series, so I know that we can NOT attribute it to my mom.

Hey, speaking of series, I saw that Diablo Cody (Juno) is in talks to write a Sweet Valley High movie!!! If you don't know how awesome that is, you are significantly younger than I and/or a boy.

I guess I should have made this my headline: And scene. Fuzzy Wuzzy is full-on dead.(I know, right? After all the work I put into that freaking bug?) Now the big dilemma is do I tell Mort or just replace it? Either way, Mort will eventually notice and blame me and have to be in therapy when he's 32.

Oh, and back to the rain and pour, (which it is actually beautiful outside as of late in the most amazing fall way and I have blisters from walking so much with Stella) so, my steady editing gig has kicked back in. A new editing gig is currently on my table(the world of books, holy guacamole!). Those two things alone would be enough to freak me out with the amount of work, but wait, for an additional $19.95, you can have volunteered to spend one day a week helping out in your son's classroom! We'll also throw in having volunteered to assist an additional day at school for the Halloween party/parade! and to bring in healthy snacks! Because your son is only young once! You're making memories! And don't forget your class with its weekly exam, the two after school Halloween parties, the night of trick or treat, and the normal things like cooking, cleaning, running errands, paying bills, spending time with the fam, possibly talking to my friends every now and then? Keeping abreast of the Christmas decorations at Target...so much to do. So little time. And I forgot that I need to scour the countryside for the piece de resistance of Duke's Halloween costume. And I made the mistake of sewing part of Mort's costume (and when I say sew, I mean I have a needle, I have thread. That's it.)So now Mort is under the impression that I know what I'm doing and he wants me to sew everything. EVERYTHING. Why use a tape or a paper clip or staple when you can sew?

Time to do other stuff. Ain't nuthin but a g thang baby. How thrilled would Dr Dre be to know that a suburban housewife quotes him on her blog?

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

It's possible that that quote may be attributed to someone else, but I always attribute it to my Mom.

On today's first day of the rest of my life, I dropped Mort off at school and then agonized over whether or not he was dressed warmly enough for today's field trip. But first I stopped the car in the middle of the road and gasped, "I forgot your lunch!"

Mort calmly started to unzipper his backpack. (Yes, this is why I was blessed with a laid back child. If the entire house consisted of the high-octane fuel of Stella and me it would implode.) "No, it's in here," he called and went back to singing Blondie.

And then Stella and I went for a walk. When she and I were in our primes, we used to be able to tear-up 3.5 miles in just over 30 minutes. Walking. You don't have to be impressed. I'm impressed enough for us both.

Today, we did it in 45. Which is not too bad, all things considered.

I cleaned-out Fuzzy Wuzzy's jar and gave him fresh grass.

I got the go-ahead to be a parent volunteer once a week in Mort's classroom where I will undoubtedly be known as Mrs. Mort's Mommy.

And now I'm going to try and cram in an entire week's worth of classwork into this afternoon so that my schedule is clear to do actual paid editing work. It's really a very good thing I already have a year's worth of copy editing under my belt, because this class would have convinced me that I just couldn't cut it. Luckily I know that there is not a client int he world who is going to ask me to identify the indirect object in a sentence. Because they don't care, as long as I fix it.

And at some point I plan filling up my bike tires with air so that Mort can not go bike riding with me after school. Life. First day.

F you Fuzzy Wuzzy! F YOU.

I had no idea how much poop a caterpillar could generate. It makes a rabbit look like it's constipated.

So, yes. I had my brilliant idea yesterday of popping a caterpillar Mort found into his bug container. It seemed like a thing one does with her son. Except Mort really really likes Fuzzy Wuzzy. And has deemed him his new best friend. And he talks to the thing like it's Stella. I overheard him explaining stuff to the caterpillar. He told him he would really like our friends because "they're really nice and really funny." He takes it places with us. And he admonishes the caterpillar to be on his best behavior.

"What are we going to do with that thing?" Duke asked.

"I'm thinking a re-release into the wild tomorrow is a good idea," I replied.

"Yeah. I thought that too. Until I broached the idea with Mort and he said we should absolutely release Fuzzy Wuzzy. After he turns into a butterfly."

Shit.

If Mort didn't speak so nicely with that little bug and didn't make a sign for his bug carrier bearing Fuzzy Wuzzy's name and if he didn't love the damn thing so much and we didn't love Mort so damn much, I wouldn't have a fricking caterpillar in my house.

So, last night I looked up how one cares for a caterpillar. That's right. We've got a new pet until spring.

Apparently Fuzzy Wuzzy will require fresh grass every day. Hence my soaking wet socks as I hobbled around in the frost filled yard trying to get Fuzzy Wuzzy's ration for the morning. It will need sticks on which to crawl and later make a chrysalis. It will need to be tricked into hibernation by storing it in the garage. It will need a glass jar with holes punched in the lid.

And since I haven't had an ice pick since I used it to pierce my nose, ear, and belly button, I tried to punch holes in the lid with: a knife. a corkscrew. A bottle opener. And finally under Duke's suggestion, a hammer and nail. Sure.

And then came time to move Fuzzy Wuzzy from his bug habitat into his new glass home. I feng shuied the sticks and grass and it was time. Except that when I opened the door to the bug house, black something smeared across the wood. Of course I screamed because i thought it was Fuzzy Wuzzy's gross little head. Duke yelled down to ask if I was okay. I yelled back NO as I think I just killed Fuzzy Wuzzy. However, apparently it was just more caterpillar poop. Oh. My. God.

By then I was thoroughly disgusted and done being a cool mom and asked Duke to handle it. However, Fuzzy Wuzzy apparently really likes his bug habitat. And he refused to budge. We tried shaking him out. We tried poking him out. We tried bonking him out. Fuzzy Wuzzy would not be evicted. He was holding a sit-in and was waiting for a return call from his lawyer. He would not curl up into a ball and practice passive resistance. He was holding a sign that read "Hell no, we won't go." He held onto the screen in his habitat with all 13 sets of his grossy insect legs. (No, I have no idea how many sets of legs he has. Nor do I care.) What did come out of his bug habitat was poop. Lots and lots of poop. (Care to wager how many times I have washed that are with bleach since this incident?)

Apparently when you make a bug habitat at Home Depot, you are really making a more attractive roach motel. They go in, but they don't come out. So we got out scissors. And we cut open the netting. And that mofo caterpillar walked himself on out the front door of the bug carrier. Now I'm going to have to explain to Mort why we destroyed the netting. Let's just say Fuzzy Wuzzy will be receiving the full blame.

I feel like the entire house smells of caterpillar poop.

So. I used to be fairly scared of the swine 11H% flu. We can give it whatever titles we want. It will still be called the swine flu. You should have named it H1N2T$ or whatever in the first place because you cannot give the public a name like swine flu and then try to take it away. Really, how many times has Jennifer Lopez said she doesn't want to be called JLO? And that she doesn't want her husband to be referred to as Skeletor?

So, much like the West Nile Virus and SARS and uh...various bacterial food outbreaks, I tucked the swine flu away in my constant bag of looming anxieties to be pulled out and mulled over when things seem to be going too well.

But then it was helpfully pointed out to me by a non-American that statistically, the swine flu just doesn't have much on the regular flu. No real leaps in deaths, or outbreaks. Which is not to say that I don't make everyone who enters our house immediately remove their shoes and wash their hands. But how much of this is media driven great white shark attacks? Did you know that more people die each year of bee stings than shark attacks? But that's not making the cover of the magazines and newspapers.

Yes. By all means, cough into your elbow. Stay home when you're sick. Wash your hands until the skin cracks and bleeds(uhh, not that I've done that.) But I'm not going to inject my kid or myself with some rushed through "vaccine" that is unproven and contains live flu. And I'm not going to stay indoors. Because I've gotten alot of mosquito bites and no West Nile Virus. And I think there is still a shortage on face masks after SARS. And have we ever again heard of SARS? Until it shows up on VH1's "Where are they now?" I think it was a one hit wonder.

Time to feed the caterpillar.

My hands really hurt because I was using the giant chomper scissor type thingys to cut down weeds. Alot of them. Because Mort wanted to cut stuff. So I tried to kill two birds with one stone. Also, we found a woolly bear caterpillar. It's definitely a woolly bear caterpillar and NOT a tomato horn worm. Don't worry. So we(I) immediately ran and grabbed Mort's bug catcher that he had made at Home Depot and put in a nice bed of grass and basil leaves and a couple of sticks and popped in said caterpillar. And he(she?) seems happy enough. It's crawling on the stick and eating some basil.

I have had many firsts since becoming a mommy. First middle of the night trip to the ER...oh, well, okay maybe that one has happened a time or two prior to being a mom. First time using spit to clean someone's face...um, okay, no that wasn't a first either. Well, the point isn't what I HAVE done, the point is what I HAVEN'T done. And that included bowling. I had never been bowling. Yesterday, however, it was a gross and yucky endless seeming type of day. And it ended up rocking. Mort and Duke (the) and I went out for really ridiculously good burgers. And then we went bowling. And then we had ice cream. It was a super fun time. And I wasn't even horrible at bowling. Typically I don't like to broaden my horizons because I am very competitive, yet can't do much well. So it's sometimes better to just not do anything. But I beat Mort. So, not too bad, Mommy. Not too bad at all.

I recognize that this is going to sound a little preachy, but I promise: it's not about you, it's about me.

Mort and I have been having alot of problems getting along recently. With others he seems to be as I would hope: he's friendly, kind, polite, generous, and joyous. At home he is sarcastic, defiant, and downright mean.

I have been walking around with the weight of the world on my shoulders wondering what to do and how to get my little guy back. I recognize he's got a lot on his plate right now with full-day kindergarten. But I have a lot on my plate too and I really don't need to add my mean and hateful offspring to the list. I do everything I can! I whine to myself.

But y'know, what? I don't. Mort has been such a sunny child for so long that I had forgotten about time-outs. I had forgotten about giving him a chance to get himself under control. I had forgotten about speaking in a calm voice and refusing to stoop to his level, because y'know, I'm the adult. I had forgotten about consistency and calmness in the face of his anger.

I am the parent. I need to parent him. He needs me to parent him. From what I understand, he is at an age when alot of frightening realizations are coming to light. He is recognizing his own feelings and his power and lack there of. He is identifying with the emotions of others(btw, Don't write freaking books about donkeys and magic pebbles in which the donkey turns himself into a rock for years on end and his parents think he's dead. Who the heck slapped a big 'ol award on that one? Asshats.) Plus, he is in a situation where 5 days a week, 8 hours a day, he is coexisting with a bunch of other kids(many of whom I would never let him interact with, much less interact with on a daily basis) and under the thumb of adults who are not me. He is learning, for better or worse, to be a part of society. Which, for the most part, is for the worse.

This will be boring. You've been forewarned.

I've been having dreams this week that when I awake I can't remember if I had the dream last night or long ago and just incorporated it into last night's dream. I told you this would be boring. Because seriously, how boring is listening to other people's dreams? And we all want to describe them to our audience in great detail . And no matter how unique the dream was, it was a dream. It wasn't real. And they never really make any sense to the listener, especially because one typically forgets half the details as they fade with sleep and there's lots of, "Oh wait! I forgot that when I was flying I was also holding a sandwich and drinking a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks that I got for free because it was the tenth punch on my punch card." As in, boring. By the way, that was NOT what my dream was about last night. My dream was infinitely more exciting. There was jogging and roller skating involved.

First fire of the season in the fireplace. Bolognese sauce simmering on the stove. September Vogue on my lap. House Hunters International on the television. (Are you impressed by my multitasking?)

Can I just tell you how much I love the fall advertisements in the September issue of Vogue? All the shiny new things to covet? All the glamorous campaigns?

Perhaps you are doing a quick calculation. It's October. Which means that the Vogue is...two months old. That's right. I 'm all about the library. Because there's not a damn thing to read in Vogue, so it's just not worth buying. I just like to look at the pictures. Like Playboy for chicks, I suppose. Except in Playboy, the articles are really good.

I made a bit of a promise that I was going to keep you all up-to-date on Mort's lunch progress. And then I forgot about it. Because I was trying to determine the difference between a phrase and a dependent clause. And because my sister got married.

So, a quick update: It's not going well. I bought a Batman thermos thing-y that swears on Robin's life that food will stay hot for 5 hours. Which is not really an issue as Mort eats lunch at 9:45. I made Mort soup in the thermos. The same soup of which he can consume two entire pots in the privacy of his own home. The thermos returned home full. Fail. I filled the thermos with mac & cheese, a dish that Mort had been requesting. He didn't like it. I broke down and bought Mort his favorite sandwich from Subway and put that in his lunchbox. It made Mort cry tears of rage with how much he hated it. Yesterday, Mort's snacks returned home uneaten as well. Why? Because he felt there were too many crackers in the snack container. And then he proceeded to eat in the span of one hour: a plate of pineapple, a sliced apple, a yogurt, a glass of milk, a grilled cheese, a handful of baby carrots,a granola bar, a piece of raisin bread, and an ice cream cone. Had I put any of that in his lunchbox, he would have shown me no mercy.

He is also angry because the women who help out at lunch encourage him to eat what I have packed for him because" it's a great, healthy lunch!" Can I tell you how furious he was with me for making him a healthy lunch that people admire?

Should I just give in and let him buy lunch so that he can see how good he has it? Because no one there is going to slice his goulash surprise into triangles like Mommy.

I just made my first meatloaf. Meat loaf. Who freaking eats that anymore? I'm feeling very Mad Men. So I made a gigantic mixed drink to go with it. Because if you're having a Mad Men kind of night, you should embrace the fun parts. Not the parts where women were second-class citizens. But definitely the part where it was always 5 'o clock somewhere and you wore heels and your leopard fur coat to the grocery store. And to make meatloaf. And you could plunk your kid in front of the tv all day long while you smoked and drank and wore outfits and no one was any wiser that that could be construed as shitty parenting. Speaking of which, I need to go interrupt Mort's television show so that he can make Mommy another drink.

If I start Breaking Dawn, I will not finish the laundry or go grocery shopping or call the jeweler or the seamstress or run my errands or study for my mid-term.

If I start Breaking Dawn, I will finish Breaking Dawn and then my Twilight experience will be over. And then I will be sad.

Huh. So that was creepy. I was prompted for my email address and password and I put in one of my many. I have at this point...half a dozen e-mail accounts. One for school. One for work. One for friends. One for sending large picture files. and darn if I can remember them all. And I was up late last night doing strategic wedding planning and general talking and then I woke-up again at 4 to a coughing child calling for water and complaining of a hurt head (aka burning-up with fever) so I "slept" for an hour and a half squished into a twin bed with a twitching, whimpering Mort using my stomach as his pillow. The general gist being that my head is usually not the swiftest under the best circumstances, and is especially foggy right now.

So I typed in what I thought was my email and password and found myself on someone else's blog. A blog I've never read nor heard of. How bizarre is that? Could we really share the same email and password? I hastily logged out and could never recall exactly how that happened int he first place, but now I wish I could because I should probably warn that person of a glitch somewhere, right? Geez.

I decided to be a grown-up and transplanted the dinner plate hibiscus. Only I woefully misjudged their root situation and it will be a miracle and a half if they return next year. This spring I decided to tackle my boring yellow daffodils by carefully marking all the spots where I wanted to add more colorful and greater variety of bulbs. I of course could find only two of my sixteen little copper plate markers when I was planting this week. Wonder exactly what this mess is going to look like?

I finally received the score on my first test. Let's just say I did better than expected (a B) but still received the lowest grade of my post-high school career. Insert sad face.

Have to get ready to take Mort to the doctor.