Little hands CAN DO big things.

My son loves to pretend he is driving and will often scoot (more like dive) behind the driver's side of the van the second he is released from his car seat. He will play with the dials, push every button up there, and talk on his pretend phone while manipulating the steering wheel as only kids can do to show that he is DRIVING. I fully expect him to be proficient at this endeavor by the time he is five, because after all the time he spends in the car with me something is bound to sink into that little mind of his by way of osmosis.

Occasionally, however, he manages to "stick" little things with his little hands into things that have little crevices. Things like pennies will go unnoticed until something starts shorting out, like the cd player in the vehicle. I guess I fancy myself a throw back to the Fonz/Happy Days era because my reaction to preserving anything this critical in the car from malfunctioning is to pound on it like a red-headed step child until it begins working again. So far this methodology has worked for me and the boy remains safe. For now.

This morning as I trekked into the vast coutryside of New Jersey in search of a world famous spa, something else went wrong with the vehicle. I had noticed that morning a certain metallic sound sloshing about underneath what seemed to be the steering wheel itself. But it wasn't until some jackass failed to follow intersection etiquette and I was forced to use "the horn", that I became acutely aware (again) that my son had short circuited something highly critical - my "get the frig outta my way" calling card. The horn.

Anticipating that the individual waiting in front of me at the light had missed her calling as a sloth, I attempted to tap ever so lightly on the horn to "wake her the hell up" - you know, a toot toot type of "Hello, asshole. Welcome to the intersection. LIGHT IS GREEN." Well, the sound started out as a courtesy "toot, toot" until it developed into what I can best describe as a speech impediment where it (the horn) lost it's sound, stuttered a few more "beep beeps" until it crescendo'd into an all out air raid siren.

Not only did the woman hit the accelerator and break through the intersection (finally) at lightening fast speeds, but as I rolled away too, the noise from my horn thundered on and multiple cars began darting off the road ahead of me, I guess, to avoid dealing with this lunatic menace on the road. And while this is indeed a strange benefit to "hornitis," I was mortally, mortally mortified.

And what was I to do when people suspected me to be a crazed suburban mother on the verge? I did what any safe, defensive driving individual would do.....At speeds of 55 mph, I would throw up both hands in plain view, cup my hands over my mouth, and then throw up my hands again when passing other motorist subjected this deafening sound from my VW . And doesn't that just say: "Oh my sugar. I am helpless indeed. Don't hate me as I careen past you 15 miles per over the speed limit while sounding like a B-52. Why darlin', I'm just as clueless as you are as to why this a horn is a beepin'."

After first pressing gently with a pinkie, then the ring finger, then the index finger to entice the horn to quit blowing, I did what any rational, intelligent, quick thinking gal would do....I took my fist and pummeled the thing repeatedly until it died. And when the services were over, and I paid my last respects, I pulled into the spa parking lot (on time mind you) and walked in as if sunshine were pouring out of every ounce of me. Because nothing says demure like beating the crap out of your car.

Cat, it's what's for dinner.

I am soliciting information on how to drum out the furriest member of the family without the kids actually knowing. I'm thinking something not too cruel or inhumane for the animal, just a fast, painless death because if I walk into my living room again and step in a hocking good time, I'm going postal.

When I adopted this animal over 15 years ago, I had every intention of loving it until God borrowed him back. Apparently, God understood the unilateral benefit of not having an animal like this around the great Pearly Gates. I firmly believe this particular animal would drive even the most ardent bunny hugger to morph into a sadistic, animal hating maniac. Like me.

After having kids, owning a pet is much the expression "tits on a bull" - what exactly is the point once the two legged beasts enter your life? The animal is fed and is kept indoors and presumably enjoys his time here as he seems to always be so "relaxed" in the abode. He only sleeps about 20 hours a day. But in the time he is actually awake and making his presence known, he adeptly regurgitates a half a body of fur that somehow managed to creep down his esophagus while he was passionately sleeping off the other four waking hours of his little day. Hey, it's rough being a cat. I understand this. Who else in the world couldn't tolerate free lodging and food, a clean crapper and endless crevices and cracks to curl up in to get that needed shut eye.

To say that I have fallen out of love with this cat is truly an understatement. I hardly notice him anymore. And if he didn't try to topple me by swishing through my feet while walking with a child in my hand, I probably would forget he was even in the house and never feed him.

But today. Oh, ho ho. Today, I have had my fill of this little bastard and he must go. Immediately. Nothing illegal or morally reprehensible as I need a good report card for Judgment Day. So, I invite and welcome your suggestions and addresses for that matter, because this little feller is in dire need of a change of scenery and another home might just be the ticket - otherwise, to the sausage factory he goes. Oh! And no need to worry about the age of little kitty and a premature demise, should you choose to adopt him. He is most assuredly on the do not die program and is destined to out live all of us.

Da Iddy Biddy Pyder

With my first child I was the Martha Stewart of mothers. I proved to myself and anyone attempting to scrutinize my parenting that I could teach my kid anything. I had all the time in the world to do it and my first child bore the chevrons of achievement for all that effort. Today, as I review my parenting skills for the fiftieth time - because once is just never enough - I am faced with the reality that my youngest has no idea what a lullaby or nursery rhyme even sounds like. And this is truly my doing because by the time he came around, I was getting BUSIER (having 2 others before him) and life, naturally, had picked up speed as well. And when I am frazzled, I listen to tunes to settle myself. Unfortunately my musical repertoire consists of mainly 80's stuff, pop, swing jazz (not too bad for him) - you get the picture. And this is essentially what he is exposed to on a daily basis because if I have to listen to another Barney/Raffi/Wiggles tune, I'm gonna hurl myself off the next bridge I see.

When my family celebrated my Dad's 70th recently, all the (grand)kids got together to sing him a song. As the Itsy Bitsy Spider came into key, or as my son now calls it, "da iddy biddy pyder", he began looking around the room with this fixed exasperated expression that could only mean "WTF?" He didn't know it. And when he stomped his foot and screamed at the other kids to "QUIET!" - he meant it, because damnit who were they to change up the program with these bastard kiddie songs. He wanted Lovehammers. He wanted to sing "Trees". And when everyone continued in their best rendition of Iddy Biddy Pyder without him, he launched himself across the room and began rolling and screaming on the floor until there was complete silence in the room - as he had originally demanded. I like that he's tenacious.

And when he was satisfied that everyone understood the rules, he put his fingers in his ears and belted out: "I. Don't want to go through this life. Without you. By my side. I, I, I, I, I got it all worked out. In my head. It's how it's got to be. It'll be you. and me. Up in a tree."........and while the rest of the room smiled uncomfortably about his choice of serenade, I found it immeasurably sweet - because this is the mother I have become and screw nursery rhymes - they just don't sound as good as the Lovehammers songs do when the tiny little guy belts them out. And last time I checked, mothers weren't getting the accolades anyway for all their hard work - it's time we get some entertainment value out of these times with our kids.

Super Troopers - Meow