Perhaps my favorite thing about very young children is their utter and complete cluelessness — they have no sense of real embarrassment yet, of self-consciousness, of what society expects of them. Sure, they have a general sense of right and wrong, of what Mommy and Daddy want and don’t want from them… Sort of. But they don’t get why, and generally don’t care.

So it’s not unusual for a preschooler to randomly grab or talk about her privates, her potty needs, etc. Before I had kids of my own, I found this mildly terrifying. When I was a teenager, a cousin of mine asked his 3-year-old son why his hand was in his pants. The boy told his father coolly, “I’m playing with my pee-pee.” There were no fewer than sixteen people watching this exchange, and not one of them could keep a straight face, least of all me. Gotta love the kid’s honesty.

Well, it was funny when it wasn’t MY kid, of course. Luckily, I haven’t had quite as bad an experience, and I think it’s because I have girls. I could be wrong about that, and if you have boys and disagree, then shit, I’m sorry. I’m just guessing. Relax. Go have a glass of wine and a Xanax. (That, by the way, is my cure for everything. And if it kills you, you didn’t hear it from me. I’m not a fucking doctor.)

So I do this thing with my girls when they’re bare-assed naked — I playfully tap their little butts and go “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” Before you call CPS, let me be clear: It’s a TAP, not a slap. And they think it’s hilarious, to the point where they stick their little bottoms out for me to tap and then run around giggling when I try to. It’s sort of a game that takes place at bath time, and it started because I found their little bare bottoms so irresistibly cute. Come on, can you blame me? Tell me baby tushies aren’t cute, goddammit. So a couple weeks ago Ava and Nora were in the bathtub together, and Nora lay on her stomach in the water, crowding Ava into a corner, which Ava did not like. She fussed a bit, then stopped when she realized Nora’s bottom was sticking out of the water directly in front of her. Ava squealed with delight and cried, “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” and proceeded to smack Nora’s butt with her chubby little hand.

Who doesn’t love baby tushies? Now if these were adult tushies, we’d be grossed out. Photo by JoshuaBloom via Flickr.

Twenty-month-olds don’t understand the concept “gentle.” When they hit, they HIT. So this is what the episode sounded like: SMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA! Nora was sobbing and rubbing her bottom, which, by the way, bore Ava’s handprints.

Then, a couple days ago, Nora was standing in front of Ava, once again naked, and both girls were waiting to get into the tub. Ava once again was face to face (cheek?) with Nora’s bottom, but this time she knew she’d get into trouble if she played the “Tushie” game. So instead, she stuck her finger in Nora’s butt crack. Nora jumped and laughed, and had I not intervened, what would have followed would have been a game entitled “Stick Your Finger In Your Sister’s Butt Crack and Make Her Giggle.”

A part of me felt sad, destroying this sense of innocent fun. No, no, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want them sticking their fingers in random strangers’ butt cracks, ok? But taboos are taught, society’s behaviors are learned, and we TEACH our kids to be embarrassed by certain things, to be ashamed of others. And that period in life before those things are absorbed into those little brains is so fleeting and sweet.

Now for the not-so-sweet. (Not that sticking your finger in anyone’s butt crack, let alone your own, is sweet, per se, but… Well, you’ll see what I mean.) Tonight I was getting out of the shower (cue porn music — and incidentally, there is ALWAYS porn music playing when I am in, and getting out of, the shower), when Nora walked in with a playful grin on her face and a hand hidden behind her back.

“Mamaaaaaa,” she sang, “Guess whaaaaaaat!”

Toweling myself off (porn music gets louder), I asked tiredly — er, sexily (is that a word?), “What?”

Nora was silent for a few seconds longer, I guess building the suspense or something, and then whipped her hand out to me, her forefinger extended. “I GOT POOP ON MY FINGER!”

(Porn music screeches to a halt).

My internal dialogue was as follows: Yep. That’s poop, alright. Now, don’t panic. But don’t let her touch you. Grab her by the elbow and hold her finger in the sink, under running water. Wait, not YOUR sink, TH’s sink. Awesome. Damn, some of it isn’t coming off. Forget it, I’m not touching that shit. Explain to Nora how to do it, and lend her a bar of soap you will never, ever use again. That’s right, LOTS of bubbles, kid…Keep scrubbing… Where’s my hand sanitizer?

I have officially taught my daughter to be petrified of poop. I think I can call it a day.

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There is no place on earth as disgusting, bacteria and virus-infested, or generally filthy as McDonald PlayPlace.

Trust me on this.

I am fairly certain that a public toilet seat is cleaner. I am fairly certain that actually dunking your child in a public toilet is a better idea than allowing them to play at the PlayPlace.

That being said, I go there all the time.

Look, it’s not my fault. Nora actually wakes up asking for it. And it’s fairly convenient, since 1) it’s near my house, 2) I can feed my children in the same place with highly-processed chicken and pure lard, 3) technically my fat ass doesn’t have to leave the chair, since everything is contained in a small area, and 4) technically, once Ava is a bit older, I’ll be able to take my laptop and do something productive for 30 minutes (or just take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and surf for porn. Er, I mean the latest toy recall. Riiiiiiight).

Well, about the “Ava getting older” part. It’s kind of key, as I discovered today.

I should have learned my lesson the time Ava was bopping around the play contraption (which consists of tunnels and slides and tons of nooks and crannies) and saw a half-eaten chicken nugget lying UNDER the bottom platform. Covered in dust and dirt and feces and God knows what else. “Oooooooh! Yummy!” she cried, and before I could throw myself at her (imagine this in slow motion, with me screaming “Nooooooooooooooooooo!”) she had put it in her mouth.

I still shudder thinking about it.

But I’m a persistent fucker. I still took them there, because I was convinced that sooner or later, everything would work out, just like the gym, and it would become a pleasant experience, despite the diseases we would all catch.

Today may be the last I go there until Ava is five — at a minimum.

So normally I get Ava onto the second platform and let her just kind of wander back and forth while I watch her, since she’s too little to climb the whole thing by herself. She piddles around and squeals as the older kids rush past her, and she generally enjoys pressing her face against the mesh walls, peering down at me and calling, “Mamaaaaaaaa! Hiiiiiiiiiiii!”

But not today. No, my intrepid little one-and-a-half-year-old decided that today she was going to climb to the top, and find out where her sister goes that seems to bring her so much joy. As she crawled her way through a tunnel and to the side I could not see, my heart started to sink. I could see where this situation was headed, and it involved me climbing into the playmathingie myself. I called her name repeatedly to no avail — Ava was going where no toddler had (purposefully) gone before. And as I called, debating as to whether my child was smart enough, with the help of her sister, to find her way down one of the many slides, I heard something that sounded all too much like “POW! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream Ava emitted was nothing short of agony. Let me tell you, folks, you have never seen a grown woman climb into a McDonald PlayLand playscape as fast as I did. I wiggled my ass through those tunnels, following the sounds of my screeching child. (Who the fuck invented this fucking maze? Which tunnel do I go in, for God’s sake? The red one? No, the blue one… Fuck! My ass is stuck in the green tunnel!) I finally made it to the end, only to find Ava bleeding from her lower lip. Apparently, one of the older kids was hanging from whatever-the-fuck-that-is (is that a steering wheel?) and accidentally kicked Ava in the mouth.

Using my sleeve to dab at her lip, I wondered (between pants) how I was going to get myself and my bleeding child down. (Why isn’t there a slide on this end? And which tunnel is the shortest way back? MOTHER. FUCKER.) Luckily, I had Nora to help out. “Follow me, Mama!” she said heroically, leading the way down the blue tunnel.

FYI, the blue tunnel is not the shortest way back. It’s actually the longest. I think Nora thought it would be fun.

With Ava screaming bloody murder, I wrapped one arm around her (hopefully it wasn’t her neck) and started inching BACKWARDS through the tunnel. I now believe that at least ONE circle of hell is a playscape that is too small for the offender’s ass. We finally made it to a slide, and with Ava flailing about, I managed to twist around, plop her on my lap and skid my way down to terra firma. (Can you hear the angels singing?) It was only eleven in the morning and my day was DONE. Ready for bed. Seriously.

The funny thing is that the parents who were sitting (on their fat, lazy asses) in the room failed to notice that anything odd was going on. They were reading their papers, playing with their phones, completely oblivious to the fact that 1) a kid had been kicked in the face or 2) one of their own was stuck in the playscape. It is possible they thought I had everything under control, I suppose.

Ha. When have I EVER had anything in my life under control?

Remember, people, embrace the chaos. It’s the only way you won’t end up a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

Oh my God, I’m hilarious. Going to drink now.

Looking at it makes my ass twitch.

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When I discovered the dude's name was "Stephan", I became even more certain I was right. They always give themselves "wholesome" American names like Clint or Wayne or something. So I've pasted the chat below for your entertainment, cutting out all the technical jargon so that you don't fall into a coma and never read my blog again…

Stephan: good Morning

Rima: hi

Stephan: what are the error messages you're getting

Rima: "server is redirecting the request for this address in a way that will never complete."

Stephan: My computer is a little slow right now

Stephan: sorry about that

Rima: no problem

Rima: when you get a chance, try and install it yourself…

Stephan is now off-line and may not reply. Currently in room: Rima.

Stephan is now on-line. Currently in room: Stephan, Rima.

Stephan: I'm back sorry about that

Rima: no problem

Stephan: today doesnt seem to be my day with computers

Rima: lol

Rima: that's like every day for me

Stephan: now I am going to login into the ftp and see if it has the same files as mine

Stephan: I get an error message as well

Stephan: I am going to send this out to our engineers asap so they can look into it

Rima: awesome, thank you

Stephan: and hopefully correct it before the afternoon is over

Stephan: the quicker the better I always say

Rima: when will I know if it's been corrected? will you send me an email?

Stephan: I'll send you an email once things have been corrected or figured out

Rima: thank you… and just a curious question: are you indian? because you write like an american

Stephan: I live in america and i'm not indian. I try my best to write properly lol

Rima: I knew it. okay, thanks.

Funny how I got the feeling he was American right at the beginning, when he didn't "thank you" and "please" me into oblivion. Now I can't help but imagine a nerdy little white dude with a big Adam's apple and wonky teeth.

Have a good weekend, bitches. And keep your eyes peeled for the next installment of Captain England. I'm working on illustrations of my characters to give the story some "flavor."

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Oh, and check out the latest installment of Fiction Chick. Seriously. You'll hate it so much you may actually start to love it. You'll go full circle.

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It could catch on, right? I am now popular by association. It was just , like, two days ago that I was crying to my readers, snot dripping down my face, "WHY doesn't anyone LIKE ME?" And you guys, so kind and so full of pity, came back and were like, "We like you, Admin, really we do. It's just that you stick Xanax up your ass to see if it'll get into your bloodstream faster that way, and we're slightly concerned. And weirded out. That's all."

And now, one of my posts has a whopping 15 comments! Holy shit! Hollywood, here I come! Ok, I'm getting slightly carried away. But seriously, guys. I'm so stoked that you're reading my incoherent, half-drunk babble that I don't know what to do with myself.

Another great side effect of being linked with the almighty Becky is that people have been asking me about my web design. I figured it would help if I straight up gave dollar figures for my designs, so that people weren't like, "So, if it takes you, say, three years to finish my design, I'll owe you, what, MY SOUL?" So here goes:

• If your platform is Blogger.com (www.mycrazyshit.blogspot.com), it's $50.
• If your platform is Wordpress, it's $75. Keep in mind that if you have an account with Wordpress.com, they require that you "upgrade" in order to customize.
• If you want a nice little business or personal website, it's $75.
• If you want hand-drawn illustrations (like the ones I did for Becky), add $30 to the price above.
• If you want changes / upkeep, $20 for each.

I think that about covers it. Can I just say that I love each and every one of you? Like, a lot? I could totally make out with you all. Not at the same time, of course. That would get complicated. Ok, off to Fiction Chick to publish my next installment of shitty fiction! *Puts on cape and flies out the window. And crashes into tree.*

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Blogger or Wordpress, I do both. Oh, and non-blog sites too. You can find my work here, here, or here. And there are a lot more "here's" at that last site.

And while I'm on the subject (of wanting my hot ass), where'd my peeps go? Girlies who used to comment – have I somehow turned you off? It was the Xanax suppository comment, wasn't it? Why you gotta be like that, baby?

The people at "Lustre Creme" would like you to know that if you don't like pink, you're apparently not a girl. Bitch. Photo by jbcurio via Flickr.

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Let me know what you think. Especially if you want more, more, more! If you think it sucks and wish I would just go away, then, well, don't let me know what you think. Because I'll probably tell you to eat shit. Just kidding – I'm all about the constructive criticism. (You critical whores.) Also, the site is my design – and mostly my own coding! DAMN I rock my own world. Let me know what you think of that as well.

If you don't remember what the fuck I'm talking about, check out the Intro first.

So my pirates don’t wear eye makeup and beads in the hair, but that doesn’t mean you won’t like ‘em… Photo by cindy47452 via Flickr.

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My name is Rima, and I'm a blog-a-holic.

Check out the (very short) article I wrote on Today's Mama. Nifty, eh? I'm the very last writer, btw.

I've decided I'm still going to (try) to protect the innocent with fake names and such and not showing my kids' faces, but my identity (Batwoman) need not be secret, as far as I'm concerned. And it'll be SO NICE to link my facebook account to my blog to my portfolio to my Twitter account FINALLY.

• Follow me on Twitter: MommyHasAPlan
• Get me to design your blog or website: Design Mommy

• Oh shit, my boy Jon the Stewart is on. Gotta dash, ladies. Smooches!

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I’m moving on to Shawna now! And if anyone knows someone who wants a blog / website design, send ‘em my way – while I’m not offering any more freebies, my rates are ridiculous, they’re so low. For serious.

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