The Intensely Named Custom Lego Minifigures For Dad’s Birthday

 

 

 

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After deciding that he wanted to make his father custom mini-figures for his birthday present, 5 year old Harrison put together somewhat normal looking figures…with intense back stories…

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Me: So…what’s this guy’s story?

Harrison:  He’s a warrior…and he uses a bow and arrow that was his brother’s because his brother got kidnapped.  He wears his hair like his kidnapped brother now because he misses him and has been searching for him for YEARS but the bad guys have him hidden.  So his name is, “Warrior Guy Who Got His Brother Stolen And Now He’s Looking For Him And He Uses His Bow”.

Me: Nice.

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Me: Why doesn’t this guy have arms?

Harrison:  He isn’t a guy, he’s Slimer from the Ghostbusters movie. He has the cat because he eats cats because he hates them. Only he doesn’t eat the cat like WE would eat the cat (side note: we don’t eat cats in this family) he just kind of gobbles him up in all the slime.  So his name is, “Slimer From The Ghostbusters Movie Who Eats Cats Because He Hates Them”.

Me: (a little creeped out by the cat bit)…okay…I guess I can see that…

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Me: This guy?

Harrison: MOM!   He’s a scientist…and when he isn’t doing experiments he dresses up like Darth Vader.

Me: Hm. He’s for sure my favorite.  So…is his name, like, “The Scientist Who Cosplays As Darth Vader In His Downtime”?

Harrison: Mom. Stop. He’s just a scientist!

Me:…um…who cosplays as Darth Vader on the down low, so we’re using my name.  Next, son.

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Me: Who’s this guy with the shirt and the cuffs?

Harrison:  “Rockstar Dancer Who Got Arrested For Dancing Too Much”.

Me:…where was he dancing…?

Harrison: What?

Me: Nothing.

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Me:  So…a king?

Harrison:  Yeah.  “King Guy”.

Me:  Really?  That’s it? “King Guy”?

Harrison:  MOM!  Geez.  Fine. “King Guy Who Wears A Big Crown And Can’t See Good Because The Crown Is In His Eyes And He Sometimes Falls On His Sword”.

Me:  Better.

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Me:  Ninja?

Harrison: A SAMURAI, not a NINJA.

Me: He’s holding a club…

Harrison:  THAT’S because he got his sword stolen when bad guys came and killed his father, so he uses a club like a caveman until he can kill all the bad guys and get his sword back.

Me: Intense.  So…is HIS name, “Vengeful Samurai Who Uses A Club Because His Sword Was Stolen By Evil Father Killers”?

Harrison:  I guess.  Can I have fruit chews now?

Me:  Sure, kid.

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Happy Birthday, Dad.  

Love,

Your Highly Imaginative & Creative Son

It Was Time For a Puppy

IMG_5224Dear Darling Children,

In honor of National Dog Day I’m going to share the story of how Gaston Alexander Frazier came to be part of our family.

It was a warm, drizzly Sunday.  The night before I had far too much wine because both of you had been screaming, hitting and spilling your juice all over the house.  After your father put you to bed and I was sufficiently intoxicated I started sobbing about how much I missed my sweet dog, Alexander, who had passed away just a month or so before.

“I miss him. I also miss the unconditional LOVE he gave me.  These kids hate me today, they hate me because I won’t let them have 20 bags of fruit chews or watch Caillou.”

I whispered this, my voice cracking, huge teardrops running down my face.

Your father stared at me, at his absolutely stunning and wonderful wife who could do no wrong and was HIS REASON FOR LIVING and he made a decision.

If his perfect wife wanted a dog, she would get a dog.

Cue the warm & drizzly Sunday.

After we undid the hog ties we had to use to get you both into appropriate non-pajama clothing, we all climbed into the car to “visit” the pet shop.  You yelled at each other the entire ride, angry because you had wanted to go to McDonalds but I had said no since neither of you would quit picking your noses or making gagging sounds.

I ignored you both, anxious to see what kind of puppies the shop had.

Your father picked up a mini dachshund immediately.  I wasn’t sold and kept pushing a slightly older light brown puppy in your father’s face, making it speak in a British accent about tea and whatnot.

You both lasted about 10 minutes before imploding, bored, making robot noises and dancing around like a college student on crack.  I put the dog back in his cage and walked out, tears already forming in my eyes.

“They don’t even want a dog. I’m the only one who cares.  How can they not care?  It’s a PUPPY!  A FREAKING PUPPY!!!!  WHO DOESN’T WANT A PUPPY?”

I sobbed this to your father, hysterical once we got to the car.

“You’re right.”

Your father said this calmly, taking my delicate bird hands in his strong ones and gazing at me with his piercing blue eyes that see right into my soul.

“They don’t care.  I don’t care, either.  You’re the one who cares, and that’s all that matters.  So go inside and find yourself a dog.  Find YOUR dog and we will all love it because YOU love it.  This isn’t for the family.  This is for you, my perfect, beautiful wife who I love more than the moon and the stars even though you don’t cook and typically leave the laundry on the couch until I finally fold it while you’re taking a 2 hour bath.”

I’m paraphrasing, but some of that is what he said.  So I listened to him and while he took you little monsters to get some food I went back into the pet shop.

Upon my re-entry I caught sight of something bouncing wildly to my left.  Turning, I spotted a black ball of fur, peppered with tiny spots.  Was it a dalmatian/dachshund/chihuahua hybrid, a brand new designer dog?

No.  It was a mini dachshund.  THE SAME MINI DACHSHUND YOUR FATHER HAD BEEN PLAYING WITH JUST MINUTES BEFORE!

He recognized me when I came back in.  He KNEW we were meant to be!

I picked him up and carried him to the puppy play area, sure that he would do something to make or break the huge decision that was upon me.

I sat down.

He immediately crawled onto my lap and fell asleep, snoring like a drunk, overweight old man.

I realized that I was exhausted, too.

We were perfect for one another

$105,985 later I walked out of that puppy shop, rounded the corner and saw your father leaning up against the car.  He looked at me.  I looked at him and immediately started sobbing.

“I love him.  I love him.”

Your father smiled knowingly.  He had been eyeing a $400 Lego set.  No way would I try to block that purchase NOW!

Just kidding.

He smiled LOVINGLY and said, “Anything to make you happy.”

Anything.

I love him.

…and my new puppy.

Happy National Dog Day, Darling Children.

The End.

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Dear Darling Children: The Current Existing Privilege

Dear Darling Children,

When I was 25 years old I made a cross country drive from Arizona to Florida. Alexander Marco, my darling little chihuahua maltese, was riding shotgun. While traveling through Texas I was chatting with my friend Leslie.  Even though it was (and still is) illegal I was talking to her with headphones on, thus drowning out everything else around me.  I have a hard time obeying speed limits, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw police lights flashing. Feeling nothing but annoyance for getting caught I told Leslie I would call her back in a few minutes. I pulled over, grabbed my license and insurance, lowered my window and impatiently waited for the officer to get out of his car so I could start trying to flirt my way out of the ticket.

Then I heard the yelling.

“Get out of the car!  Get out of the fucking car!” (Don’t curse, it’s tacky.)

I was confused.

Not scared (that’s important).

Confused and slightly annoyed.  I started to open my door.

“Put your hands up!  Hands up where I can see them!  Now!”

Still annoyed, I opened the door the rest of the way with my foot and got out slowly with my hands up (and with an angry, put out expression on my face because who did this cop think he was to yell at me like that?).

The moment I stood up and was completely out of my car was the moment Alexander Marco chose to leap out of the car as well, straight into oncoming traffic.

All hell broke loose.  My hands went down as I ran after Alex, another police car flew up with the officer jumping out and pointing his gun at me, I’m still running around trying to grab Alex and when I finally catch him I scream at the officers.

“WHAT is WRONG with YOU!? I have to GET MY DOG, PUT YOUR STUPID GUNS DOWN!”

And they did.  They lowered their guns.  The one who had stopped me in the first place ran a hand through his thinning hair and stared at me.

Me.  A lovely white girl, shoeless because I had a blister on my ankle, with long red hair and a short blue dress that the wind was lightly kicking up.

They relaxed.

He told me I had been driving 75 in a 55 zone, and had been doing so for almost 10 minutes.  My car was packed up high with all of my belongings so the officer couldn’t see in the back window.  He had been following me with his lights and sirens blaring for at least 10 minutes (but I hadn’t heard because of the illegal headphones I was sporting).  He said he was about to shoot out my tires when I finally pulled over, that he thought I was running from him.

He said it like a joke.

“Girl, you were 5 seconds from getting your tires shot out!”

Laughs.  Everyone was safe, crisis averted.

I wasn’t able to talk my way out of the ticket.  I also never paid it.  My husband paid it for me after we were married because he had gotten a job in Texas and I mentioned that there was probably a warrant for my arrest there due to this delinquent ticket.  I never worried about getting arrested, though.

Because I’m a white, educated, upper middle class woman and I don’t have to worry about those things.

I used to tell this story as an amusing anecdote at social gatherings.  Me!? Sweet SARAH, almost gunned down by the police, how PREPOSTEROUS and SILLY. In the last year, though, it has taken on a sinister tone and I instead tell it to those who mention how they don’t understand what white privilege is.

Looking back, if the officer had shot me dead, I can see how HIS story would have played out and I would have 100% been at fault. It would eventually come out that the entire thing was a horrible misunderstanding but the result would be the same.  He was scared.  He had reason to be.  I was arrogant. I shouldn’t have been.

Had I been a large black man, under the exact same circumstances, would the result have been the same?  My head and heart tell me that it wouldn’t have been, but I still stand by my statement than any force used would have been justified.  So the story now leaves me conflicted, because I believe the only reason I’m alive (or, at best, don’t have a jail record) is because I’m a white female (sexism can on rare occasions can be extremely favorable).

I think it’s important to note that this entry is in no way meaning to comment on any specific event that has happened in the last few years.  It is only meant to share my own personal experience. I don’t always succeed at not expressing my opinion on hot topic events that I’ll personally never have enough information on to make an educated assumption about, but this entry is definitely not a comment on…any of that.

Though obviously all of those events combined is what made me start thinking about my own story again after so many years.

It’s a lottery, where you’re born, who you’re born to.  My children both struck gold being born into our family.  There isn’t a reason for them to feel guilty about it, to apologize for it.  This is just life.

But they should be taught to respect the life they have.  To be grateful.  To be aware.

In the moments that I clearly see so much hate, fear, injustice and sadness in the world the helplessness I feel is paralyzing to the point where I want to crawl into the pantry, close the door and cry.  But that doesn’t help anything or anyone.

The world is changing fast, both for the better and for the worse.  People are passionate, they see injustice and loudly fight for change.  Others who have far more power spew hatred, fear and lies.  This is life and the only way for it to change is for us to raise our children better, braver, smarter and wiser.

So…let’s do that.

Try to make the world a better & happier place today, Darling Children, one good deed at a time.

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I promise to raise you to be smart, adventurous, brave and wise.  I will raise you to be a fearless leader who will help march the world into a better, less scary place.

 

“Small steps are better than no steps at all so drop the iPad and do something productive .” – Me

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”   – Leo Tolstoy

 

Dear Darling Children: Barbie is FINE…

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Dear Darling Children,

It is perfectly acceptable to like Barbie.  Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

It has been my experience that those who dislike Barbie don’t read fine print or understand the world.  They complain about toys and how they’re messing with our babies minds because they don’t realize that the real problem for our children involves the ozone, social security and possibly the fallout from a potential Donald Trump presidency (but who really knows, what a wild card, politics has never been so entertaining, BREAK OUT THE POPCORN!).

If someone tells you they hate Barbie because she gives people unrealistic expectations of what a woman should look like, just slap the donut out of that person’s hand and let them know that Superheroes & My Little Pony are FAR more unrealistic.

Mention how they shouldn’t let toys dictate their self worth.

It’s a DOLL!

Scream that in their face.

“A DOLL! IT’S JUST A DOLL!”

After your fit, if they haven’t run away from you yet and you care at all about salvaging the friendship, try to fester out the underlying problem.

Then go save the world, one real problem at a time.

Kisses,

Mother

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Donated: No…I Haven’t Seen That Toy…

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Has anyone else ever gone so completely mad at the mess the kids make that you just do a sweep through the house with a garbage bag and donate a bunch of stuff you know they won’t miss and then when your husband comes home and asks if you’ve seen a black Lego piece that’s missing from HIS Lego modular thing you lie and say you have no clue what he’s talking about even though you remember seeing that black Lego piece and being all, “What the heck is this stupid Lego piece doing in the middle of floor, DONATE IT”?

…I  know there is no way I’m alone on this…

Squad Goals are the New Goals

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Feeling lonely since we moved to Florida.  Came across this picture of my kids with a few of their old pals and almost cried.

There was fighting on this day.  Block throwing, lightsaber hitting, non-sharing and tears were involved.  But love overcame it all and at the end of the play date nobody wanted to leave (except the mothers, of course, since it was nap time).

I’ve learned that the mark of a true Mommy friend is when your kid does something awful to another kid and the mother just looks at you like, “Is it time for a carafe of wine yet?”

New goal (instead of unpacking, getting the house together, building up my wardrobe) is to make at least 1 new friend a week, whether it be for me, the kids or my husband.

Gotta build up that village.

#squadgoals

“That Dog”: First Baby -vs- Human Baby

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It was the end of my Junior year in College. I couldn’t pass Spanish because my instructor was a woman who refused to fall prey to my impeccable flirting. I was sad. So, as per the norm when sadness arrived, I took a trip to the pet store at the local mall.

Since I was young and in excellent health I wore pointy toe 4″ stilettos to walk the mall.  I carefully maneuvered past the clothing shops, the cookie cart, the handsome men catcalling me who always tried in vain to get me to purchase a steam iron…until I arrived at the front of the pet shop window.

…and there you were.

Tiny. Blonde. Sitting so still while all the other wild animals barked madly around you.  We locked eyes and it was…love.  An instant, unselfish, pure & unbreakable love.

I thrust the young sales boy my soon to be maxed out credit card that the bank had foolishly given me even though I didn’t have a job and charged the $94.99 that you cost because in 2002 a chihuahua/maltese mix was a mutt, not a designer dog.  In just a few years your breed would sell for upwards of $750.

Marketing.

Life is strange.

Together we took on the world.  The “No Pets Allowed” law didn’t apply to us because I just didn’t care and you were very quiet.  We ate together in the nicest of restaurants, people stared in jealousy at your various designer rhinestone encrusted ensembles, you traveled across America and stayed at numerous hotels illegally. You made television appearances, were almost shot by the police, cheated death at a haunted house, ate 99 cent Jack in the Box tacos for 6 months straight without complaining, fought off alligators & fell in love with Scooby Doo.

You were there for my greatest triumphs.

You were there for my greatest heartbreaks.

You never asked for anything except love and table scraps.

You are 13 and your health is failing.  I can see this.  I know you don’t hear as well.  I see you miss the couch when you jump.   I hear you coughing.

…and I’m awful.  I don’t deserve you. Because instead of showing you love, for the past few months I have shown you what can only be described as hate.

I call you “that dog” and I feel anger when I trip over you.  I resent having to walk you outside 5 times a day because our fence isn’t put in yet.  When you bark I cringe because it means you’ll wake the children.

The human children.

Because once I had those human children I forgot about my first baby.

And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

Everyone said it would happen. I didn’t believe them.

I don’t know how it happened.

I don’t remember when it happened.

I just know it happened.

I have been mean to you.  I have not given you the respect and love that you deserve, that you’ve earned.

Juliette yelled at me again today.  Her terrible two attitude is at an all time high and while I know it’ll pass (please, GOD, let it pass) it doesn’t make the bad moments with her any easier. When I finally got her to go down for a nap I sat on the kitchen floor and cried because…I’m a crier. I am who I am. I should buy stock in waterproof mascara.

You sauntered up to me, sniffing the whole time, probably looking for dropped chex mix.  You looked at me with your cataract eyes, listened to me sniffle with your floppy ears, laid your graying head in my lap and sighed in solidarity.

The stench from the breath you exhumed was borderline unbearable.  I just don’t know what to do about your teeth.  But the action set off a flood of memories of all the times I’ve been at the end, feeling unable to go on and you were there to make things better.

I love you, Alexander Marco Bray-Frazier.

You are a good dog, and I promise to be better, to be the owner you deserve.

I’m going to go take you on a walk.  Please don’t poop in front of our new neighbors.

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