H is for an American Horror Story. As written by a mom of two toddlers.

*small h says in a small voice*  "I'm skeered."
*Small voice. Small h.* “I’m skeered.”

I once watched an entire, well half, OK maybe about 20 minutes, of a scary movie.  All  from my kitchen.  And the television was around the corner.  It’s confusing to describe, and there’s some physics involved, so I’ll spare you the logistics.  Also, “watch” is a relative term.  I listened to it, and I actually just watched some bits in the reflection in the hall mirror.

Mostly, I hid behind the refrigerator door and nervously scarfed pudding while the creepy girl got all, “I’m gonna show you some really bad hair and get all slow walky” and OH HECK NAH.  SHE JUST CRAWLED OUT OF THE TV.  I gotta go mow the lawn. Or clean out this ‘fridge.   Maybe go find my old Disney records and try to wipe out my brain.  But first I gotta prance it across the living room and turn OFF the TV ’cause she has got to GO.  Back in the Netflix envelope for YOU, creepy bad hair girl.  Be gone!

I’m just not one for scary movies.  Life is scary enough.

At my house, there are enough scary movie moments to put the creepy bad-haired living- in-a well girl to shame.  Creepy girl?  You wanna piece of me?  Come visit my  house and watch from the kitchen!  BECAUSE…  (wait for it) SOMETIMES MY TODDLERS SCARE THE HOLY CRAPOLA OUTTA ME.  (*Be warned: I am going to throw about a majillion scary movie references at you.  I might have watched more than I like to admit).


Case in point:

My story starts in the shower.  I know, right? I don’t even have to write it.  It writes itself.

Scene:  Showering.  Sorta muttering, again.  Talking to God.  You know.  Thanking Jesus for hot water and some alone time.

Cue scary violins.

There’s this  CLAW THING grabbing at my calf. Followed by a gutteral “wheeeHELLO GOD BLESS AMERICA WHAT IN THE  DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS WAS THAT?” (Could have been me. Could be the owner of the CLAW.  I don’t really know.  All I know is that profanity’s got nuthin on me.)

And then,  “Mommah? Mommah??  What you doin’?  Why you on da floor?  You taking a bath?  Whaaaaaaaat you DOING IN DER MOMMAH???”

At this point I was kind of flattening myself up against my tiled shower wall anywhere AWAY from that skittery clutchy little hand.  The Redhead had broken a big rule:  You just DON’T grab at people in the shower!  Not unless you want a lot of screeching to follow!  Mommah saw Psycho!  She’s got a nervous tick already!  She’s jumpy!  She ’bout passes out every morning just when she looks in the mirror!  Her nerves are SHOT.

…And there was not much else to that part of the story except that I realized I really needed to do something about the grout in our shower; it’s disgusting.  That’ll be the sequel:  Toddler American Horror Story Part 2.  GROUT.

This is a stunt toddler. No actual toddlers were used in the making of this post. They refused to re-enact anything. It was beneath them. Artistic integrity and all that. Pfft.


Later in the day there was this simple yet eerie non sequitor: “Mommah?  I’m sorry.”

I had wandered in on the redhead who had used the facilities (yes, we’re back in the bathroom) with not much accuracy.  I was all, “Oh honey, that’s all right, we all have- ” and stepped in pee.

“I’m sorry. Mommah.  I peed a little. Der.  On da floor.”

“It’s OK honey, we’ll just get that all cleaned up, oh MY WHOA-”

“And Der.  I peed der too.  A widdle bit.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s, well, it’s ok, let’s just get over to the bathtub and –  WOW. Really?  Over here too?”

“Yep.  Der too.  Sorry.  Sorry ’bout that.”

“Uh.  It’s all right.  Really.  Just… wow, you musta been aiming for something I’m thinking?  Or just, twirling around maybe? OH GREAT HECK HERE TOO?”

*quivering lip*  “Ima sorry…”

“NO. No, honey, it’s ok.  It’s just, wow.  You have a future in the fire brigade I’m thinking.  And, you know, it’s just a bit ucky.  Mommy shoulda worn shoes at least.  But really. It’s ok.  Urine is sterile.  Or so I’m told.  It’s just kinda hard to keep my footing.  Wow.  And yep.  There’s more.”

Silent awe.  From both of us.

“Wow.  Wow.  I’ll get a ladder.”

“Yep.” Red looking up.  “Der it is.”


Resolution scene:  Nighttime.  Momsie is gone.   Zombie Mom is now in charge.  This happens pretty much every night after 7  pm.  But nobody seems to mind the moaning and lurching about as long as each gets his dinner.

So… at bed time, I used Redhead’s toothbrush.  I don’t know why.  Just wanted to have a mouth full of plague-ish toddler germs I guess.  Oh, and did I mention he has a smoker’s cough?  Well, we don’t smoke or anything but seriously, he sounds just someone’s leathery old Auntie  who is stained brown from nicotine and despair,  I tell you.  So there’s that little nugget of disgustingness to end my day.


I got my period today.

The end.

photo 2

* Did you catch all the movies?  Sweet dreams.

And I just realized too that my setting for my entire movie is the bathroom.  Overshare?  I think not.


  1. As a mom of four, I completely feel this post. I mean, I really, really deeply feel this post. Wanna hear something REALLY scary? Three of mine are now teenagers.

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