F National Dog Day

Meet Dixie.  

She's our 2 year old boxer.  Our #5.  She looked so sweet sleeping on her dog bed last night I just had to take this picture.  I'm pretty sure I even said to Kevin, "Look at our sweet baby girl, isn't she the best?"

She laid on this bed for hours last night as we ate dinner, watched TV, folded laundry.  Not once did she need to go outside.  We let her out to potty before we went to bed like usual.  We put her in the little boys' room to sleep and shut the door.  As long as she is confined to a room, she doesn't have accidents in the house at night.  If she gets out, she goes straight to our brand new family room carpet and does her thing.  We don't know why she does this, we don't know how to get her to stop, we only know in order to prevent this, we just need to close the door to whatever room she's sleeping in at night.  Pretty simple, right?

Right.  Until one of the kids gets up in the middle of the night to pee and forgets to shut the door.

Then you wake up to a text message like this at 6:04 on a Monday morning:

And by poop, she meant massive, explosive, something-died-in-our-house-smelling, trailing-to-earth's-end-and-back diarrhea.  

Diarrhea with the consistency of the ice cream machine at The Golden Corral.  Diarrhea with the smell of a port-a-potty with a dead raccoon that's been floating in turd punch while sitting in the basking heat for 72 straight days...on blacktop...in the dead of summer.

And I mean it's everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.  

In the boys' room.

All over the upstairs hallway.

Down the stairs.

Multiple places all over the family room.

The formal dining room.

EV-ER-Y-WHERE.

So this is how Kevin and I started our Monday morning.  By scrubbing mounds of dog sharts out of our carpet.

And now I see it's National Dog Day and we are supposed to celebrate her?  Nope.  Not gonna do it.  Not while I still have the dead raccoon smell ingrained in my nostrils and feel like the smell is seeping from my pores.  Not when I've ruined a perfectly good pair of pajamas with dog shit smears.  Not when my hand is still sore from scrubbing brown, runny, mush stains from my brand new carpet.  

She's being punished today - not celebrated.

She's being punished by living in her air conditioned house, with her dog bowl full of food and water, sleeping on her cushy ass dog bed that's most likely more comfortable than my own.  

And when I walk past her tonight on my carpet and step in damp spots in my socks and cuss she will sigh and roll her eyes because she can and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.  She's basically going to raise her paw and give me a big ole f-u.  

And the kids will most likely be following behind me with a dog treats.

1st Day of School

4 kids 4 different schools this year. 

4 different modes of transportation.  

4 different pickup times.  4 different arrival times.

2 parents doomed for exhaustion.

Let the school year begin...

#1: Freshman. Still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. Still 100% Daddy’s girl. Still my BFF. But still a teenager that gets annoyed with us and annoys us at times too. She’s going into High School excited and confident.  I pray she stays that way. 

#2:  6th grade. Wants to be rich and famous when he grows up but doesn’t want to work for it. Possible options are YouTuber or Fortnite Champion. 😒 Was a total nervous wreck this morning but will never admit it. Wouldn’t hug his mom back and would only fist bump his dad. Almost missed the bus. I hope it’s all uphill from here. 

#3:  1st grade.  Wants to be a Police Officer when he grows up. He was excited to ride the bus again and couldn’t wait to get to school.  Not too cool yet for momma selfies or hugs.❤️ I pray he behaves better at school than at home and is kind to his teacher and friends. 

#4:  Pre-K.  He also wants to be a Police Officer when he grows up. It’s not really his first day but he had to have a backpack and lunch box like the big kids and had to have his picture taken too. He was sad he couldn’t ride the bus with #3 and can’t wait to go to the big kid school next year. I, on the other hand, would like to freeze him. 

I hope and pray they all have a safe and successful school year. I pray they make good choices, do their best and are kind to everyone. And I pray that homework time doesn’t drive us all to the brink of insanity. Amen. 

How To Meet Mom Friends

I hear from so many moms how hard it is to make mom friends.  I agree, it can be.  But it doesn’t have to be.  I’m no expert in this area but I’ve put together a quick list of ways I suggest making mom friends.  I understand this list may not be for everyone.  But if you’re a train wreck mother looking for her tribe, you may find this helpful.

1. Smear some ketchup on your butt.  Walk by.  Drop something.  Bend over in front of her to pick it up.  If she doesn’t tell you there’s something on your butt – total girl code fail.  Move along.  You don’t want to be friends with her.
2. When in public, if your child isn’t listening, threaten to stab him in the eyeball with a Capri sun straw.  If the other moms gasp in horror, these are not your people.
3. Crack open a White Claw at your son’s football practice.  Offer one to the mom next to you.  If she gives you a judgy look and says no, do not befriend her.  If she accepts, cheers!  Drink up - then share an uber.
4. Next time you lose your shit on your kids at the grocery store, do a quick sweep of the produce section.  If you see a mom shaking her head at you, push your overly large awkward stupid ass car cart in the opposite direction while mentally giving her the finger. If she sighs in exhaustion and looks at you sympathetic, she gets it.  Make friends.  Be exhausted together.
5. If you see a mom out with her children and her hair is perfect and makeup is flawless – don’t be judgy.  Give her the benefit of the doubt.  Ask her how she pulls that shit off.  If she says, “Oh, I always look like this.” Then either 1.  She’s lying – and you don’t want to be friends with a liar.  Or 2.  She’s not human.  Run away before she snatches you up and hauls you off in her UFO.  If she says, “I finally took my first shower of the week and had an extra 10 minutes to get ready before picking them up from preschool.” Exchange numbers.
6. Go to a PTA meeting.  Just go.  Sit silently and watch.  They’ll sort themselves out.  You’ll see.
7. When your son drops his drawers to his ankles and pisses in the middle of the park, make friends with the mom that laughs and says “boys will be boys” not the one who repulsively shields her child’s eyes while making a face that looks like she just ate spam from the can.  You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life.
8. Host a party.  Invite a few potential mom friends.  Don’t tell them it’s a test – make sure you use the word ‘party’.  Offer them a drink.  If they say tea and it’s after 5:00 pm, light your couch on fire to evacuate them from your house.  If they say tea-quila, you’ve found your soulmate.
9. Go to your child’s high school orientation.  Stay for the Q & A.  If a mom asks what classes their child should take if they aspire to be a bio chemical nuclear engineering lawyering doctoring CFO of the universe do not even make eye contact.  These people are so out of your league.  If they ask what classes their child should take to become an organizer at Bath & Body Works, not only will you get along but your children will be fast friends.  It's a win/win.
10. And my last bit of humble but solid advice is start a blog.  If they follow you, like your posts and pretend you’re funny and your parenting is normal THEY ARE FRIENDS FOR LIFE.

The Motley Kru: “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Y...

The Motley Kru: “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Y...: I saw this quote on Facebook today and it really hit home.   “Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet” Lawd ain’t that...

“Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet”

I saw this quote on Facebook today and it really hit home. 

“Perfect Parents Exist They Just Don’t Have Kids Yet”

Lawd ain’t that the truth.  I had this whole parenting thing completely figured out before I had kids. It was going to be a joyous experience.  I was going to parent using the perfect blend of love and discipline.  No yelling, spanking or cussing necessary – I mean, why give birth to these little angels if you’re just going to yell at them all the time?  I was going to stay at home and raise them because I couldn’t bear to imagine pulling myself away from my imaginary children for one little second.  And why have kids if you’re just going to hand them off to someone else to raise?  Who does that?  Well, apparently people who need money and like to eat and not live on the streets.  Those people.  My future children were going to have a routine and we were going to stick with it every day because routines are good for kids - my Parenting for Dummies handbook said so.  I memorized that book and read every parenting book and magazine I could get my hands on because it was bible.  I high-lighted, took notes, cross-referenced information – I was ready.  Bring on the babies!

Fast forward 14 years and 4 kids later to yesterday.  

My day started out unusually smooth.  The 3 boys were dressed, teeth brushed, breakfast eaten, and we were actually a few minutes early picking up #2’s friend who I had to drop off for Middle School Camp.  We no sooner drop off #2 & his friend and #4 has his first meltdown of the day.  He could not and would not understand why a 4-year-old couldn’t go to Middle School Camp.  He screamed and kicked and threw a fit the whole way to Summer Camp.  (Remember that stay at home mom thing I planned?  Well, didn’t happen.  This is where I drop my angels every day so I can work full-time.) 

We arrive at Summer Camp.  As I’m dragging the fit throwing 4-year-old who is acting like a 2-year-old from my van, #3 keeps saying, “Why does my swim back look different?  Why Mom?  Why does it look different?” to which I snap, “It’s not different – it’s the same red bag you’ve used every single day this summer for camp.  What do you mean it’s different?”  He points to it and says, “Look at it.  It’s different.”  I stop.  Look at the bag.  Sure as shit it’s a different red bag.  Son of a biscuit making mother trucker.  I open the bag.  Good news: it has a beach towel in it.  Bad news: no swim suit.  Also bad news:  summer camp is an hour round-trip in the opposite direction of where I work.  But it’s okay.  It’s fine.  I’m sure today is field trip day, not swim day.  Riggghhht.  Counselors confirm it is in fact swim day.  I tell #3 I will get his swim suit and bring it back.  I pry #4 off a pole he’s clinging to and carry him surfboard style kicking to his room.  (Remember how I didn’t want to pull myself away from my kids to go to work?  Yeah, I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.)

I run out the door and jump in my van to begin my hour-long swim suit recovery trip when a light bulb goes off.  Well, actually it was a huge lit up red K to be exact.  I run in to Kmart, find an ugly ass but clearance priced #3 sized pair of swim trunks, throw my $7.48 at the cashier, snatch up her sharpie, write his name on his drawers and 3 minutes later I’m chucking those trunks through the door at Summer Camp and off to work I go. 

Work.  Ahhhh work.  It’s the only calm, sane part of my day.  It’s my refuge from my chaotic home life. It’s my break from the madness I created within the four walls of my home.  Many days it’s the only adult interaction I get.  I love work.

But alas, 8 hours later, it comes to an end and the real work begins again.

Back to Summer Camp. I arrive and head to the trampoline park to pick up #3.  I tell him to get his shoes so we can get #4 and go.  He can’t find his shoes.  He says they’re in the duck pin bowling area.  We trek over to the bowling alley and after searching under every bench and table we find them under the last one.  As he’s putting his shoes on, I ask him if he had fun bowling today.  He says, “Our group didn’t get to bowl.”  Ummm, okay, then why are your shoes in the bowling alley?  He has no idea.  Why would he?  I don’t even care at this point because we have his shoes and 674 more things to do.  Off to pick up the infamous incorrect red bag.  I look in the bin, it’s not there.  I ask him where it is.  He says he doesn’t know.  We walk all the way back to the trampoline park and ask some counselors.  One doesn’t know.  One says she thinks it’s in the gymnastics room.  Another counselor agrees.  Great, it’s on the other side of the building.  Before I turn to go, yet another counselor says, “Wait, did he just pull a red bag from that locker?”  Sure enough, #3 found his bag.  Kind of scary that he’s got his shit together more than the counselors but again, don’t care at this point because we have a bag. 

We finally head over to get #4.  He’s ironically playing with Lincoln logs and is in the beginning stages of a massive tower.  Because I did not sit down and wait 30 minutes for him to finish said tower, we got the wrath of 4 the whole way home…and the entire night if we’re being honest.  The kid was relentless with his screaming.  It went on through cooking dinner, eating dinner, cleaning up
dinner...off and on through the hour long football carpool trip…through his bath and into bed.  Still screaming.  HOURS of screaming.  By this point, my head is pounding.  I can’t get the kid to bed soon enough. 

Remember that cute little routine thing I planned out in my heavenly pre-parenting days?  Yeah, not so much.  I try.  I do.  I give them baths, brush their teeth, read them a book or 12 every night.  But then it’s supposed to be bedtime.  Ohhhh but not for my precious little love nugget #4.  The minute the door closes it begins.  He asks for another hug, needs to get up for a drink, needs me to tuck him in again, asks how many more sleeps until he gets to go to grandmas, gets up to pee, needs tucked in again, forgets to tell me that he farted in the pool that day, needs to poop, needs me to wipe his butt, needs me to tuck him back in for the 4^th time, calls me in to tell me his pajamas itch and his blanket smells like ham…

I. Can’t. Deal. Any. More.

Blame it on the full moon, blame it on the husband being gone for over a week, blame my lack of alcohol consumption, blame it on the HOURS of screaming I had to endure…blame it on what you will, but my patience was SHOT.  I had enough.  My thin little thread snapped.  Momma lost her shit.  Obviously I’m not proud of said shit being lost but it happened.  My house sounded like an episode of Jerry Springer live.  I screamed so loud I thought my head would explode.  It didn't - but I kind of wanted it to.  Did it help acting like a raging lunatic?  Yes and no.  After his crying switched over from I'm being an asshole and crying for no reason to an I'm terrified of my psycho ass mother whimper he finally fell asleep. Did it make me feel better?  The part where he fell asleep - hells yes. But the rest?  Absolutely not. I felt like a horrible human and an even worse mother.  I was nothing
like the mom I had planned to become before I had my litter of children.  I was beating myself up over this pretty hard when I started thinking about allll the times I didn’t flip the f out when I most certainly had probable cause but kept my cool. These moments by far outweigh the crazy ones so that’s a parenting win in my book. And the good news is...heeeee’s baaaaack!  The hubs is back - finally!  So I can put the crazy away for another nerves-are-shot kind of day and maybe learn to like my kids again. 

I will end this with a ginormous shout out to all the single parents out there. This is me a measly 8 days of doing this on my own. I’m absolutely out of my mind stressed out and I’m tapping out for a bit since the hubs is home. But you guys, you single parents who are either widowed by death or widowed by dead beat parenting, you guys are my HEROES. I do not know how you do it but I have the upmost respect for each and every one of you.  I just want to say you are AMAZING, keep doing what you’re doing and don’t beat yourself up because the only ones who can do it better are the perfect parents who haven’t had kids yet. 

Red is the New White

#2 had football pictures tonight. The pictures that are going to be blown up on individual banners to be hung on the fence at their games. I had one, just ONE request. I even put it in writing.

All I asked was for him to wear a WHITE shirt under his GREEN jersey. My fear was he’d wear a dingy old white shirt that would stand out against his brand new bright white football pants.  He didn’t just wear a dingy old white shirt. He wore one that he made himself in possibly the 3rd grade?

Yes, people, that’s 3 year old red marker on his collar with a pop of blue in the hand written “Odel Jr.”

I’m currently wondering what I did to deserve this while praying for a photo shop miracle.

Carpool Confusion

I LOVE my house.  I LOVE my neighborhood even more.  But let's be honest, it's quite a ways off the beaten path and it's no secret I HATE driving.  So as much as I don't want to move, I've entertained the idea of moving. A LOT.  However, the hubs is not on board with this idea - at all.  My solution?  I'll make him do all the driving.  Genius, right?  Well, I thought so until I got this text from a friend today.

Obviously this plan is not working out so well.  I need a plan B.  In the meantime, if you see this guy on the news for attempting to abduct a child from cheer practice, please remind him it would've been much easier to move.

I'd Rather Bathe Cats

Bobcats, even.  Tigers, pumas, panthers – you pick.  Anything other than my 4 & 6 year old. 

In my June Cleaver mind, this is how it should go:

I fill their tub with bubbles.  I call them, they immediately come.  They gently climb into the tub as to not make a splash.  They play merrily with their little toy boats while singing nursery rhymes while I clean the bathroom.  Upon command, they gladly clean up their bath toys and allow me to wash their hair and their little bodies.  They will step out of the tub and into their cute fluffy hooded bath towels and walk sleepily to their rooms where we will calmly finish their bedtime routine.

HA! 

Reality:

I fill their tub with bubbles.  I call them, they do not respond.  I walk to the top of the stairs and yell for them, they do not respond.  I scream their first and middle names at the top of my lungs.  Finally, this gets their attention.

4: NOOOOOO MOMMMMYYYYYY!!!!!  (Loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear and in a tone like I’m threatening to drown him in a tub of hot sauce rather than bathe him in a tub of bubbles.)

3 - whose middle name is Wyatt and clearly hates his middle name with a passion, screams back in a fit of fury:  I’M NOT WYATT!  YOU ARE WYATT!

Okay.  Well.  At least they’re finally listening. 

Me:  Come up here, it’s bath time.

3: No, YOU take a bath!

4:  But I’m not stinky!

Me - ignoring 3 talking back - for now:  You’re both stinky, I can smell you from here, now get up here and get in the tub.

Chaos ensues.  Fits are being thrown.  Toys start flying.  Crying is echoing through the house.

4:  But it’s not even dark out!  I can see the sun!  I can’t take a bath when I can see the sun!

3:  I’m not taking a bath until Tom & Jerry is over and you’re not the boss of me Mommy Michele!  (The worst form of criticism from 3 is to use the god awful middle name.)

Me:  Oh, but I am the boss and I’m coming down there to show you who’s boss.

As I head down the stairs I hear little feet running.  One set toward me, one set away from me.

3 comes at me:  I told you I’m the boss, not you!  YOU take a bath, not me!  I’m watching Tom & Jerry and YOU’RE going to jail!

Me: I AM the boss, YOU are grounded from Tom & Jerry and I welcome jail at this point because I won’t have to cook or bathe kids and I can just lay in my cell and sleep ALL. DAY. LONG!  Now get your butt upstairs and in the tub!

3 storms up the stairs pissed at the world while I go off to find 4.  He comes creeping out of the dining room with a sweet smile on his face.  Mr. Hyde has clearly arrived after hearing his brother get in trouble. 

4:  Hi Mommy!  I will go take a bath for you!

Me, not being fooled for a minute by his sweetness:  Great.  Go upstairs.  Get in the tub. 

We go upstairs.  3 is running around naked – and smiling?  I’m leery but not about to question it.  He goes in the bathroom and pees, only half of it making it in the toilet, then runs and jumps in the tub.  Water and bubbles fly everywhere. 

And just like that, their roles reverse.  

4 loses his shit. 

4:  I WANTED TO BE FIRST IN THE TUB – NOT HIM!!!!!

3:  HAHAHA, I beat you!!!!

I tell 4 he can be the first one out if he would just for the love of god just get in the effing tub.  He reluctantly climbs in giving 3 the stink eye.  Revenge is imminent.

I tell them to play nicely while I clean fresh urine off the walls, the outside of the toilet and the floor.  4 uses this opportunity to seek his revenge.  He steals 3’s wash cloth.  3 screams at him and starts to wrestle him for the wash cloth.  4 whips the wash cloth away spraying water across the bathroom while 3 lunges for it and plummets into the tub sloshing water over the side.  3 yells at 4 to give it back, 4 ignores him.  3 grabs 4’s cheeks and starts pinching.  4 whacks 3 upside the head with the wet washcloth (more water flying) and finally 3 releases 4 to grab his wash cloth. 

3 to 4:  You are a bad bad boy!

4:  You’re a poopy butt!

3:  No, you’re a poopy butt!

4:  (cracks up laughing) You’re a poopy butt that FARTS.

3:  cracks up laughing and makes fart noises.

Me:  Both of you stop using potty words and quit making fart noises.

Both crack up laughing because I said FART.  And just like that they’re bff’s again.  

After arguing with them to clean up their toys, it’s time to wash them up.  This task is otherwise known as time to play like Steve Irwin and wrestle crocodiles.  More bubbles fly, more water sloshes over the side.  I get a workout in that doesn't even count because my fitbit itsn't waterproof.  I stand up from the sopping wet rug with splash marks all over my clothes, hair in my face, and haul both boys out of the tub to start round 2 of wrestle mania - pajamas.  All the while wishing they were cats instead of kids. 

Throwback to the Chicago Trip

Well, guess what popped up in my Facebook Memories from 3 years ago today?  The infamous Chicago trip.  I'm sure many remember this fiasco, but for those of you who are new, here it is...


We were 4 hours from home on our way to Chicago. We just stopped to eat and #2 was barefoot. He didn't wear shoes, didn't pack shoes. So I went to the trunk to get #1's suitcase so he could wear a pair of her flip flops in the restaurant. Low and behold, she had no suitcase at all!!! So there we were at the local Walmart buying 2 new shoes and 1 a whole new wardrobe for the weekend.  Good times....#krusecrazytrain #trainwreckpartyof6 #ihatewalmart

Best Hiding Place for your Kid's Electronics

Mom hack #101: best hiding place for your kid’s electronics. #grounded #again

Shout Out To Purple William

I find it slightly interesting that a kid I’ve never met has prompted me to finally create the blog I’ve been thinking about for years.  Good ole’ Purple William.  I use the word good loosely.  In case you missed it on Facebook, Purple William has taught #3 many things this summer.  The first being this amazing song:

*disclaimer:  when I started recording the song he told me he learned at summer camp I thought he was going to sing a kumaya type song.  Not this.

But wait, there’s more…he also taught him how to hold a zip lock bag while he and some friends peed in it.  (See the super awesome text I had to send my husband last week.)

Unfortunately, he did not teach him how to pour it in the toilet without spilling it or how to do stupid shit without getting caught.  He also forgot to teach him to not nark out his friends.  Although I do not condone Purple William’s behavior and can’t say I’m excited about his teaching skills, I do feel like I owe him a thank you.  So, thank you Purple William, for the push I needed to finally create this blog.  Now please stop teaching my child your bad habits.  Trust me, he has more than enough of his own.

Meet the Kru

I’m Amber.  I’m the mom to 1, 2, 3 & 4.  By day I like to pretend I’m a professional.  By night I’m the biggest train wreck mother you’ll ever meet.  And yes, this is the best picture of me on my camera roll.

This is Kevin.  He’s the dad.  The one who can’t remember our kids’ names so he calls them 1, 2, 3 & 4.  I married this man for his patience.  He’s lost most of it somewhere between 1 & 4 but is still a saint compared to me.    

#1:  Her birth name is Alaryn.  She’s 14.  She’s my biggest helper and kind of a 2^nd mom to the boys.  I share this title because I also like to share the blame for their actions.  She’s a cheerleader and honor student but sometimes I worry about the things that come out of her mouth.  But as most of you know and some of you will learn, I have SO much more to worry about with my children.

#2:  Birth name – Griffin.  He’s 11.  He’s an athlete and a self-proclaimed ladies’ man.  The kid's got pick-up lines for days.  He’s fluent in 2 languages: English and Fortnite.  He's a fly under the radar kid - mostly when there's cleaning to be done.  

      

#3:  Birth name – Hudson.  Nickname – Wreck It Ralph.  He’s 6.  He is quirky, hilarious and does everything on Hudson time.  This one marches to the beat of his own drum.  Sometimes the drum beats slow and he just doesn’t quite ‘get it’ and other times it’s beating so fast nobody can keep up with the kid.  He’s unapologetically himself and gives ZERO f*cks about rules.  We’re working on that but it’s a verrrrrry slow process.

#4:  Birth name – Lincoln.  He’s 4.  He’s the other pea in the Hudson pod.  The Hyde to his Jekyll.  Individually he's scary enough. - when he gets with 3, watch out.  He’s my sweet little snuggler but but he’s got an ornery bone in his body that’s somehow taller than he is.  He ‘gets it’ therefore is a little more discreet about his mischievousness than his partner in crime but it doesn't usually stop him.

They're quite the Motley Kru. They make me laugh.  They make me drink.  They have given me every single grey hair, wrinkle and stretch mark and not one of them has ever apologized.  Despite that, for some reason, I've kept them.  It could be that I had too much dignity to leave them at the nearest fire station when they were babies.  It could be that I enjoy being broke and stressed out.  Could be that I'm just completely and utterly insane.  Or it could just be that I'm addicted to the madness and I just so happen to love each and every one of them despite their quirks.     

Why Motley Kru?

How did I come up with The Motley Kru?  Well, I asked my wonderful Facebook friends and they delivered!  There were SOOOO many great ideas - what can I say, my friends are super clever - however, the credit goes to THE ingenious Chris Rarric.  As soon as I read her reply I about choked on my wine laughing.  There were plenty other ideas that were super fitting and I was torn between several names but when I looked up the definition of Motely Crew it became obvious it was meant for my family.  

Merriam-Webster:

Wikipedia:

A motley crew is an informal expression for a roughly organized assembly of individuals of various backgrounds, appearance, and character.  Motley crews are, by definition, non-uniform and undisciplined as a whole. 

My Kru is definitely an unusual mixed group.  We are ALWAYS roughly organized (aka never organized).  Undisciplined as a whole?  YEP.  That about sums us up.  It was meant to be.  I changed the Crew to Kru as a play on the beginning of our last name and whala!  The Motley Kru was born!