Children are disgusting

I was getting my pilates on at the Y yesterday when someone from the childwatch came in to tell me that The Boy was throwing up. My first thought: oh no, I hope he's okay. Second thought: gross.  Let me set the record straight right here and now. Children are disgusting. Anyone who says it's different when it's your own kid is lying to you. They put their hands in nasty things. They put nasty things in their mouths. Nasty things come out of them. Their vomit is disgusting. Even when they are your own.

I peeled his wet clothes off and put him on a fresh set without gagging. He was acting fine, so we went to the grocery store before we went home. Then it was nap time. Nap time goes like this: I put him down in his crib and shut the door. He cries for a minute and then sleeps for exactly 30 minutes. I run around like flight of the bumblebees doing laundry or work or anything that needs two hands or less than an air traffic control amount of background noise. 30 minutes. 30. minutes. If I'm really lucky I may get 45. We get two of these a day.

Thirty minutes came and went. Then 45. Then an hour. WHAT?! You would not believe the amount of things I was doing. I was completely manic. I cleaned like the way you clean when your in-laws are on their way over right now for a surprise visit. I baked two chocolate pound cakes. I called the Lowe's repairman. I started a casserole for dinner. He slept for three hours. 3. Hours. I thought this must be the way those do-it-all moms do it all. Their kids are good nappers.

When he woke up I tried to get him to eat some lunch.  Then, as he was sitting there happily eating some crackers, up it came. He spurted up his lunch all over his shirt, his lunch, the tray, and the high chair. He made a pitiful little cry like he was confused and he didn't like throwing up. I made a little cry like I realized I'd be in charge of clean up. Cleaning up vomit is bad enough, but holding a wet, smelly, crying baby while you do it makes it even worse.

He seemed to feel better throughout the day. I made him some plain pasta and he ate it quickly. He was climbing on the furniture when the next wave came. Splurt. It was like a fountain flowing out of his confused little face. And there was the pasta. Whole. It was like watching him eat in rewind. Gross, you say? I agree. Oh, and this time it was on the couch, and on the floor, and on me. I picked him up and wiped him off so I could hold him without him slipping through my hands. I kicked the dog out of the room because she was way too curious. I stripped my pants off right there. Still holding stinky baby, I started unzipping and peeling the covers off the couch cushions to wash them. The Boy promptly crawled up on the cushionless couch and looked for treasures. He found a pacie, which he hasn't used in at least 6 months. I was fighting with the cushions with my hands and wiping vomit off the floor with a paper towel using my foot when I noticed The Boy had something in his mouth. He wouldn't offer it up voluntarily so I had to do a pry finger swipe. What's that? Oh, just a Shiner Bock bottle cap he'd found under the cushion. Excellent. In the midst of it my bare hand touched vomit. Yelch. The Boy climbed down off the couch, into the vomit and tracked it on the floor. I yelped.

When The Husband came home there were no cushions on the couch. They'd been stripped of their covers and were stacked high on top of the chair. There were cracker crumbs on the ottoman, and in addition to the toys scattered around, there was a sippy cup of pedialite on the floor. The hard wood floor was wet with cleaner. The dog was locked out. I had no pants on. The baby was naked. Welcome home, hon! Want some dinner? When your kid has a stomach bug and you're fixing dinner for yourself you can't help but think "what would I not mind potentially throwing up tomorrow?" It's a fact. Kids are disgusting. He's much better now, thanks for asking.

Saved, By the Bell.

Y'all know I love to throw a good party. This week I turned 31. Now I know 31 is not historically a go-all-out mile marker in the timeline of life, but I was fat, post-partum, exhausted, and in no mood to party when I turned 30 so I called for a do-over. To the tune of Saved By The Bell.  Just like Jessie Spano, I was so excited....so excited......so scared! That's right, we celebrated 90s style. If you have no idea what I just said you should just stop reading right now.

We had 20ish people over to hang out, watch some football and STBT, eat junk food, and reminisce about the good old days when mom would let us call the radio station long distance to request a song to that boy we liked.  Guests were strongly encouraged to wear 90s attire and they delivered. Unlike our parties in the 90s, there was very little making out and no one spent the entire party crying in the bathroom because their boyfriend Nigel brought them flowers. I'm not naming names. Also no one threw a single chicken nugget.

Refreshments included zebra cakes, ruffles with french onion dip and Sunny D, the perfect after school snacks. Of course we also had marshmallow Screech on a Stick, and candy caffeine pills inspired by the episode where Jessie gets addicted.  Here, Jon Harvey is deep in thought about why SBTB was set in Indiana for the middle school years but moved to California during the high school seasons. And whatever happened to Nicki and Mikey? 

You'll notice the kitchen was decorated like The Max: Zach and the gang's favorite after school hangout. It was totally tubular. 

          

  

Heres' some of the gang watching the Georgia game.  Please note there are denim jumpsuits, a licensed and official Bayside sweatshirt, side ponytails, shirts knotted at the waist, and a guy in cuffed jeans. My friends are awesome. 

 As expected, my friend Kati took the theme seriously and found an authentic Jessie Spano-esq block print blouse and denim skirt. Bonus- she had Sam and Libby's and an acid washed purse in addition to her fancy "S shaped curls." My dress had a border of tiny black flowers and I was rocking the trouser socks as a thing look.

         Great outfits:

Sarah even had a banana clip in her hair. Details!

I'm not sure what's going on here but Creighton was sporting the Bayside sweatshirt, off the shoulder while Thomas rocked the plaid blazer. And this is unrelated, but what amazing calf muscles. Do you run track for Bayside, girl? 

Here I am with my friend Nathan in my Lisa Turtle inspired acid washed denim jumpsuit with leopard print and puff paint trim. The collar says I'm serious, but the shoulder cut outs say I'm sassy. 

Thanks to my friend Kati.......And OBVIOUSLY this goes without saying but the awesomest thing of the night was my birthday well wishes from Mark Paul Gosselaar, Zach Morris himself! Man, Kelly and Tori are going to be so jealous!

Showing Off

The wonderful thing about having a blog is that you can just say whatever you want without any the social burdens of face to face conversation. For example, you don't have to wonder if you are boring your audience, if you are hogging all the conversation without letting your peers talk, and if you're talking too much about your kid. You know you are. And that's okay.

The audience gets the benefit of only tuning in for the interesting parts or just leaving the conversation all together without being rude. It's a win win. Wouldn't parties be so much better with blog rules? Today's post is about me indulging in things I enjoy because this is my space and I can do whatever I want. So today I want to veer from our usual posts to show off demonstrate my newest pinterest fueled obsession that my husband hates  hobby, refinishing/repurposing furniture!

Here are some of the gems I've finished in the last few months.

Exhibit A: Pie Safe

When my grandmother was growing up this pie safe was in her aunt's house.  It folds up to slide under the bed for storage. It was in wonderful condition so we just painted it to update it and use in The Boy's room. I'm sure antique purists cringe at the thought of painting it, but now we are actually using it, which is infinitely cooler than not using it.  I love the history, the function, and the freeness of this. 

Pie safe, folded up for storage

Pie safe as storage in The Boy's room

Exhibit B: Recycling

We've had a dilemma of what to do with our recycling for a while. Our kitchen is small and has minimal cabinet space. We originally kept the city recycling bins in the enclosed carport, but they had to go when we refinished that room into (insert movie sound effect echo) The Man Room. We had two small trash cans in the kitchen for recycling, but the dog and the baby felt like they had been commissioned to go through each item and ceremoniously toss them around the kitchen like a flower girl at the wedding of Shiner and Bock.   I wanted something that concealed the bins so that a.) our trash wasn't trashy looking and b.) it kept the dependents from smelling like hops. SO, I was glad when I found this antique wooden cabinet at the thrift store for $20. 

I whacked out the shelf so that our trash cans would fit inside, repainted it white, and added new hardware: 

I also created a shelf out of old shutters we took out of our bathroom when we updated it.  I just ripped the rusty hinges off, nailed the two pieces together at a 90 degree angle, and added hooks from Lowe's.  Voila! Trash is hidden, and I love the look of this small space. 

Exhibit C: Sewing table/bed side table

This last one wasn't planned but my mom saw this old sewing table at Goodwill for just $10. I wasn't sure what I was going to use it for but I knew my house needed it. This one took by far the most time and effort. I sanded, stripped, sanded, stripped, primed, painted, and sanded it. Whew!

Before picture. I ripped the bottom out, as seen on the left 

Here is a layer of black tar/sludge that I unearthed early on. I didn't really know what I was getting into but I think the technical term for this is shouldhaveleftitwellenoughalone. 

Eventually it made a nice bed side table for the guest bedroom. I found the lamp at the thrift store for $5 and added a new shade. 

I love, love, love my projects. Now I'm looking for a storage solution for the toys that have staged a coup and overthrown our living room. These toys are pretty strong willed, so I'll have to get something really specific to fit the space/look/feel/functionality requirements. It's been elusive so far, so I may just have to reclaim and repurpose something else....

Thanks for indulging me. 

Jaws

A few weeks ago I had a procedure to "irrigate my jaw" at Emory. I've been having TMJ pain since February and it hurts to eat or talk or yawn. Like a koala, eating, talking, and yawning are pretty much how I spend my entire day so this felt like a big deal to me. 

Let me rewind. My office has this big annual Mardi Gras fundraiser which I'm sort of in charge of. It brings in about $10,000 for our agency each year so it's a high pressure night. You may remember this post, which references it. About two weeks before Mardi Gras my jaw started hurting something fierce. I went to my dentist who thought it was stress related night grinding that was causing the TMJ pain. He adjusted my splint which I do not wear at all, ever, and told me to wear it. Done. It didn't help. So he adjusted it again. No better. Four times in two weeks I went to the dentist. He took x-rays, realigned my bite, adjusted my splint. No help. He threw his hands up, perplexed, and referred me to an oral surgeon. 

The oral surgeon looked at my x-rays and sent me for an MRI. I got a sitter. I scheduled an MRI. I laid still in a coffin with piped in jackhammering for 45 minutes while they fancy laser photographed my head. I got a phone call that they forgot some shots and we'd have to do it again. I got a sitter. I scheduled an MRI. I laid still in a coffin with piped in jackhammering for 45 minutes while they fancy laser photographed my head. Again. 

I went back to the oral surgeon. He told me my discs were out in my TMJ joint on both sides. The oral surgeon, who has the words "oral" and "surgeon" right in his name said "I think you should go to Emory and talk to them about oral surgery." He gets paid the big bucks for that. 

I drove an hour and a half to Emory. I waited an hour and a half to see the doctor. I was getting frustrated with all the waiting and I was all caught up on Draw Something when the doctor came in. He was generally unimpressive until he spoke. He was Australian. I love people with accents more than I love black people, so suffice it to say I was impressed. He talked to me for a long time about the pain in my "jarw." I swear to you I had to fight to listen to what he was saying because I was so busy trying to remember how he was pronouncing things. My face said "I'm listening, I understand" but my brain was saying "jarw. jarw. jarw. heeheehee." He said my MRI was "taribble; ACTshually one of the wurst" he'd seen. He told me to "avoiyid chewing or biting hod foods, proloonged tawlkng and kis-sing." My TMJ had nothing to do with the fact that I was drooling: I was in love. In my language-lust stupor I impulsively signed up for a surgical procedure. Oh, and an investigational study with experimental drugs. I drove an hour and a half back home. 

So I went earlier this month to have my jaw irrigated. They take a large needle and inject it into your jaw, lubricate it, add the investigational drug or placebo, and hope that it wiggles your disc back into place, alleviating the pain in your "jarw." The success rate is 50-60%. Thankfully you are put under for this. The nurses tried three times to IV me but my veins kept collapsing. They said they were going to take me in the exam room and give me nitrous oxide to help plump the veins.

I'd never had laughing gas but I LOVED it. Some people think things are funny when they have it. I thought I was hilarious. I was cracking jokes left and right, talking to the nurses and doctors, and picking on a certain Emory resident who was all like "I'm a doctor at Emory and I'm a hot shot, and I use my status to pick up chicks in bars."

 In the exam room the doctor walks in, ready to perform the procedure. They mentioned that I hadn't had an IV. "How many times have they stuck you?" he asks, all Australian like. Hot Shot Resident interrupted to say "just three" as though Emory is in the business of taking 10 attempts at IVing people. Then, Dr. Aussie turned into a medical Gordon Ramsey. "JOST THREE?!" He screamed. Oh, I liked him even better. He turned to a nurse and said "get me a wawm towel, please." She told him they didn't have any warm ones. He said "It's cuwld a microwave! Wet it, wawm it, please!" She complied. Then Dr. Aussie took my arm in his lap and IVed me himself. I said ouch out loud, but it was far away and way too late. He told me I was feeling the medicaytion, I asked him how he knew. "You sound lyke you've hod three shots of whis-kay" he said. 

When I came to, I was in the recovery room. My mom was there and she reported the first thing I said was "that doctor is not as cute as he thinks he is." Yikes! Dr. Aussie walked by and waved. "Yoo said some great stuff in theya" he said as he walked by. NO!

My mom, kind and compassionate as she is, took this opportunity to take blackmail pictures of me in my vulnerable state, where I am apparently pretending to be a robot. Talk about not being as cute as they think they are:

And is my jarw all better now? Nope! I feel some improvement but I think I'm going to have to go back. And next time I'm brushing my hair. 

Beach. Bum.

 

A few weeks ago we went with The Husband's family to the beach. Six adults. Two one year olds. Two three year olds. In one house.  I only thought I'd experienced chaos before this. Do you remember the monkeys' wild spree of destruction in Jumanji? That was us.  I suddenly knew what it'd be like to have two sets of twins. We determined that we may never get to relax on vacation again, or at least not for the next ten years. Here is a picture of the inside of our beach house after we'd been there 10 minutes.

The babies have just discovered volume. They particularly enjoyed screeching and squealing loudly at high pitches in response to one another.  At one point my sister-in-law said she felt like we were guests in a bird sanctuary. More like prisoners. Here they are having corn in a wagon, looking like a sweet little summer post card:

 

But most of the time it looked more like this: 

 One pulling and/or pushing, while the other spills something.

Family pictures on the beach were the best. We got everyone awake at the same time, moderately clean and in coordinated dress, and even within the same vicinity on the beach. That in itself was an effort of military proportion. Of course we could not guarantee that they'd actually be happy on top of all of that so some of the shots ended up like this:

 

We also ended up with several shots of the children looking at the camera, but adults wagging fingers and making threatening faces at them. In the end my favorite picture of the week turned out to be the impromptu, naked, wearing daddy's hat on the beach shot. I'm thinking this will be one for his senior yearbook.