Patches Saves The Day

On Saturday night I got a call from my mom's burglar alarm company. They called to say her alarm was going off and they couldn't get in touch with her so they'd dispatched the police. I asked if I needed to do anything, and they said no. I tried to call my mom but couldn't get her. I immediately called my friend Heather, whose Husband, Marvin was the 2012 Sheriff Deputy of the Year.  I asked Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year,  if he had access to the PD scanner to see if anything was going on, but he didn't. Apparently the Sheriff's Department and PD have separate scanners. Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year, called me right back and said he'd called the dispatch and told them to step on it. Friends in high places.

The alarm company called back and said the police were requesting a key holder come out to the house. Uh oh. She couldn't give me anymore information. The Husband and I loaded The Boy in the car and headed the 30 minutes to her house. Every opening scene of CSI that I'd ever seen went through my head. What if there was an intruder? What if my mom wasn't okay? I tried to talk myself out of panicking. The alarm company called back and said the back door was "unsecured," which was why they were requesting us to come.

Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year, called back and asked if we'd heard anything. I told him the back door was unsecured and we were requested to come. He said that might mean someone had gotten in, and that's why they needed us. Gasp. It was raining, and I was flying down the road to my childhood home, unsure what I would find when I got there. This road brought me home for holidays during college, and took me to the mall when I was in high school. The wipers sang out shish swish, shish swish. The Husband was in the seat beside me, asking if I wanted him to drive. I didn't. The Boy was in the back seat saying "Ha ha ha! Happy How-ween!" over and over again.  We're a little mixed up on the holidays. I told him we were going to check on his Pammie, which he pronounces "Mammie."  He sat in his seat, smiled, and said "Mammie. Mammie. Mammie. Ha ha ha. Happy How-ween."

It occurred to me that my mom might be at her sunday school Christmas party. That was a good sign, because if there was an intruder she wouldn't be hurt. I had The Husband call Heather because her mom is in the same class. "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween." The cell connection was spotty, but she called back to say she couldn't get in touch with her mom either. I had The Husband check facebook to see if anyone had posted about going to that party. "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween. Mammie? Mammie?" Yes, we're going to see Pammie.

I flew down my mom's road like I had so many times as a teenager, only this time the urgency was about a possible danger and not a curfew. "Happy how-ween." I saw the police car in the cul-de-sac and pulled up beside it. It was empty so I parked and headed up the driveway. I heard a voice say "you could've parked up here so you didn't have to get the baby out in the rain." Always suspicious, I said "how did you know I have a baby?!" He replied "because I just heard you say 'get the baby' when you got out of the car." Oh. Good one. My mom's car wasn't home. I could hear her dog, Patches, barking inside.

Patches is useless. He is afraid of everything. He's afraid to go outside to pee. He's afraid of bugs. He's afraid of cellphones vibrating.  He doesn't like people. He doesn't get along with other dogs. He can tolerate about 3 minutes of being petted and then he'll jet upstairs to have some alone time. If you leave him outside he'll jump the fence and run away. He gets nervous and chews on his skin, creating hot spots. Between his Prozac and Benedryl he gets 8 pills a day. He spends his days standing in my mom's shower stall. Not kidding.

The officer explained that when he arrived the back door was locked, but ajar. When he went to open it to investigate, Patches jumped up against the door and slammed it shut! The officer couldn't get back in, which is why he called us. He didn't feel like anyone was in the house but wanted to make sure. Not knowing the officer was a good guy, Patches saved the house from a potential burglar! We unlocked the door and looked around the house and didn't see any signs of any intruders. Whew! All was safe and sound. The Boy was excited to be at his Pammie's house, and he pointed to her Christmas tree and said "Mick Mick?", meaning he wanted to see the Mick Mick ornament.  Mick Mick was one of my mom's favorite first grade students in the 70s and she still has an ornament with his picture on it that she gets out every year. 

The Boy was excited about all the action. He ran in circles around Pammie's house. He looked at the officer and said "Mammie?" Obviously the officer didn't know how to respond to my child calling out a slave's name. I said "Yes, we're at Pammie's house." I emphasized the P in Pammie so that he wouldn't think we got our kid to call his grandmother Mammie. Then The Boy said to the officer "Mick Mick?" I'm not sure why the officer wouldn't know the nickname (mickname?) of my mom's first grade student from 40 years ago, or know that an ornament with his picture hangs on her tree, or understand that The Boy wanted him to take him to it. He said "Yeah" in that dismissive way we talk to kids when we don't know what they're saying, and then showed us pictures of his little boy.  We determined that the house was safe, that Patches is a good guard dog, and that we could all go home. We petted Patches and told him good job protecting the place, and we headed out. I'm sure he headed to his shower stall. 

We put pajamas on The Boy and loaded him in the car. We sighed huffs of relief and turned the car toward home, knowing he would fall asleep in a matter of minutes. On the ride home The Boy was apparently too excited to sleep. He recapped our adventure. "Mammie!" Yes we went to Pammie's house. "'Atches?" Yes, Patches saved the day. Next was "Mick Mick!" Yes, we saw Mick Mick. From time to time he'd throw in a "mama" or a "dada" for good measure. He'd been quiet for some time and we thought he'd finally gone to sleep.  Just as we were convinced he was out we heard "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween!" Happy How-ween indeed. 

The Plague

The Boy has been coughing and snotting for a week, and it got worse over the weekend. Yesterday when he woke up his eyes were so gunky his brilliant eyelashes were stuck out in a beautiful surprise like my drag queen friend Portia (who has better legs than me, by the way). He mostly wanted to sit still and watch tv in the morning, which is a good indicator that something was up, so I took him to see our ped.

My view most of the day

The ped surmised that since he's gotten worse instead of better we should try a dose of antibiotics. She said it looked as though the infection was moving up into his sinuses and coming out of his eyes. Gross.  So I went to CVS to drop off his prescription. I was talking to the lady in the drive thru and she was verifying his birthday and whatnot, and she said it would be an hour to get it filled. As we were pulling away The Boy piqued up in the backseat and said "Bock bock?". That is what he says for chicken. I didn't see a chicken anywhere, and it occurred to me that my child thought we were at a fast food drive thru window. He thought we were ordering chicken nuggets at CVS. I would've said we try to buy a lot of organic, locally grown healthy food. But apparently also a lot of drive thru chicken nuggets.

We came home to have a sick day, and mostly laid around watching "Elbow" all day. The Boy made such a mess at dinner he had to go straight to the bath. I was cleaning up dinner while The Husband did bath time and I overheard "Ahh! Where did it go? Did you pinch it back in like a good boy or is it floating around somewhere?" Then, "Okay, bathtime's over."

Later he was hanging out in the living room/office area when I heard a huge crash. Like something or someone definitely got hurt crash. I didn't see The Boy anywhere but followed the sounds of his screaming. A bag filled with dishes for my mother in law had been on the buffet and somehow it had fallen off. Onto The Boy's head. He was tucked between the buffet and the wall, with a bag of heavy dishes on his head. He couldn't even lift them off, so he just sat there and screamed. He only weighs 21 pounds himself, and I bet the dishes weighed eight. Six dessert plates and a corningware dish fell on top of him. And then sat there. Can you imagine? That would be like a small house falling off a regular house onto your head. Obviously he was fine after the initial shock wore off, and we were lucky that nothing pierced through the bag and gouged him.

This morning The Husband woke up with itchy hives all over his body. He was miserable, and he couldn't stop scratching. While I was drying my hair apparently The Boy poured out the contents of a bottle of baby oil all over the hardwood floor and then proceeded to skate in it. The Husband was trying to clean it up while keeping The Boy out of the mess. When I came out with freshly blow dried hair The Husband was angry that I'd left the baby oil out within baby's reach. When I told him I didn't appreciate his tone, he responded "I'm sorry! I'm just so itchy!!"

When he left The Boy acted like he was itchy too but I largely ignored that in hopes that it would go away (it did). Instead I took him to a puppet show. I thought he deserved that after a wild 24 hours of being sick literally up to his eyeballs, a trip to the doctor, a drive thru with no chicken, plates falling on his head, an itchy dad and parents arguing this morning. He was more impressed with the inflatable Santa in the lobby than the whole puppet show, so we should've just gone to Home Depot. Or to CVS for some bock bock.

Puppet meet and greet after the show, the only part he enjoyed

Picture (Im)perfect Christmas

When I get an idea in my head I want it to happen immediately. So when I decided I wanted to get some cute Christmas card pictures of The Boy I had to execute it that minute, without waiting for the right light or the right mood. A few weekends ago I put The Boy in 2 different holiday outfits (which The Husband hates, BTW) and took him out in the back yard to try to get some good shots for this year's Christmas card. I just let him play and tried to catch him in action doing something completely toddler and cute. It didn't go over too well. Here's what I ended up with:

Giant baby with regular sized wagon:

which looked kind of like....

The scarecrow:

Little baby calisthenics:

Baby cockatoo: 

I actually really liked that one but the grill was in the background and I felt like it looked a little......

I don't know why but something about this shot reminded me of Biff from Back to the Future. Maybe it's his hair:

Think, McFly, Think!

Boy eating a stick:

Jail break Christmas:

And a bunch more that I deleted before I thought to share them with you. Although I'm sure it's a fire hazard, I ended up using these three of him playing in the lights. Shutterfly was kind enough to let me share our finished product with you:

Patterned Pretty Holiday Card

Create custom new year's invitations at Shutterfly.com.

View the entire collection of cards.

Aldi In A Day's Work

We went to Aldi today to get groceries. If you've never been, their prices are great but the experience is.....not.  There are no luxuries. Food is displayed in the boxes it came in, the unlabeled aisles are crowded, you have to pay for bags if you don't bring your own, and you bag your own cart (which you have to rent for a quarter, by the way). There is no deli, bakery, or pharmacy. You don't go to Aldi looking for cardamoms, wheat germ, or organic grass fed beef.  You get your staples and you get out of there. 

So today it seemed like a good idea to take The Boy to Aldi. He was covered in a Pig Pen-esq small cloud of dirt and had a runny nose and a stained shirt, evidence of his playdate with his 3 year old cousin this afternoon:

This is unrelated to the story, but The Boy tries to mimic everything his cousin does. Even peeing outside. He has no clue what's going on here, but he wants in on the action. 

As we navigated the small and crowded store he refused to have any item sit in the front of the cart with him yet he wanted to hold each one. So I'd put some fruit snacks in the back of the cart, he'd yell "ehhhhh!" which means "I'd like to see that with my hands, please"and then he'd try to open them OR narrate the contents of the box "Appul..... appul..... appul..... appul..... appul." This would continue until he'd had enough and threw the box on the floor, or until I'd had enough and threw it in the cart. Some items snuck past this process, but each of the cold ones had to be inspected, announced "DOLD!" and then inventoried in the cart. He also loudly announced (often erroneously) the items we were passing. Turkeys were balls, anything canned was a bean, and all fruit were apples. If he wasn't sure about what something was he'd just yell out "dat" aka "that". We got lots of fresh veggies, good cheese, and salad dressing to make a nice salad for dinner. I don't do meat, and The Husband wouldn't go for just a salad for dinner, so his would feature fried chicken tenders on top.  

You can imagine how delightful this type of trip is. I turned my head to grab something off the shelf and a stranger said to me "that is SO cute!" I turned back around and The Boy was sitting in the cart with a box on his head. He stayed like that for a whole aisle, and peeked through to make sure people were impressed. They were. 

The O.J. has apparently been granted a reprieve. 

We were in the long line to check out and someone was getting very impatient and began fussing. A nice employee appeared from nowhere and opened a new lane for us. I was very appreciative. As I was putting my items on the conveyer belt a lady stood behind my cart and held on to the handlebar. Right where my kid was. TOO CLOSE. In my head I started calling her the CLOSEr. I pulled the cart forward from the back. Then, as I was still unloading my cart full of groceries, she started to put her food on the belt too. They were both racing toward the cashier when the CLOSEr picked up one of the stick dividers and THREW IT THROUGH THE AIR to land between our food on the belt. She was talking to The Boy the whole time, and he was largely ignoring her. "It's okay if you're being shy with me today," she said like they were old army buddies. Not only was I creeped out, I also had no where to put the rest of my groceries. Hers were taking up the whole conveyer belt and I wasn't finished unloading. I had to hand each of my remaining items over the register to the cashier. Meanwhile, the CLOSEr was telling The Boy that she'd purchased more than she'd really meant to. Giggle! Twi. Light. Zone. In my fight to get my food on the conveyer belt I'd forgotten to purchase bags. The cashier rang up all my food and was putting it, unbagged, in another cart. All this just for a good salad? 

Now, I've misplaced my debit card  I'm between debit cards, so I had to write a check like it's 1993 I've been using this as an opportunity to teach The Boy about checks. As I was making out my check the CLOSEr was right up on me, breathing her breath on me, and no doubt trying to steal my identity.  As I was writing the check she said "today's the 26th" even though I did not ask her the date. It's as if she wanted us to be those conjoined twins from TLC who operate one body from two heads. I did not tell her thank you. 

I finished my transaction and was assessing my situation: my kid and bag in one cart, with another cart filled with food. I was trying to push them both forward so I could consolidate when the CLOSEr edged me out. What is it with this woman? She bid The Boy farewell and told him that he was very funny. Afraid of a potential Amber Alert, I scooped my kid and my bag into my arms and held them both as I pushed the other cart outside. The Boy wanted to help, so I held him while he pushed the cart. I was doing the parental secret steer even while I juggled everything so he wouldn't steer us into a car. Then he said "beaut!....beaut!.....beaut!" I kept pushing. He turned to face me and said "beaut!!" with a sense of urgency. I looked around to see what he was telling me, and saw his boot had fallen off and had been abandoned in the parking lot. Beaut = boot. 

We went back for the boot. I loaded The Boy in the car. He wanted his ball. When I stood in the back seat to look for it I fell onto The Boy and his seat, which caused him to laugh hysterically. I nursed my wounds and went back to the cart to unload my unbagged food into my car. Somehow bread and chips ended up on the bottom with milk and juice on top. Obviously I'm not cut out for this. I found a bag of homemade chex mix in the back and tore into it. We went home to unload and start dinner. See this post for what that usually looks like at my house. 

I chopped vegetables (or as my south american college roommate would say "bedgetables") and got all the salad fixings ready. Then, as I went to pull the chicken tenders out of the freezer I couldn't find them. Hmmm. Someone must've eaten them all, and I should've checked before we went to the store. I combed the freezer for another suitable replacement. Surely there's something. This would just have to do. 

When the Husband came home:

Husband: Hey hon. How was your day? 

Husband (to the boy): Whoa! You are disgusting!

Boy: Da-da. 

Me: Good. 

Husband: What's for dinner? 

Me: This delicious salad with fresh veggies! 

Husband raises eyebrows. 

Me: Don't worry, yours also has................................dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets on top! 

How's that for delicious? And he ate every bite. 

Quadruple Thanksgiving

If you've seen the movie Four Christmases you'll appreciate our plight during the holidays. We're lucky enough to live within driving distance to most of our family, which means we're expected to make the rounds to everyone at thanksgiving. We had four meals in four towns in two days and as usual, it was great but CRAZY.

Here are some highlights:

Thanksgiving #1: Our house. 

We let The Boy sit at and eat from the big table in a statement of unity and family togetherness. Note the food smeared all over the table. Oh, and he's shirtless. 

When he kicked himself back from the table repeatedly he was relegated back to his high chair. Note he is now eating off the bottom of his plate. Martha Stewart has never seen the likes of this, not even in prison. She would, however, appreciate our fall centerpiece, which The Boy climbed onto the table to get more than once. 

As the only child present, The Boy wanted to make sure that all our guests were watching his antics. 

Thanksgiving #2. The Husband's Grandmother's House

The Husband is one of 18 first cousins (20 if you count step-cousins) so there are a ton of people at his grandmother's house and a ton of kids. The Boy wandered about, playing with his cousins and generally trying to escape from any adult supervision. There were children strewn all about and stacked 2 high. 

This night also included a night truck ride through the pasture for the kids. The cousins loaded up in the back, and when The Boy wouldn't sit down in the truck bed he went to the cab and drove with The Husband. Who apparently was asleep. 

Thanksgiving #3. Mother-in-law's house. 

My M-I-L's house features Victorian furniture and antique china in cabinets throughout the house. And also my toddler wielding a ball, a strong arm, and a crazy aim. Add in two 3 year olds, an infant, and The Boy's same age twin cousin who has the energy to match his. That combination makes for some close calls and nervous parents.

We were serenaded to the musical stylings of The Twin Cousins. Their music sounds a lot like when a cat runs across your piano. Being chased by a squirrel. Who has a hammer on his tail. 

Thanksgiving #4. My Dad's house. 

Here he was the only child again, an opportunity which he didn't let pass him by.  The Boy spent his evening kissin the family dog, River, on the lips. 

And he instituted the first annual Onion Toss event, which he won. 

After all that celebrating we were exhausted. And so blessed! 

On Sunday we recovered at home and put up the Christmas tree. 

Shirtless again, perhaps we are starting a holiday tradition. 

Preparing for Parenthood: Cooking Dinner

Welcome to our second installment of Preparing for Parenthood. Today we will cover preparing dinner for your family when you are a parent. Remember, this is not a tutorial claiming how to be a good parent. It's simply an exercise to prepare you for life on the other side. Once you've completed this exercise you'll be ready to cook dinner with a kid at home. You may need to practice a few times before you get the hang of it. What are you kidding? Eat in peace while you've still got the chance!

There are two variations of this exercise. If you're preparing to be the parent of a baby you'll need a bag of flour and an orange. If you're preparing to parent a toddler you'll need to assemble a string of tin cans tied to a roomba vacuum set to warp speed, or you could just borrow someone's actual kid. Mine is available, let's set up some sort of sign up sheet. No matter which version you're trying, you'll need to start at approximately 4:30pm.

For the baby version: place the bag of flour awkwardly on your hip. You'll need to place the orange precariously atop the flour and secure it loosely with one piece of floss. This will replicate your baby's floppy head and limp neck. If at any point during the dinner preparation your orange falls off, you'll have to start over. It's okay! This is only practice. Prepare dinner as usual. Do not drop the flour, do not let the orange fall off, do not allow the flour to get wet or remotely close to anything hot, and do not put the flour down. Do everything one handed.

For the toddler version: Start out with the toddler on your hip. You can't cook in this messy kitchen! Begin to sweep but abandon that when the baby won't let go of the broom. Begin measuring your ingredients with the measuring cup as far away from you as possible, so they don't fall prey to baby swipes. This works best if you have your hip and butt jutted way out into the middle of the kitchen. Once baby figures out he can't reach anything with you in this position he'll want to get down. He'll squirm and lunge stoveward just as your water begins to boil. Catch him before he lands in the boiling water and place him on the ground. He'll say "wun!" and run. This is where you'll turn on the roomba if you're using it.

As long as the kid is happy and not bleeding, you can ignore him for a few minutes while you chop vegetables. Do this quickly, as you don't know how much time you have. Allow the child to pull the pots and pans out of the cabinets, throw magnets on the floor and dance around the kitchen. Catch him just as he pours the dog's water all over the flour. Tell the dog to clean the floor as you pull the kid's hands out of his mouth to clean them. Your kitchen will look like this:

See the video from my last post if you're curious what this dance looks like

Once you've cleaned up the kid and the floor, you'll realize the beans are burning. Go to check on them and give them a little stir. While you're here, check the chicken and re-set the timer. During that time, the kid will have wandered away. You have to find him. He's pulled every toy he owns out of the cabinet in the living room and he's yelling "bump! bump!" as he jumps on the couch. Tell him no, and put him on the floor. This will start a meltdown of epic proportions.  He'll feel so betrayed and devastated that the only thing he can do is put his head under the couch cushion and weep dramatically. 

The oven timer will go off, so you'll need to take your quinoa out of the oven. (Yes, you'll cook quinoa when you're a parent.) Abandon the crying baby and the messy living room and go get the quinoa. You've scorched the beans so you'll have to determine if they can be salvaged. The quinoa is ready, the beans are burnt, the chicken is raw in the middle, and the peas haven't been opened yet. It's time to triage: ignore the first two and deal with the second two.  Oh, but wait! What about the baby? He's stopped crying and is quiet. Yay! He's feeling better. But where is he? Do a visual sweep of the room. You found him. He was squatting beside the unswept lunch remnants, licking the dog door, with a bottle of paprika in his hand.  At that point you'll also notice that the dog has taken a box of tampons outside and scattered them in the yard. Indifferent, you'll leave those there for now. 

Scoop up the kid against his will. Hold him while he fights to get down as you answer the phone. It's your partner. "I have to work the day after Thanksgiving" he/she says. That seems like a long time from now. You accidentally talk loud because you can't hear over the baby's protests to get down. "BUT WHAT ABOUT TONIGHT? ARE YOU COMING HOME TONIGHT?!" you ask, exasperated. He/she confirms that he is, indeed, leaving in a few minutes. Whew! 

Alas, you've still got cooking to complete. You decide you'll turn on Sesame Street to entertain the boy, but you can't find the right remote that gets you to Netflix. Search for it to no avail while the kid pulls more stuff onto the floor. He'll have to watch real tv. You find the regular remote but the only thing on PBS is the show about real animals that he's really too young for. Maybe it'll last for a few minutes, but if you leave him in the living room he's bound to jump on the couch again. Hold him on your hip as you angle the tv toward the kitchen. Drag the high chair into viewing distance and plop him in. 

At this moment you become the parent you always said you'd never be. Toss a toy onto the high chair tray, scoop some burnt green beans beside the toy, and walk back into the kitchen to finish dinner. It is 6:00. 

Moments later your partner walks in. He/she surveys the huge mess of toys all over the living room, then the pots and pans in the kitchen floor. That will be met by dog water on the floor, and the aroma of quinoa, chicken, and burnt beans. The microwave timer will be sounding as music plays from PBS. The child, ever an angel, will smile broadly at him/her and reach out for a hug. 

Your sweet little family will sit down to a dinner of tough chicken, burnt beans, bland quinoa, and cold black eyed peas. The baby will throw much of his on the floor, where the dog patiently awaits. Your partner will turn to you with lies in his eyes but kindness in his heart and tell you that dinner is delicious. Then he/she will stoop down to give you a kiss, but you'll respond with "I almost forgot! I've got to get the tampons out of the back yard before it rains!"

Story Time = Rock Concert for Toddlers

Sometimes we go to toddler story time at the library on my days off.  It helps to break up the monotony stimulate The Boy's brain, develop social skills, and create an appreciation for culture. It's a wild free for all where the kids go wild and the parents sit back, and boy is it a trip. Basically it's a lot like going to a rock concert with a bunch of drunk people:

There's singing. There's dancing. There's that one guy at the front who's dancing to his own beat, oblivious to what the rest of the crowd is doing. There are people falling down and running into things. New friendships are forged based on the pure awesomeness of today's good vibes. As the show progresses, there are guys in various stages of undress. You'll probably see some PDA.

My kid is in the green hoodie. The kid beside him is a stranger. Boy on the right is getting fresh. 

The leader is a crazy cat lady looking hippie with hair down past her butt. She's super fake excited about boats and monsters and whatever today's theme is. She has songs and motions and cargo pants. Kids rush the stage. They'd crowd surf if only they knew how. She has to ask them to sit down and remember the safety of others. These rebels do neither!

Having a toddler is like being a DD all the time. You're expected to be the more responsible between the two of you. You're expected to get your person home in one piece. You're expected to keep up with his coat and bottle and bag. You follow behind him picking up the trail of debris he left behind in his public angry outburst. You're expected to point him in the right direction when he runs into the table, and you are almost always discouraged from escalating the situation when he gets into a fight with a stranger. You apologize to the other DDs on his behalf when he steps on a finger or pushes past someone, and they nod and smile like it ain't no thing, because their little drunk person barely noticed. You can all smile and laugh in unison when your person geeks out to a particularly moving rendition of Skinnamarinkee Dinkey Doo, because man, that's the jam.

Preparing for Parenthood: Co-sleeping

Y'all! Blogspot tells me that this blog has had more than 8,000 hits from people in 10 countries. Crazy, huh?! Like Sally Field, "you like me- you really like me!" I'm no expert at parenting since I've just had this one kid for this one year, but since you're reading I'm going to do a series on preparing to be a parent. People always say nothing can prepare you to be a parent. That's not true. I'm going to give you real world experiential activities to prepare you to be a parent, one issue at a time. Today we tackle co-sleeping.

There are many advocates of co-sleeping that preach its many benefits. I'm not one of them.  I used to be on our local child fatality review board and was traumatized from the high incidence of co-sleeping related infant deaths that we staffed on that committee. I said I'd never let my kid sleep with me. After night feedings we always returned him to his bed. We let him learn to self soothe and fall asleep on his own. When he woke up in the night we patted his back and put him back in his crib.

But eventually, you have a sick kid, or you go on vacation, or you've got a teething toddler, and no matter what your theoretical approach to sleep, that kid WILL sleep in your bed. This post is to prepare you for those nights. By following this fool proof method, you'll know what it's like to co-sleep in just ONE NIGHT!

To fully get the co-sleeping experience, you're going to need your partner and another friend to help. Have your friend come in and place a bunch of dog bones and ink pens under your fitted sheet. As you and your partner sleep, the bones will jab into you at awkward angles and the pens will stab you in the night. This will simulate anytime your child is still during the night. If you rearrange your body so as to not touch any of the bones, your friend will begin to cry.

You'll also need a cantaloupe or other melon with a rough surface. As you and your partner sleep on the dog bones, have your friend roll the melon around in the bed. Make sure he or she takes careful precautions to rub it with force against your bare skin, creating friction burns. This simulates the baby bulldozing his head into you as he changes positions. This should occur between each transition throughout the night.

Somewhere about 11pm place a heavy duty spring between you and your partner. Sleep this way, being pushed apart so that you have to hold on to the sides of the bed. At midnight have your friend replace the spring with one of those small, bottom weighted punching bag toys. Have it bounce upright and sign "thirsty." Lay it down, only to have it bounce back up and sign thirsty again. Do this 7 times. Then get up and fix it a sippy cup of milk. Spill some milk in the bed.

Around 2 am have your friend roll the melon off the bed onto your floor. This simulates the baby falling off the bed in the night, and should be followed by a 20 minute recording of a hyena giving birth.  Babies seem to think that beds are round, like the earth, so they will be shocked and hurt that they could fall off the edge. It's like a reverse Christopher Columbus. You and your partner should both wake up, turn on the light, and search the screaming melon for bruising. You may take this opportunity to blame each if you have the energy.

Replace the melon back in the bed. When you've finally drifted back to sleep have your friend take a 20 pound bag of sugar and wedge it between you and your partner. The sugar should be approximately 100 degrees. Have it rotate every thirty minutes like the handle of a faulty jack in the box.  At 3:00 am the jack in the box will pop and scare you out of your slumber. Have your friend place the sugar on top of your chest. Sleep that way for the next hour. Anytime you try to gently roll to your side and lay the sugar on the bed, have your friend frantically pull your hair and grasp at your face. At this point you'll wonder how people who co-sleep every night ever have the opportunity to make any additional children.

At 5:00 am have your friend sit the sugar up straight with the cantaloup balancing on top. Begin to play the hyena recording again. At this point your partner will need to sit up, search for the remote, and find Curious George on netflix. You and your partner will go back to sleep, leaving the sugar sitting upright in the bed between you. Right now you're judging. This is how it will go, I promise. The sugar will eventually fall over onto your partner's arm, where it will stay until his/her arm falls asleep. Carefully, carefully, help your partner pull his/her arm out from under the sugar like a highly sensitive booby trap.

As you lay crucially still on the dog bones with the hot sugar on your arm, pens digging into you, the cantaloupe pressing into your face, the scent of sour milk in your nose and Curious George playing in the back ground, you will eventually fall back asleep. Fifteen minutes later your alarm will go off telling you to get up for the day. You will notice your baby sleeping peacefully.

Jaws 2.0

On Tuesday I had to go back to Emory for my 3 month post-op check up. If you don't know what I'm talking about see this post to get caught up. Since it was my day off, I had The Boy with me. My last check up one month out was easy breezy, in and out. My Australian doctor even told me I had dark and mysterious eyes. I thought this one would be the same. It was not.

When I got there, they couldn't find me in the computer. I spelled my names for them multiple times, and when they told me I wasn't in the system I produced my last bill that said I owed them $162 to ensure them I was. Oh look, they found me. But then they said I didn't have an appointment. I told them "Val" called me to remind me yesterday. Hmmm. They said. The Boy was in his stroller observing everyone in the waiting room while this was happening. He likes to look around and around until someone falls prey and makes eye contact with him. Then he bats his eyes and grins shamelessly until they leave or something more interesting happens. They told me they'd "work me in." Oh H No. This was not good.

We sat and waited. And waited.  Eventually he signed to me "all done", indicating he wanted to run loose like a wild rabid raccoon. He ran in circles in the waiting room. He sucked on the windows to the hallway. He banged on the door to the office. He "jumped" up and down yelling "bump! bump!" He tried to climb on the free standing hand sanitizer stand. He stood inches from other patients and stared at them until they were forced to look at him. I'm a professional in the child development field, so I know it is not appropriate to ask a 15 month old to sit quietly for long stretches of time. Or ever. However, I am also an actual human, so I also know it is not appropriate to let your child do these things for extended periods of time. A nurse came out and told me it'd be another 15-20 minutes. I told her we were going down the hall to neurology to look at their fish tank.

When we came back a cute young resident was looking for us. I loaded The Boy back in his stroller and the cute resident held the door open for us and we followed him down the hall. He talked to The Boy and asked his age and name. We liked him. He asked me to stop in front of an office door and got a young female employee's attention just to look at The Boy. She oohed and ahhed and The Boy gave her a half smile. Cute resident took us to a room, where we waited. The young girl came by to see The Boy again. And we waited.

The Boy wore his tie to our appointment. He's very formal.

An hour and a half after we got there, the Australian came in to see me. By this point we were well beyond the point of no return. My bag of tricks was used up and we were past paper cups and latex gloves for entertainment. I'd even gone through the secret weapon bag of marshmallows I brought. The Boy was not even impressed with the doc's accent. He mostly rared his body back in a shrimp position and screamed.

Dr Aussie: Hel-lo. You brought the faml'y for suppoyt I see. D'ya think he cou'd sit in his chaya for a few minutes moor while we do the exam?
Me: I don't know. He's been waiting for a long time. I think we're past the point of no return.
Dr. Aussie: Alright then, letsee if he can sit with you in this chaya then?
Me: Okay. (He wasn't happy in the chair)
Dr. Aussie: Alriyght, if we need to we can go get one ov the nusses to help. Theya bedda with children than Iyam.
Me: Okay.
Dr. Aussie: Open yoor mouth until it's kompfable. Joost kompfable. Okay. Does this hert? Does this? Any pain heeya? How bout heeya?
(The Boy wasn't having any of this. DONE. Dr. Aussie asked me to hold on a moment. He left the room and came back with a nurse. )
Dr. Aussie: Alriyght, this is Gwen. She's one ov ouwer nusses. Would it be okay if he went with her for a few minutes so we coould continue? (I don't know which one of us was gladder to see this happen. The Boy jumped at the chance to get out of there, the doc was relieved that he could complete the exam, and Gwen looked excited to play with a baby. I was happy to just lay my head back on the 'chaya' and relax for a minute.)

Gwen stood in the doorway with The Boy. She asked if he could walk and I told her no, he could only run. She laughed as if that was a joke and asked if she could let him walk in the hall. When I indicated she could, she let him down and he was gone. Startled, she ran after him.

Dr. Aussie finished the exam. He said the word "jawr" three times. He asked if I've been taking "loortab" for pain. The bottom line is that it has improved some but not much, and I can choose to do another irrigation procedure involving a scope or full fledged "open surgery" which involves him cutting into my face. I'm not sold on either of those, but I'd also like to talk and eat and yawn again so I don't know yet what I'm going to. Also, it depends on if I'll get more laughing gas.

Soon Gwen came back with The Boy. I heard them before I saw them. "Ba-roon. Ba-roon. Ba-roon." He was in her arms, a green helium balloon on a tiny short string in his hand. Mind you this is not a pediatric facility, I don't know where he rustled up a ba-roon but I'm sure it involved batting those eyes again. Gwen said "he saw that balloon and he said balloon over and over again. I hope it's okay." Oh, he said it so you just gave it to him? Yep, that's pretty much exactly how we do things at home. No worries. We thanked Gwen and I loaded up the stroller. The Boy indicated that under no circumstances would he be getting back into it, so I put his bag in the seat and balanced him atop the handle bar, while I held him steady and held his baroon with one hand and steered with the other. We wobbled out of the exam room. As I steered us down the hall, people waved and called to The Boy by name. The Boy had obviously made quite a name for himself during his jaunt at Emory. Even a fellow patient shouted goodbye to us and waved. The Boy called out his farewell "baaa!" with a wave and a grin like he was getting out of jail. The cute resident appeared to open doors for us. We were a one man parade: he the parade master and me the float driver. And this is how it's going to be from now on. I wish I had a picture but I don't have enough hands.

The week in review

Our house has been getting back to normal after the Vomityville Horror that was last week's stomach bug. When I'm not working it's your typical, run-of-the-mill toddlerfest. Last week The Boy drank old milk from under the couch, set off my car alarm, ate a mouth full of styrofoam, spilt his spill proof cup of milk all over himself and then fell asleep in it, and somehow got under the sink and turned on the disposal. And here's a play by play of some more of last week's highlights, complete with pics.

On Monday I yelled at The Boy for repeatedly getting into the diaper pail. Unfazed,  he made his best monster growl at me in response.

On Tuesday I loaded up The Boy to drive to Atlanta for a recheck of my TMJ. Half way there I wondered why they didn't call me beforehand to remind me like they usually do. I pulled over on the side of the road to double check my calendar, which confirmed my appointment isn't for two weeks. We turned around and went home. Here's The Boy, with his eyes as tiny slits, pretending like he's not about to fall asleep in the car on the way.

The city dug up some of the street to fix our neighbor's sewer line, which meant there were heavy equipment tractor contraptions when we got home. Here's The Boy rolling his eyes that I would take his picture when he's trying to do testosterone man things like inspect sewer tractors. 

Mom! 

On Wednesday I let Sesame Street supervise The Boy for a few minutes while I went to fix his lunch, about 10 feet away. I couldn't believe he was content for so long, and bragged to myself on his growing attention span. I stuck my head in the living room to look in on him and saw that he had found, peeled, a squished a banana all over the floor and chair. He was quite proud, see?

On Thursday I got mad toddler props for letting The Boy wear the hand me down squeaky shoes his cousin gave him to school. We reserve these for places where we aren't in earshot. He was quite pleased with the results, and created a drunken-hunchback-butler dance to celebrate. 

On Friday we went to a benefit for Nuci's Space. The Boy loved the live music, and rushed the stage repeatedly. He tried to get on the stage, and indicated he wanted to play the guitar for the crowd. He was not even discouraged by the fact that he's never had a music lesson in his life. He also found and ate a single piece of ice from the parking lot. Now you just think about why a single piece of ice would be in the parking lot. I don't even want to know whose mouth it was spat from. 

And on Saturday my friend Sarah and I went antique shopping. That's right. I do kid stuff, I mix up my appointment days, I blog about kid stuff, and I antique. In the words of Fergie: 

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S. 

Breakfast of champions

The Husband is a great dad. He's very hands on and involved with The Boy. He'd never changed a diaper before The Boy was born, and though he loved his niece and nephew, he had very little tolerance for their spit up. But since day one he's changed diapers, volunteered night shifts, and played in the floor with The Boy. It melts my heart to see this jock from high school sing Itsy Bitsy spider and point out dogs in board books. Watching him be a dad has made me fall in love all over again.

This morning The Boy woke up at 5:30. He's been pulling this stunt lately since he's cutting two molars. The Husband got up with him and I kept wallowing in the bed. When I got up I needed to be filled in on where to start helping, so I asked about his morning routine so far. This is the exchange that took place:

Me: has he had a diaper change?
Husband: no
Me: Did you give him Tylenol?
Husband: no
Me: Did you put miralax in this milk?
Husband: nope, forgot.
Me: what have y'all been doing?
Husband: watching zombies on tv.
Me: How bout his appetite meds?
Husband: I thought we weren't doing that.
Me: it's time to start it back. What'd he have for breakfast?
Husband: marshmallows.
Me: marshmallows?
Husband: yeah, out of the Lucky Charms.

Awesome. There's no judgement here, some mornings are just like that. And here's The Boy teething on, not eating, a bagel on the way to school. About a minute and a half after I took this picture, he fell asleep in an apparent early-morning-zombie-marshmallow-rave fueled stupor.

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!