Birth Control

Yesterday BeYoYo took a longer than usual nap after The Boy's soccer game. At one point I heard him talking on the monitor but then it was quiet again, so I figured he'd fallen back asleep. When he woke up for real, I went up to go get him. I was on the stairs on my way up when I could smell what happened. It was stanky.

I opened the door of his room and was assaulted with the smell of poop. It was like a thick cloud pushing me back out of the room, and BeYoYo laughed at my physical reaction. I asked him if he poopooed, and he smiled. I pulled up the back of his shirt to look (why?) and saw poop not only in his diaper, but also up his back and on his shirt. Gag.

We don't really use his changing table anymore because he's Frank the Tank, but I needed something that could be washed easily, so I carried him at arm's distance to it. When I laid him down on the too-little changing table I noticed there was also poop on his hand. A lot of poop. On his hand. Dried. I think he'd done the ole poop scoop during nap. GAG. He laughed at my gag. And then I saw poop on his chin. GAAAAG. He looked like some Lifetime story of a feral child raised by wolves and never socialized with humans. In the movie he'd walk on all fours and forage with the pack for meat and shelter, and the pack would love him like their own. I think they'd call it Beyoyo's Journey.

I called The Husband on speakerphone. It was a code brown situation.

Where are you??
-On my way home.
But where?
-About to turn on our road. Why?
BeYoYo played in his poop at nap and I need reinforcement.
-Awesome.

I wiped the poop butt and tossed the diaper. I pulled off the shirt and shorts and tossed them in the laundry. I wiped off his back, and carried him at a distance to the tub. He cried that he wanted his brother in the bath with him, but I didn't dare add anyone to this bath.

The Husband came in to help. He asked what I needed.
"Well, someone needs to empty the trash in his room. And open a window! And pull the cover off the changing pad and put it in the wash. Do you want to do that or bathe him?"
"What about the sheet?" he asked.
"I haven't had a chance to check it yet." I told him.
-"I'll bathe him" he said, clearly weighing his options.
"Okay.... And there's poop on his hand and his chin" I added as I walked out of the bathroom.

I went in his room and took the trash out first. I turned on the fan and opened a window. I tossed the changing pad in the hamper with his clothes, and went to the bed. There was poop on the quilt. There was poop on the sheet. There was poop on the pillowcase. I stripped it all off and tossed it in the hamper, and took the hamper down to put in the washer. The Husband finished washing him and put some fresh clothes on him. Then The Husband sprayed Lysol everywhere he could think of and lit every candle in our house. So then it smelled like Lysol and fresh meadows and vanilla and autumn breeze all at once. And also poop.

Several hours later our neighbors came over to grill out with us. I was taking my neighbor upstairs to show her something and The Husband yelled "don't let her go up there! It smells like poop!"

Here is my lesson for the day: if you think you might be ready to have children, light a bunch of candles with competing scents until you've got a migraine, and don't let your neighbors into parts of your house. Once you've got that sensory scenario playing out, imagine what it would be like to clean up someone else's poop from multiple surfaces in your home (it's not true when people say it's not as bad when it's your kids). Then invite two small monkeys in to run around while all of this is happening. If you don't feel like you're ready for this scenario, please practice safe sex. It could happen to you.

First People Problems

BeYoYo isn't feeling well. I took him to the doctor, who said it's just a cold. When I do take him, it's just a cold. When I don't, it's pneumonia.

So he coughed and cried in his sleep. He woke up briefly at 4:00, but I couldn't go back to sleep after I heard him on the monitor. I laid in bed until he coughed and cried at 5:00, then I got up to give him his pacie. He went back to sleep again until 6:00. The Husband got up with him, and started cleaning. 

He cuddled and coughed, took a bottle, ate a banana, then threw up from coughing. Twice. 

Waking up early gives me a false sense of time, I tend to think I've got all the time in the world. Once both kids were up I took the crock pot out of the fridge and turned it on. It was actually the dinner we were supposed to have last night, but I'd forgotten to take it out yesterday morning. I patted myself on the back for remembering today. The Husband went in his office and started working. 

Then, thinking of how much time I had, I decided to go ahead and cook some kale chips to go with tonight's dinner. I preheated the oven and got the kale ready. When I opened the oven to put them in, I found the baked potatoes that we were supposed to have last night. Ah ha! I took out the potatoes and put in the kale. 

Then I decided, since I had these potatoes handy, to cook a skillet potato recipe I'd pinned. That called for bacon, so I got the bacon out of the fridge. I put BeYoYo back in his high chair and gave him a little more breakfast before turning back to the bacon. The bacon was sizzling, the kale chips chipping, the crock pot crocking. BeYoYo cried and signed "all done", which really means "get me out of this high chair right now". But I had bacon on my hands, so I got The Boy to give BeYoYo a handful of puppy chow. Yes, I had my four year old give the cereal-peanut butter-confectioner's sugar crack snack to my one year old. Who had already thrown up. Whatever it takes, people. 

That bought me a few more minutes, which was good because about that time the smoke detector started going off. BEEP BEEP BEEP. I'd forgotten about the kale chips. The Boy came running, holding his hands over his ears, and asking me what was going on. I started fanning all the smoke away, while I was explaining to him about smoke detectors. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. BeYoYo laughed at all this from his high chair. 

The smoke detector calmed down, and BeYoYo wanted down. I let him walk around in the kitchen while I kept cooking, but he wanted to be held. I took him in The Husband's office and said "hey, watch him, there's GREASE in here", as though I was not responsible for the grease. A few minutes later he came out holding BeYoYo. "Are you frying potatoes in bacon grease? What happened to us eating healthy?" I flipped potatoes. "Well" I said "Remember last week when I asked you to get sherry for the beef stroganoff, and you accidentally got sherry wine vinegar instead? This recipe calls for sherry wine vinegar...." I explained, clearly noting that this was his fault.  I did not mention how I found yesterday's baked potatoes in the oven. "I really appreciate all the things you do around the house, but this might be an example of when you take on too many things at once." He actually said those words, as I was cooking his dinner at 7:00 am. "It might be" I said, "but...sherry vinegar."  He went to take a shower. 

I helped get the boys ready, and I went to take a shower. The Husband declared that BeYoYo was disgusting and needed to shower with me. Okay. I got in the shower and then I heard The Husband make some exclamations about excrement. Apparently he went to pull off BeYoYo's diaper and it had poop in it. He cleaned BeYoYo up and handed him to me in the shower. Then I heard The Boy in the bathroom too. BeYoYo was standing at my feet and I peeked out of the shower. The Boy was on the toilet. We have three bathrooms in our house, and both kids have to poop in OUR bathroom WHILE I'm in the shower. Then I heard The Husband ask The Boy if he'd wiped, and The Boy responded affirmatively by mooning him. 

It was not yet 8 o'clock. 

And even though I'd been up since 4:00, somehow we were late to Wild Intelligence at 9:30. I didn't explain that it was because the baby is sick and I found yesterday's potatoes in the oven, and I wanted to use the vinegar that we accidentally bought, and that everyone pooped in my bathroom while I was showering, and the smoke detector and puppy chow. That felt kind of like #firstpeopleproblems. 

Last Monday

Y'all. I haven't blogged lately because I have ALL THESE CHILDREN.  I really love writing, but they love being fed, and having clean bottoms and being on time for school, and sometimes those things interfere with each other. And yes, I do know that there are some people who even have more than just two children and they manage just fine. I am not them.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe

She had so many children she didn't know what to do

And you'll notice that the mother is nowhere to be found in this picture because she is hiding in the closet eating all the easter candy and drinking gas station wine. 

The End. 

Enough about that. I don't judge your choice of modular shoe homes. 

Let's talk about last Monday. It was the day after Easter. When The Boy woke up he was already grieving because there was no more Easter bunny toast. On Easter morning the Easter bunny had left a trail of plastic eggs into the kitchen where he (or she) had cut some sandwich bread into the shape of a bunny for toast. But alas, he (or she) had only left two pieces and it was all gone, and the boy was in an Easter candy hangover funk and was so, so sad that he might never recover. So I offered that maybe I could cut some bread into a bunny shape for toast, and he reluctantly obliged. Turns out I cannot come CLOSE to the artistic skill of the Easter bunny, whose precision and dedication apparently match that of a festival chainsaw-log-statue-competition. 

You would think that precision would be difficult with the large awkward mitten hands, but whatever. 

Eventually he agreed to eat said ruined toast and eventually, much to everyone's surprise, he recovered. So we were off to school, where I promptly dropped him off without a snack for his class despite it being our turn to bring snack. Luckily, I was completely unaware of this blunder and it caused no additional morning stress. For me, at least. Sorry, teachers. 

When I picked him up he told me that no one was snack helper. His sweet teachers didn't even call him out on it. He said they had leftover snacks from the cabinet- cheese crackers and graham crackers and gold fish, and I guess whatever else they could muster up. Then I checked the snack calendar and my blissful ignorance was shattered when I saw The Boy's name listed. We had let down a room full of 3 year olds. Oh, the shame! And once I realized and said it out loud, The Boy found an opportunity to be crushed. Just minutes ago he was happy and chatty, but upon hearing the news, he realized he should be disappointed. "I didn't EVEN get to be snack helper!" he wailed, confidently defeated in his newfound injustice. "Oh buddy", I said "don't worry. This is going to happen a lot more times in your life." 

I know you're thinking that we should have called it a day and headed home. But, I'm not prone to learn from my mistakes and decided to take ALL MY (two) CHILDREN to the grocery store. We've done it before, and we've survived. What could possibly go wrong? 

BeYoYo is getting big enough to sit in the buggy, but they hadn't actually done that at the same time yet. I started getting him out of his car seat when my hand touched something wet. A friend on Facebook once said she could sum up the entirety of her mothering experience with the question "why is that wet?" In this case, it was poop. He'd pooped up his back and blown out his diaper and leaked into his car seat. Gag. The Boy was whining for his fruit snacks. BeYoYo was laughing as I was gagging getting everyone out. I handed The Boy the fruit snacks, as he was still recovering from the toast and the snack incidents. We walked inside and straight for the bathroom. I parked the impossible to steer BACB (Big Ass Car Buggy) outside the bathroom and carried BeYoYo in, with The Boy trailing alongside. I let The Boy eat his fruit snacks standing beside the changing table, because I needed a minute, okay? I peeled BeYoYo's clothes off him, wiped him down, changed his diaper, changed his clothes, and got him upright again, all while he was trying his best to flip to his stomach and/or sit up. This took approximately 75 minutes. 

Then the real dilemma presented itself. HOW, pray tell, are you supposed to WASH your HANDS in this situation? I see 4 options. 

1. Hand the baby to the toddler. This does not seem safe, for anyone involved. Poop-on-hands is definitely safer than 3 year old in charge of slightly smaller 8 month old.  

2. Hand the baby to a stranger. There wasn't one, even if I was comfortable with that. 

3. Buckle both kids in the BACB and leave them unattended outside the bathroom while you wash. (I promise you this buggy would not have fit inside the bathroom). 

4. Put the baby on the floor. Considering my high school friend said cleaning the bathroom in his after school job at Publix was worse than his tour in Afghanistan, that didn't seem viable. 

I went with option 5: Don't wash your hands. I procured a baby wipe and thorough gave my hands a bird bath, buckled everyone up in the BACB and went about our business. Later my friend Kati reminded me that I could've buckled BeYoYo in the changing table and left him there while I washed. This never occurred to me, so bird bath it was. Our whole shopping trip I kept getting a whiff of something gross and was continually paranoid that I had poop hands. 

Thankfully we survived the trip and made it home, where I whipped the car in the drive and made a bee line inside for the sink, scrubbing my hands like I was prepping for surgery before going back out to get the groceries and kids. Priorities. 

Happiest (Crappiest) Place on Earth

Last week we went to a family Christmas function in Florida, and we left a day early for a one day jaunt at the Magic Kingdom.

We left early Wednesday morning, drove for 100 hours, and arrived at the Disney resort by 4pm. The Husband and my dad went to check us in while I waited in the car with the kids. My dad came back. My husband did not. We texted back and forth about a confirmation number, which we did not have. I called Orbitz and talked to a non-English speaker who said there was no record of our reservation. Our reservation which we got on black Friday for $100 off.  And not only could we not take advantage of that deal anymore, the regular price had gone up too. What a great way to start the trip. But at least there were rooms available, so we were able to stay. We checked into a little Little Mermaid room. It was very.....Little Mermaid. 

                                                                 You might miss The Boy in this pic

Y'all, this was the shower.  I expected to find a dinglehopper for the faucet but did not. 

We went to Downtown Disney for dinner. We ate in a rainforest like good little tourists and came back to the hotel. We told The Boy to go to sleep. He did not. Beyoyo has a cough, so we gave him an albuterol breathing treatment.  The Boy finally went to sleep, just as Beyoyo coughed so hard that he projectile vomitted.  All over our bed. The Husband called me to help, so I got him and held him at arm's length while I looked for something to clean him with. Then he started vomitting again. I held him out like a fire hose. We cleaned up and called for new sheets. My sister came in from the other room and asked if I wanted to sleep in one of her extra t-shirts. She pointed out that my pajamas had vomit on them. Winning. I put her t-shirt on and pulled it up to my neck so that I could pump some breast milk. So, no pants. Shirt around my neck, pumping breast milk while smelling like vomit on the floor in a Little Mermaid room that we were lucky to get. In hindsight I wonder if the first Christmas was anything like this. Stinky, cramped, crowded in a room you had no reservation for ans wasn't quite what you'd expected. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! 

Next I spilt the pumped breast milk in the hotel sink. I cursed. I was mad at the hotel, Orbitz, The Husband, and Walt Disney himself. It was actually none of their faults.  My sister was lying in the bed with The Boy. I knelt down and got in her face without warning and said "birth control!" because 20 year olds love that almost as much as they love sleeping with 3 year olds. "Tell me about it" she said, laughing through her jealousy at how glamorous my life is. 

The next day we went to Disney and it was great. The Boy rode rides like a boss. We saw a parade. He met THE REAL Woody and Jessie, which is a BFD when you're three. 

             Beyoyo was like "hey, I'll be over here not remembering any of this if you need me."

We got to meet Cinderella and both boys kissed her hand. She asked them to, if you were wondering about consent.

It was a great day. We closed the place down and headed an hour away for the family weekend. 

We stay at a fish camp. Some stay in houses, we stay in a hotel. The hotel caters to the fishing crowd and their website boasts amenities like large parking spots for your boat, as well as...ice. Except it was a lie because the ice machine was broken. And I went outside at 9pm and told some hooligan teenagers to please look for Garrigan somewhere else because they'd woken up my baby. Keepin it classy. 

So we cozied in for the family weekend. What fun! People started getting there late Friday night. Saturday morning we woke up and gave everyone the stomach virus. I thought it was something I ate so I went over to the house and exposed everyone. Next the husband fell victim and joined me in quarantine at the hotel. Thankfully my dad, sister, and stepmom were still okay so they looked after our boys. I told The Husband it would've been a nice little movie watching weekend cuddled up in bed if not for the vomitting and nausea. We missed the big redneck family Christmas party, where The Husband, Beyoyo, The Boy and I were all going to wear matching tuxedo t-shirts.  But alas, they returned the children to us just in time to get fall victims themselves. People were throwing up in toilets and sinks. Also, The Boy's pullup leaked and wet the bed and we had to request new bedding. We had now thrown up and peed in two sets of sheets in two hotels in two towns in one weekend. It was the worst. No wonder this hotel catered to fishermen and not families. 

Dear Housekeepers at the Liars Lodge, sorry 'bout that. 

Sunday it was time to come home. Except 1/2 the traveling party didn't feel like traveling. We waited a little while but no one seemed to be improving and the sick really wanted to be sick at home, so we packed up some trash bags and hit the road. My sister was in the car with us, vomitting. And the baby blew out his diaper and pooped us his back. And I had a zit (am I 15?) that popped and wouldn't stop bleeding. Luckily The Husband and I were greatly improved, but it's safe to say when we stopped for lunch no one had much of an appetite.  

The other car slept much of the way home, and thankfully our car slept a good bit too. After nap we stopped at a truck stop for a snack. The boys wanted to get their grandmother a diamond, and I obliged. After all, she did keep Prissy for us while we were gone so she deserved a little something. 

Here Beyoyo shows off the diamond, and tells us what he really thinks of this trip. 

Sure, a diamond might not have been what she was expecting as a token of our appreciation but at least we didn't yet give her the stomach bug. That's the seasonal gift that keeps on giving. I bet Cinderella is in a bathroom stall somewhere now.....

I Hope That's Chocolate, And Other Tales of Potty Training

The Boy is potty trained! Mostly. At first it was only as long as we were at home. And he was naked. And we're talking about pee. But now he's like legitimately potty trained.

He's been interested in the potty, mostly because of some of his older friends. So a month  ago I started letting him be naked at home all the time. I put down some wipeable picnic table cloths all over the playroom and relegated us to either that room or the kitchen. Then I watched him like a hawk and anytime he started to pee I whisked him to the potty chair and let him finish there. I followed up with two chocolates and a lot of praise. I didn't make up this method, it's all over the interweb coupled with success stories. We also spent a lot of time just hanging out on the potty chair for fun.

So we hunkered down for a few days of this. We picked out big boy underwear and only left the house when he'd just pottied and when we really needed something.  I even made my mom get on board with this plan at her house (what a great mom, right?). He was totally into the praise and chocolate, but after a few days he wasn't really catching onto making it to the potty. He peed in the playroom floor. He peed on me.  He peed in time out (that was on purpose), and he peed in the grass. So I decided to give it up and try again in a few weeks.

We don't drink sweet tea at our house, but my mother-in-law sneaks the caffeinated sugar water to him at her house. All the grand kids ask for it when they go (Hey, if you're in charge you can do whatever you want. If you don't mind a caffeinated kid have at it.). After about a week of naked potty days, The Boy and I went to the grocery store. I saw a can of Lipton tea, and told him we would buy it and he could have some if he used the bathroom in the potty. He responded with "I sit on potty in store!" meaning he wanted tea immediately. So we tried at the store but nothing happened.

We came home from the store and he went right to the potty chair and used it. I gave him tea, and he used it again. And again. SEVEN times he used it on his own to get tea! We'd been doing this for a week and all I had to do was say tea?? Caffeinated sugar water isn't seeming so bad now.

He's been doing great since then, wearing underwear and having few accidents. We've visited every public bathroom in a thirty mile radius, which he thinks is a novelty. He loves to try to touch everything, and it's like a germy game of keepaway.

Fast forward to the fourth of July. It was raining (of course) and we were hanging out at home. The Boy was playing and got quiet for about 30 seconds. I asked him what he was doing, and he emerged from behind the chair, naked, with a panicked look. I looked on the floor as he ran away, to find something strange. Chocolate? Please let that be chocolate. Poop. On the floor. On the carpet. Gag! I called out to The Husband in my calm-but-really-freaking-out-voice so as to not stress out The Boy.

Husband: What is it?
Me: Poop.
Husband: Where?
Me: The floor.
Husband: haha
Me: I need your help.
Husband: grunt.
Me: Do you want to get him or the floor?
Husband: I. guess. the. floor.
Me: Where'd he go?
Husband: I don't know, I called the floor.

I ran to his room, where he sat innocently reading a book and trying not to laugh. He had poop on his feet. Double gag. I picked him up and put him in a laundry basket to contain him while I cleaned him. The Husband sprang to action and was cleaning the floor. Never one to be left out, Prissy panicked and peed on the carpet too.

Nothing makes you feel like a bona fide grown up like cleaning up someone else's bodily fluids outside of a bachelorette party. I can't complain about one incident of poop on the floor (Okay, I just did) when he's only two, and he's been doing well. We took his potty chair to the beach with us, and stopped every mile and a half when he said he had to go. Then we pulled over and whipped out the potty chair in the gas station parking lots (classy with a capital K) and let him go. It only took us four days to complete our 7 hour trip. I eventually put a pull up on him and told him it was okay if he used the bathroom in his diaper. He cried "I not tee tee in SHORTS!" He's definitely caught on and gotten behind using the potty. And that one time on the floor.

The Night I Got Thrown Up On

My kid is sick. Not like hospital sick, thank God, but feeling really crummy nonetheless. He's got a barking cough and a green 11 streaming out of his nose. He's been up for nights with a fever and my typically active boy just wants to be held. He's also incredibly, uncouragably irritable.

We went to the ped's office on Wednesday. I called first thing and they asked if we could be there in 15 minutes. I told them we'd love to if they didn't mind us showing up in superman pjs. So we did, cape and all.

Our doc said it was a croupey virus and gave us a prescription for a steroid. We filled it and set in for the 'roid rage, just hoping it would make him feel better. We waited. And waited. And still he felt gross. And even more irritable. Saturday night The Boy was feeling particularly bad. He cried. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be held with his head on my shoulder. He said his shirt hurt, so we took it off. He said his pants hurt, so we took them off. He was burning up so we dosed him up with Tylenol.  I stayed home with him while The Husband went to go watch basketball with some friends. "Are you sure it's okay if I go?" He asked. "Of course," I said. "We'll just lay around and watch some tv before bed. He'll be easy."

The Boy with Puppy, his lovie

Husband: buddy, do you want some dinner before I go?
Boy: No!
Husband: how about some grapes?
Boy: No!
Husband: pasta?
Boy: No!
Husband: crackers?
Boy: NO!
Husband: banana?
Boy: NOOO!
Me: ice cream?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: cookies?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: biscuit?
Boy: uh huh.
Husband: yeah? I'll fix you a biscuit. ( starts to fix a biscuit)
Boy: biscuit! (Crying) BISCUIIIIIIT......

So his daddy put some biscuits in the oven on his way out but when the timer went off the poor guy didn't want me to put him down to eat it. It was just the two of us and I let him curl up in my lap on the couch to eat. I put his favorite show on and we settled in for the night. He laid on me and ate his little biscuit while he watched tv.

When we'd been couching for awhile he sat up, looked at me and began to cry. Poor guy felt really  bad. I stroked his hair and asked him what was wrong. And he threw up all over me. I saw it happening and there was nothing I could do. All down my shirt and all in my lap. I was covered in vomit and he was crying demanding "wipe!" He wanted me to clean him, and now. What to do first?

I picked him up of my vomit lap and stood him on the ground. He cried. I peeled off my vomit shirt and my vomit jeans and left them in a pile on the floor. He cried. I grabbed some wipes and wiped him down. "Mama, hug" he cried. I scooped him up and held him close, still in my skivvies. He curled up to watch tv again, and even wanted more biscuit. I was hopeful he felt a little better.

After a few minutes he said "biscuit stuck!" and opened his mouth. There was a wad of biscuit stuck on the roof of his mouth and he didn't know how to get it out. I stuck my finger in his vomit mouth and scraped out the biscuit, which made him throw up again. All over me. This time I didn't have clothes to peel off. Warm biscuit vomit on my skin. I wiped him off. I wiped me off. He cried "mama wipe!" and pointed to my sports bra. He didn't want to touch me when there was vomit on my bra. Let that sink in for a minute. He didn't want to touch me because his vomit was grossing up what little of my clothes there were left. I felt too bad for him to care.

The next day we took him to urgent care where we were told he had a "boatload of green, puss-ie, mucus drainage" that was causing him to throw up. Um, thanks? Poor kid is still sick with a temperature but I'm hoping for no more vomiting. Ever. At least til he's in college.

The Nose Knows

I don't think I've told you, dear readers, that my arm has been in a sling for almost two weeks. I have a shoulder injury that isn't healing because I keep using it, so I'm in a sling to force it to rest and heal. Now certainly this in no way compares to people with lifelong disabilities. I'm grateful it's temporary as it has made my regular routines a little trickier. I have one regular arm, which The Boy is often in, and one arm pinned to my chest so I can only use the hand but not the arm. I can't complain, but I feel a little like a T-Rex on that side.

I hold The Boy on my hip and use my T-Rex arm to hold his diaper bag. That's fine as long as I don't need to do anything else, like laundry or cooking or cleaning or errands. Getting in and out of the car seat is particularly challenging, and God forbid I need to carry a purchase out of a store. It's made me quite thankful for my two arms that work normally the rest of the time.

On Friday we were getting ready for a busy wedding weekend. The Boy and I had to run some errands before I went to work, and I had to get all our stuff ready for the rehearsal dinner because his Pammie was going to bring him there to meet us. I needed about 5 minutes to make sure we had everything and load the car. I put The Boy, now 20 months, in his high chair with his color wonder paper and markers so that I could get all our stuff together. He was in my sight but I wasn't watching him closely.


I was packing snacks in his bag when I heard him crying. I went to him after I finished what I was doing immediately.
"Uh oh!" he cried, in a panic. "Draw!"
Me: Yep, you're drawing! Can you color the car? (Why was he crying about this?)
The Boy: Uh oh! Draw!
Me: What happened?
The Boy: (panic escalating) UH OH! DRAW! He was pointing to his nose. Did he draw on his nose?
I noticed he had bitten off the end of one of his markers. Awesome. I made a note not to leave him unsupervised with these anymore.
The Boy: UH OH! DRAW!! NOSE!! He cried.

That's when it hit me. Not only did he bite off the end of his marker, he shoved it up his nose. He was screaming. "UH OH! NOSE!!" I could see the marker up in his nose. I grabbed a wipe and tried to get him to blow his nose but nothing happened. He was in full on panic mode, screaming. I grabbed his nose and squished it like I was milking a cow (I have never milked a cow) but nothing happened.

I called the pediatrician's office.
Office: Hello, Martin and Martin?
Me: Hey. It's Leigh Ellen. The Boy has stuck something up his nose, what do you suggest for that?
Office: Hold on, let me get the nurse.
Nurse Brandy: Hey, it's Brandy (Can you tell they know us there?) Is it hurting him?
The Boy: NOOOOOOSSSSSSE! UH OH!
Me: I'd say so. He's screaming.
Brandy: And what is it that's up there?
Me: The end of a marker that he bit off.
Brandy: You're going to need to go to the ER.
Me: No.
Brandy: Yes.
Me: Are you kidding me?  UH OH NOSE DRAW UH OH!
Brandy: Nope. If you try to get it out you're going to shove it further up there. It can damage his little nose, and they have a special tool to dig in there and get it out without damaging him. You can try urgent care, but I'm not sure they have it. I'd call ahead first. NOOOSSSSE!
Me: (Getting louder over the screaming) SIGH. OKAY. THANKS, BRANDY!
Brandy: Call us anytime.
Me: You know I do.

I hung up from Brandy and knelt back down to look up The Boy's snotty nose. He was pacing and crying. "NOSE!" I tried to comfort him. "It's okay, buddy. We're going to get it out of your nose." I talked him into putting his jacket on, and used my one good arm to help him. I picked up his diaper bag with my T-Rex arm and grabbed the keys. Though I dreaded the prospect of someone having to hold him down and fish up his nose, I was strangely calm. I gave him a hug and we headed out the door. As we got just onto the porch he stopped. I looked down at him just as he sneezed the best sneeze I've ever heard. The marker tip shot out like a Romanian from a circus cannon. Hooray!!

The Boy cried. NOSE! I'm sure it hurt, but I was rejoicing. "Oh Buddy!", I said "You just saved us half a day and $100 at the ER! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!" After that I gave him a lecture (yes, they're great and effective for one year olds) about not putting anything up his nose. "No no, nose" he said, as though his nose had done it.

I called The Husband and told him the saga, right up until the part Brandy said we needed to go to the ER. Then I waited for his response. When he asked me which ER we were headed to so he could meet us, I threw in the sneeze at the last minute. After all, if I had to experience all the trauma and drama, he could have just an ounce of it.

I didn't take a picture of the trauma, so instead I'm giving you one from when he ate crayon tonight. You think we'd start supervising his art projects, huh?

Oh, Crap!

It's all Sears' fault. They sent me an email for a free portrait session and free prints. I can't turn down free, so I said yes. I scheduled The Boy an appointment for 18 month pictures yesterday. If you schedule an appointment for pictures, you'll want the kid to be clean. And you'll want to trim up his hair just a bit in the back so he doesn't look so much like Doc from Back to the Future (for more on The Boy's hair, see this post). Best foot forward, right? But it can sort of turn into an If You Give A Mouse A Cookie kind of day. 

We were on a tight schedule for pictures, nap time, and me getting to work, so I put him in the bath. He was playing with his duckie and his other bath toys when he started to grunt and strain. "STOP!" I shouted at him, inappropriately. "Don't you dare poop in the tub!" He looked at me like I hurt his feelings. I scooped him up, but what to do with a naked, slippery, wet toddler that may or may not have to poop? I could put a diaper back on him and let him run around the house to wait it out but there was no time. I picked him up and put him on the toilet. He has no concept of toileting but it couldn't hurt. So I hung his bum over the seat and before I knew it he pooped in the toilet. Woo hoo! 

What a milestone, even if it was accidental! Hooray! I cheered for him and he scrambled down to get back in the tub. Done. I even took a picture of his tiny poop in the toilet to send to The Husband at work (yes, I recognize what's become of my life). What a great day it was going to be. I spent a brief second on the phone texting with The Husband, and when I turned my attention back to The Boy there was poop in the tub. Like all in the tub. Like a lot. My stomach churned. I screeched. How did that happen so quickly? Disgusting. So there The Boy stood in a tub with poop. I started jerking him out and letting the water drain. 

Just then my phone rang. The Husband wanted to know about pooping in the potty. 

Me: I can't talk right now he just pooped all in the tub!

Hus: I thought he pooped in the toilet?

Me: He did, but then he pooped even more in the tub. 

Hus: Gross. 

Me: Yeah. It's disgusting. 

Hus: How did that even happen? 

Me: I SAID I can't talk right now. I have to clean up this poop tub and clean him up and get him ready for his pictures and I have to find and catch him. 

Hus: Catch him? Where is he? 

Me: Bye. 

The Boy was running naked through the house, squealing. I called him to come back, which he ignored. The water finished draining and I grabbed some TP to use to pick up the poop. And then I started wretching. Whoever said it's different when it's your own child lied. The Boy thought it was hilarious and he starting squealing wretching noises "yetch, yetch, rheuch!" He got in the linen closet and pulled out two bars of soap like they were long lost pirate treasure. Note, he is still naked. 

He ran through the hall with his soap treasure yelling "ohrment!" (ornament), retching, and throwing the soap while I continued cleaning the tub. Then it happened. I threw up. I couldn't help it, out it came. Right into the tub. Yes, I threw up in the tub with the poop. I almost hung my head and cried. "Ohrment!" I heard, followed by the sound of soap flying through the air and landing on the floor. "Ohrment! Rheuch!" He laughed. This was not funny. 

I got all the poop out of the tub and then doused the entire thing in lighter fluid bathroom disinfectant. I took the spray lid off and just dumped the entire contents all over the tub. I rinsed it out and did the process all over again. I ran water for another bath, because the kid had not even been bathed yet. And it was picture day, after all. And I still needed to trim his mullet.

Thankfully bath "number two" was uneventful and we made it to his pictures, which he did great for.

He cleans up nicely, huh? 

By the looks of it you'd never know what a crappy morning we had. Thanks a lot, Sears.

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. 

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. 

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.