He didn't get that from me

Sam has a voracious appetite.

He can consume quantities of food that would be astounding to anyone but a Hagesfeld.

Owen is all, "Oh, I ate a little grape, and now my tummy is full" and Sam is all, "Oh, I ate two chicken legs, a pot of noodles, three pieces of bread and an apple, but the act of chewing burned it all up and so I'm still hungry and this time I'm just going to pour the food straight down my throat."

Last night we sat down to dinner at approximately 6:20. He had chicken, rice, corn and an apple. Around 7:15, he announced that he was hungry and would like a snack. Like maybe some chicken nuggets.

Dude, I'm not making you second dinner.

So , instead, what I did was provide snacks.

Two pieces of cheese.

Three beef sticks. (Shut up. They are easy.)

A drinking yogurt. (I don't even know what those are actually called)

A banana.

And then he came to me, "Mom, I am still, like, SUPER hungry, but could you please make me something SUPER healthy? Like maybe some broccoli?"

Did my kid just ask for broccoli for snack?

I don't even UNDERSTAND that.

I mean, but that's fine. I don't have to understand my children.

But then later, when Chris showed him the pumpkin costume he got him for Halloween, Sam tried it on and then refused to wear it because it made him look, "fat."

That's kind of the point of a pumpkin costume.

Anyway, I really don't know where the fat-phobia is coming from.

I'm also not sure how he's planning on reconciling his endless need for food with his apparent desire to keep his svelte figure.

Maybe though broccoli?

Addiction

I have many good qualities.

As I've gotten older (and met Chris) one thing that I feel grateful for is NOT having a particularly addictive personality.

That seems like super hard work.

Sure, I love food, and reading, and going without both for months when I was pregnant was muy depressing. But there were extenuating circumstances.

I think that, in general, a lot of my lying around would be interrupted if I was all, "Oh, I need, I need, I need."

Chris has addictions without number. I'm not kidding when I say that I am consciously thankful that he doesn't know a crack dealer. Chris has never MET the substance that he wouldn't like to welcome in to his life permanently.

Diet Coke? I've made up a fresh bed for you!

Gum? So nice to meet you! Why don't you set your things in the closet!

Hola Fruita? Let me clear a drawer for you!



And still.

A little over a month ago, Target was having a special on Diet Dr. Pepper. So I bought two 12 packs, took them to work, and drank them at the approximate pace of one per work day. I ran out two days ago.

And I have a raging headache.

The brain gremlin is crying, "Why no caffeine in the mouth hooooooole? I gonna eat a frontal lobe."

Growing up is NOT a good thing

I'd like to dedicate this post especially to Margaret, who loves when I write about this stuff.

So Owen got a stomach virus a while back.

He woke up vomiting around 4:00 a. m. Because what's the point of vomiting if you can't wake your parents out of a deep sleep?

We got him cleaned up and he seemed a little better. He told me, absolutely pea-green and smiling, "I GROWED UP!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, little man."

We tucked him back into bed and I said to Chris, "What are we going to do about tomorrow?"

I had a job interview I couldn't miss and it's always hard for Chris to miss work.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Chris said. "He seems fine now."

"I know, but it usually takes an hour to vomit again," I replied.

Chris looked at me like I was a crazy person.

So when Owen woke up yarfing at 5:04, that was the best part.

Boo-yah, Chris.

Not that there was, you know, much competition. For being the best part of vomiting, I mean. Usually it is, "Well, at least watermelon tastes okay coming back up."

Still, when your kid is spewing, you find your joy where you can.

Owen barfed every hour for the next four hours. And then he started with the diarrhea, which he actually seemed to find more distressing than the growing up.

Anyway, the virus passed, and it actually did not manage to spread like these little buggers usually do.

But.

Something was off with Owen. He woke up every night, at least twice a night. He woke up every morning, crying that he had to "grow-up." He'd hustle his little self to the toilet and stand there, gagging.

It occurred to me that it would be easier for adults to throw up in the toilet if it were way, way, taller.

This went on for such a long, long, time (NINE DAYS!) that I finally, against my better judgement, decided to take him to the doctor. I know you shouldn't take your kid to the doctor for throwing up. But it was getting SAD, people.

On the way there, I asked Owen if he knew why we were going to the doctor.

"Yeah," he said, "because I hit myself in the face with a bucket."

Close.

"When the doctor comes in, you tell her about when you growed up."

So when the doctor walks in she asks what's wrong and Owen said, "I growed up last weekend."

What? Was that last weekend? How do you know that? Sam's timeline still consists entirely of "last night" or "tomorrow." Things that already happened, happened "last night." Things that have yet to happen will happen, "tomorrow."

I did some math, though, and he was wrong. So that's a relief. I don't need to deal with some crazy time-savant kid as well as a growing up kid.

She prescribed antibiotics and tums.

The first night was the first night in close to two weeks that he hadn't woken up, and hadn't said he felt sick.

The second night, he woke up 8 times.

The third night, he didn't wake up, and didn't cry about growing up.

Fingers crossed.

Well, thanks for the info.

It seems we have a new reader here, folks.

I found out a way to see a list of comments you all made on the posts, and it appears that I MISSED one.

http://thisiscrazybaby.blogspot.com/2009/08/i-will-resist-you-penile-implants.html?showComment=1252494926171#c488667437990740084

I think we all learned something valuable today.

Devestation

I learned two things in the past 24 hours, and I'm kind of thrown for a loop.

Well, learned one thing and figured out another.

1) Laser hair removal doesn't work on redheads. Do you think that applies to me? Because maybe I could count as more "brown" for the purposes of laser hair removal. I never really planned to use it, but I always liked knowing that if shaving ever got too irritating, I could cough up the money for laser hair removal and be done with the whole business. Now I am trapped forever.

2) With the boys upgrading day cares, and Lilly started at a for-profit sitter instead of for-love grandmas, we will be paying $26,000 / year in daycare costs. Tweeeeeentyyyyyy-siiiiiiiiix thoouuuuuuuuuusaaaaaaaaaaaaand doooooooooollaaaaaarssssssssss. Christ on a cracker, why am I even working?

I am now doomed to be Our Lady of Perpetual Hair, and I am apparently working only so I can pay someone else to take care of my children.

You can see why I need a cookie.

Well I'm glad to know SOMEBODY'S paying attention

We get security alerts through email whenever a crime happens on campus. I guess to notify us, but I always feel like, "What? Am I supposed to go out and look for this guy?"

Fortunately, it looks like somebody was reading my blog and took my advice about just mugging people.

Incident Description: While walking near the east side of the Kelvin Smith Library, a student reported he was approached by a male who demanded he turn over his property of value. The student advised the male that he didn't have any property to turn over and then fled. The suspect then ran through Freiberger Field towards the intersection of East Blvd. and Bellflower Rd. where he encountered another student. The suspect demanded the second student turn over his property of value and after receiving a small amount of cash and a cellphone, walked northbound on East Blvd. attempting to leave the area.

I know it would really suck if that happened to you, and it's terrible to find humor, but in my mind that alert translates to this:

Bad guy: HEY! I demand you turn over your property of value!

Guy: Sir, I must advise you that I haven't got any property of value!

Bad guy: Fair enough! Good day! I shall try my luck elsewhere!

*running running running*

Bad guy: You there! Second student! I demand you turn over your property of value!

Second guy: I only have three . . . four dollars!

Bad guy: Well, give it! And your cellular phone!

*walking casually walking casually walking casually*


And I think my advice was good. He may not have gotten much, but on the other hand I don't think they caught the guy.

Seriously, from what I can tell, you should feel free to accost people, willy-nilly, in Cleveland.

Let's talk about the definition of "bad."

I got a call this morning from the place that Sam goes to physical and occupational therapy. I assumed they were just cancelling because the therapist was sick or something.

The first thing she says is, "Don't worry, no bad news or anything, we're still scheduled to see Sam."

What she was calling to tell me was that they've finally figured out, after eight months and 28 sessions, that we are actually supposed to pay a $20 co-pay for each visit.

I don't know what kind of world she lives in, but in my world, being sprung with an unexpected $560 bill, and the knowledge that each future session of what we thought was free (or insured) therapy is now going cost $20, counts as bad news.

Not terrible, horrific, life-altering news, but definitely not what I'd call good.

Is that how banks work?!

Those of you who know me (which would be all of you) probably know that my work moved offices a few months back.

Our old office had a nice location . . . I mean a convenient location. It was next door to the bank from which we got petty cash, and a few doors down from my personal bank.

In the past week, both of those banks were robbed. We were just notified that one of them was, today, robbed again.

Somebody here is stupid.

1) me, for not understanding that a good way to supplement my income would be to loudly demand money.

2) the thieves, for not understanding that robbing a bank is a FEDERAL crime, investigated by the FBI. Those of you who live in Cleveland Heights know that you shouldn't fuck with an FBI agent. There's lots of foot traffic around this area, just rob a person! The Cleveland police will never catch you!

3) the police, for not catching on that it might be time to consider POSTING EXTRA SECURITY.

Is is weird that I'm honestly disappointed that I'm no longer in the area, and, thus, can't loiter around the crime scene?

Oh, Sam.

This is about Sam, my son, not Sam our new follower.

Sheesh, this is confusing.

Recently, Chris and I have become a little uncomfortable with the quality of our daycare. It's fine. But only fine. And, lord, the ATTITUDE they are learning.

Because my children would NEVER behave this way of their own accord.

As it happens, I drove past a school the other day and decided to check it out.

And, guys, this is the kind of daycare I imagined for my kids. The kind that is BETTER than the care I would provide if I were a stay-at-home mom.

I love this place like I've never loved a school I've toured.

It is more expensive, but I think it is so good that it is worth the money.

Which is not to say that we HAVE the money.

It is a Montessori-style school, which in this setting mostly seems to mean the kids get to wander around and play with educational stuff. There are lots of activities, many of which seem to be cleverly disguised household chores. And by cleverly disguised I guess I mean they don't call it a "chore."

There was a kid mopping the floor. A kid watering the plants. A kid getting snack ready. A kid wiping tables. And they all acted like it was fun!

I'm not kidding, there was a kid ironing. With a for-real iron. It seemed weird. But it could totally come in handy, right? In fact, I think they should get a washer/dryer and I'd just send the laundry along.

They also had a "hand washing station," which was not a place to go wash your hands before lunch. It was a place to wash your hands FOR FUN. Or LEARNING. That also seemed weird to me, but when I thought about it, and the number of times a day I have to tell Sam and Owen to STOP WASHING YOUR HANDS, it actually seemed kind of clever.

The thing is, they only have a spot for one kid right now. So they don't have a spot for both boys.

Actually, they are currently INTERVIEWING kids for the slot. That's right. They don't let just ANY kid in here.

We decided to take Sam. I'm not concerned about the interview. I find Sam charming.

Who doesn't, am I right!?

So we walk in. And Sam is not just nervous. He is absolutely paralyze with fear. He won't talk, won't make eye contact, won't move, won't respond to anything. He's totally catatonic.

This is going well.

It was so bad that for a minute I thought we were just going to have to leave.

But after a little bit he managed to pull himself together. He was still reserved, but now noticeably human.

As we settle in, Sam starts hanging with this girl Jemma. They play some blocks. The teacher wonders over to observe Sam.

Things are looking up. Sam's settling in. He mentions that his "mom has milk in her big belly!"

Sam is so proud of me.

But, boy, when Jemma brings out the rhyming cards, Sam really starts to warm up. Sam loves rhyming. See, they ARE learning something in his daycare!

The rhyming cards are cards that have pictures of different objects on them, and two of them rhyme with each other, and you're supposed to match them together. Like a picture of a school and a picture of a pool would go together.

The thing is, this is clearly old hat to Jemma, and she starts matching the cards before Sam even really gets to look at them.

So, in an effort to join in, Sam starts shouting out words that rhyme with any picture he sees.

"TREE, SLEE, BLEE!"

He's being a little loud here, and I hope that they will understand that Sam is used to functioning in a MUCH louder environment.

"SUN, MUN, PLUN!"

Apparently we have neglected to concentrate on rhyming ACTUAL words.

"BEE, PEE!"

Understanding this age group's adoration of potty humor, and knowing that Sam was not being intentional here, and also knowing that if the kids start laughing at Sam right now he will be devastated, I hold my breath for a minute. But it passes without notice.

"SHOE . . . PLUE!"

I'm idly noticing that we seem fixated on the P's here, when:

"HORN . . . PORN!"

I wonder what that card looks like.

Wake-up call

So the other night Chris and I were talking before bed. In the course of our conversation we decided to have another baby. Not right now or anything, but someday. We decided this because I watched A Baby Story on TLC, and Chris was body snatched by aliens who want to increase the earth's population for better snackage. Because, seriously, I'm not sure Chris even admits that he wants the kids we currently have.

Anyway, upon hearing this, the very fabric of the universe shuttered.

You probably thought it was an earthquake.

Or your dehumidifier.

Nope, it was the cosmos dry heaving at the thought of having to endure another one of my pregnancies.

"We have to do something!" the gods cried.

So they gave Owen a terrible case of the Yarfs.

Poor thing.

I hate it when people puke.

But now I remember why we don't want any more kids. Just another thing that can throw up on my carpet.

Poor carpet, too.

Again with the dogs

I was driving the kids home from daycare the other day. We saw a pair of dalmatians and the boys very much enjoyed talking about "fire-dogs."

"Mom? People what that have kids and babies don't have dogs."

Ha.

"That's a smart thing to say, Sam, how did you know?"

"Because you told me, mom."

Oh. Well. I'm right.

"Well, good listening buddy."

"But, mom, why can't we?"

"Because babies are hard enough to take care of, don't you think?"

"Well, mom, I have an idea . . ."

Great.

Super.

"I could take care of the dog, and Owen could take care of Lilly and y'all could take care of . . . um . . . like . . . dinner or sumfin."

Sounds like a plan.

Hi, Sam!

Let's all welcome my newest follower, Sam.

I met Sam at work when I had the good sense to hire her.

It sucked when she left because it turns out that most other people I hire are idiots.

But on the bright side it is no longer inappropriate to go out drinking with her.

Actually, I mostly just want you all to know that I did not create an account in my son's name so I could have another follower.

As it happens, I have a legitimate friend named Sam, too.

I wonder if it's weird for her that she has the same name as my son.

I would have to think so.

Fall wardrobe

The changing over of seasonal wardrobes is a little bit different with kids than it is for adults. With adults, you take the short-sleeved things and put them in the back of your closet and bring the long-sleeved things to the front.

But with kids, every time the season changes you have to be prepared for the possibility that the clothes you are bringing out will no longer fit, and decide whether the clothes you are putting away are likely to be wearable next time warm weather rolls around.

Warm weather clothes are actually more forgiving. Because your shorts have to be, like, SUPER short before anyone notices.

Hi, Chris!

Knowing that he'll need more fall clothes, I've purchased a few new items for Sam.

For the past year he's been boycotting pants with buttons. When I bring him button pants he'll look at me and ask, "why can't I have cozy pants?" in a tone that says, "And let's not pretend that we don't both know the answer is because you don't love me."

I've bought him a couple new pairs of jeans, because I think it's time to push the button pants. I can't really raise my kid in a cozy cocoon of elastic-waist pants. But I did find a some sweatpants on sale at Gymboree, so I picked up a pair in brown and a pair in green.

I think he can pull off green sweatpants in a way that I can't.

I found the sweatpants at the store. I decided to buy them. I purchased the sweatpants, brought them home, ripped off the tag, and tossed them in the washer. I then moved them from the washer to the dryer.

It was not until I was folding them out of the dryer that I noticed the brown sweatpants had WRITING ACROSS THE ASS.

The pants say, "Buckaroo" right across the butt.

I'm oddly and profoundly disturbed by this.

I'm probably still going to make him wear them.

God damn motherfucking acorns.