Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Fun with inedible food

We made a lot of french toast for Owen's birthday brunch. There were leftovers, so we froze them for future use as a quick breakfast option.

This morning, Chris offered the boys french toast for breakfast. They agreed, though they would probably agree to eat paper if it had syrup on it.

So Chris pops the frozen slices in the toaster. And then apparently goes for a jog or checks his email or something. Because the french toast he deposited onto the breakfast plates was way less french and a lot more toast.

Which isn't really, in and of itself, a problem. Like I said, the boys don't care, as long as he remembered the syrup, which he did.

Except that Sam's been ornery lately.

The problem was that the plastic fork he was using was completely inadequate to the task of stabbing one of his little bites of extra-crispy french toast. So, WHAAAAAAA

I told him to just pick it up with his fingers. But then his HANDS would get all STICKY, WHAAAAAA.

How about he try a different fork? But he wants to use THIS FORK, WHAAAAAAAA.

So he starts violently stabbing the french toast with the fork until the tines start popping off and flying across the room, and then I was like, "Whew. I was just thinking this room was strangely devoid of small pieces of danger for Lilly to find and put in her mouth."

But Sam found the broken tines to be immensely entertaining so he cheered up. Enough to come and give me a great big kiss on my back. Which is nice except now my SHIRT is all STICKY, WHAAAAA.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Out to dinner

Going out to dinner with kids is like getting a massage from ants. Ostensibly relaxing, but in reality, really irritating and kind of dirty.

Last night I decided to join my family for dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. We were a little late getting there. Because it takes an eternity to pick up three kids from three different locations of childcare.

Here's how it went.

We arrive. Yay!

Order fast! Waiter is here!

Lilly wants out of her car seat. I go to pick her up. I realize she has had massive poop blowout. When did that happen?! SHIT! This was an unplanned meal, so I don't have a diaper bag with me! Usually, when I'm picking her up at the babysitter's and taking her home, I don't need a diaper bag. But now I do. Okay. Think. I know! The CAR! It is piled HIGH with stuff! Surely I'll be able to McGyver another outfit and a diaper. Sure enough, there is an outfit (boys, slightly too big) and even an old diaper! It is several sizes too big but much better than the t-shirt/tissue/blanket diaper I was concocting in my head.

Okay, take Lilly to the bathroom. Awesome! They have a changing table (diaper changes on the floor of a Mexican restaurant's bathroom = yuck). Strap her down. Wet some paper towels while whipping my head around to verify that she's not trying to escape the table. Straps shmaps. Lilly will see your straps and raise you a head dive. Okay, good, back to holding her down. Lilly doesn't like this. It sounds like "AHHHH NOT LIKE NOT LIKE NOT LIKE." Peel off onesie. Okay, there's some poop on her face, but I gotta stay focused. Wiping, wiping, wiping, new diaper, new outfit. Fold old poopy clothes in on themselves, throw away old diaper and paper towel wipes and we are clean!!

Okay, back to the table. Sit down. Take a bite.

"I meeda go potty."

Right. Okay. Owen needs to go potty. That's cool. I totally know where it is. Come on, let's go.

"It is here? We go potty in here?"

"Yup, come on, let's go. Move it along, nothing to see here. Let's just do our business."

"We will go in here? You will come wif me?"

"Sure will, let's go."

"OH! Looka dat!"

"That's the changing table. Do you remember when you had to go on those because you wore a diaper? Now you can use the potty! So use the potty."

"Okay. I'm puuuuuuulling down my pants!"


"Okay, I will sit here and use the potty."

. . . . .

"Uh-oh. I fink sumfin is going wrong."

"What's up?"

"I'm trying to poop but it won't come out!"

"Well, keep trying. It's not like our food it getting cold. And I for one am certainly not hungry."

"OH! Wook at dat! Oh no! The toiwet paper is onna fwoor!"

"Oh, my. How ever could the toilet paper have gotten on the floor? One could never foresee that happening when one was whapping it over and over."

"I better get it."

"Alright, Owen, I'm going to go back out to the table, you can come out when you're done."

"Okay! WEAVE, MOM."
I keep forgetting that my younger son will call my bluffs.

Right. I leave the bathroom. Run into my sister, who is waiting outside the men's bathroom for her son. Good to know I have years of bathroom hanging out ahead of me. She offers to wait for Owen. Sweet!

Take two bites. Mexican food not so appealing anymore, but you get what you get and you don't get grossed out by a bunch of poop in the bathroom of a Mexican bathroom.

"Mom? I need to go potty."

You know that's Sam. Because every thing he says to me begins with him saying my name like it is a question. Mom? Is that you? Are you really my mother? Are you still my mother? Are you sure?

Right. Back to the bathroom. Maybe I'll have the chance to lick it this time.

"Mom? Is this the bathroom? Are you coming in? Oh, look there is a changing table on the wall! Oh my gosh, the toilet paper is on the floor!"

Oh my god.

Just use the freaking bathroom.

"Sam, seriously, just use the potty and let's get out of here."

"Mom? I have to poop."

See, apparently, dinner got scheduled during 6:00 family pooping time.

I think I spent more time in the bathroom than at the table.

Which was fun.

And then Lilly got tired and cried a lot and wanted to go home.

I'm sure there were other people there. And I'm sure they talked about things. You know, current event, politics, old friends.

Not me. Just tacos and poop.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Like Aruba. Or Jamaica.

Yesterday night, about a half an hour after I fell asleep, Owen ran screaming into our room, pulled his pants down, peed on a pile of clothes and then turned around and went back to bed.

I was left, blinking, with a pile of urine-soaked clothes, wondering what the hell just happened.

Having children is so relaxing.

Chris tried really hard to sleep through the whole thing.

I didn't let him.

He suggested that the clothes could be cleaned up in the morning.

Is any of the above normal?

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Social graces

I went to the local Parent Center for a "Baby and Me" group today.

I took Chris.



Chris, you totally didn't even deserve that. You've been a man among men recently.

Anyway, I took Lilly and she was a champ because she doesn't have to worry about traditional baby things like "naps" or "not being able to take over the world."

By the way, the other day Sam asked me what "champ" meant. I was all, "Um. It means you are great? Like you did a good job at something? Like a champ . . . ion?"

Stupid four-year-olds and their incessant questioning.

It's like a damn IQ test all the time around here.

"What is this for?"

"What does that mean?"

"Oooo, sorry, points off for sarcasm, Mom."

So the group was fine.

It got me wondering about why I hadn't gone before. Like when I was home with Sam for 9 months, or when I was on maternity leave with Owen or Lilly.

And then I remembered it's because I'm a terrible with people.

When I meet people, there are only three possible outcomes:

1) I don't like them. Like the lady this morning who was all, "Bouncers! I can't believe how people have all these THINGS for their babies! Babies survived for millions of years without all this STUFF! I don't get why people get so caught up with 'keeping up with the Joneses!'" Um, I don't know, maybe because of how babies scream a lot, you asshat. It's not like I bought all these loud plastic things for showing off. Come in, come in! Oh, that old thing? Just a giant plastic baby holder I picked up the last time we swung by the South of France.

2) They don't like me. Like the skinny lady in the skinny jeans who is a stay-at-home mom and doesn't find my rant about how I wish Lilly would slow it down very funny. Trust me, I totally was.

3) They act friendly and I'm suspicious. Like, wow, I'm not really sure I want to hang out with someone with standards that low. They'd probably be friendly with a rock. And what am I going to get out of hanging out with a person who talks to rocks? And then she'd probably be one of those people who is all NEEDY and I have enough needy people in my life. I call them my children. The last thing I need is some lady calling me up 5 time a day all, "I keep calling you and you don't answer!" Yeah, I know. It was exhausting ignoring all those phone calls. So I just assume that anyone showing interest in "getting coffee" is actually a crazy stalker.

In any event, I went, it was fine.

There are some really ugly babies out there.

So Lilly tried to eat their faces.

Not like the kind of shots we had in college


I got a flu shot today.

I can barely type.

A free flu shot is something they offer as a benefit at my job's "Benefit Fair."

You know you are a grown-up when a "Fair" is a place you go with balloons and free pens and dental insurance.

You know you are a grown-up when you're like, "Oooo, free shots!"

But, mah arm. It hurts.

I'm not even kidding when I tell you that it would be best if I didn't ever, ever, ever get cancer or something.

Think back to my behavior whilst pregnant. Now imagine me going through chemo.

People always talk about how brave their loved ones are while going through treatment.

I guarantee you that none of you would be saying that about me.

Seriously. I'm not kidding. I'm kind of worried about it. Because we have all of these cancer awareness weeks/months these days. So, okay, I'm, like, really aware of the possibility I could get cancer. Thanks.

I'd better not get the flu, either.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Word is spreading

So I got a visitor counter thing-a-jigger. It is interesting.

It tells me how many people look at my blog on a daily basis.

Interestingly, nobody visits here on Sundays.

What, are you all at church?

It also tells me where people visit from. Somebody visited from Japan once. But he only stayed for 2 seconds before he was like, "AH! Leaving!"

The counter thing-a-jigger didn't say that, I'm just assuming.

I have a lot of visits from someplace called "Cleveland." That's cool. I hear it's a hole, though.

I'm not great with "technology" or "programs," but it looks like somebody in Cincinnati reads my blog.

Hey there!

If it is true, and I have a reader to whom I am not directly related, I think that should freak them out.

I can SEEEEEEEE you!

Not really.

But that's a pretty shirt you have on.

I have lots of good ideas

I bought a pair of jeans on-line from Gap. When I got them and tried them on they fit really nicely, except for the extra foot of leg-length. I suppose I could chop them off, but I think the price of the jeans warranted perfection or return. Actually, the pants were called "Perfect-fit jeans," so I don't think I was being to hard on them.

Of course I let them sit around the house for weeks and weeks.

Then I noticed that returns must be made within 45 days. Yikes.

I printed out the pre-paid label and packaged the pants up and tried to drop them off at UPS.

But UPS is closed on Sunday.


So I head out with Lilly this morning before work. I walk up, full of confidence and do that thing where you stand around looking really confused when the door won't open. Like, "What ever could be wrong with this door?! I am tugging very mightily!"

Turns out they don't open until 9:00.

What the heck, UPS? I'm just trying to drop off a freakin package. Put a hole in your door or something. I don't even know what the point is of opening at 9:00. Who isn't at work by 9:00? If you want to catch the morning crowd, you have to open at 8:00, don't you think? And if you aren't worried about the morning crowd, why bother opening before 10?


But I couldn't wait around, so I decided that, given the timeline that was thisclose to rendering my pants valueless, I would risk leaving the package outside of the UPS door.

About a half an hour later, I look back at what I've done.

I've left a package. Unattended. In a public place. All mysterious-like.

That doesn't bother people these days, right?

I called (when they opened) and explained to the UPS lady that I had left a package outside and I wanted her to know it wasn't a terrorist bomb, just pants.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Last week Lilly started doing this thing where she'd wake up for her middle-of-the-night feeding (which she should have outgrown at this point, but whatever, I'm a flexible, accommodating, loving mother so that's okay, no hard feelings), eat until she fell asleep and I put her back in her crib, and WAKE UP TWENTY MINUTES LATER.

Which is just long enough for me to have fallen back asleep.

For the first week or so, I got her back up, nursed her again, and she would go back to sleep for serious.

And then I was like, "screw that."

I mean, that's completely unnecessary. If you are hungry, eat. If you are tired, sleep. I don't want to be up at ALL, let alone be up and being yanked around by a fickle BABY.

Pickle babies? They should make small pickles and call them that.


So I instituted a no-going-to-sleep-and-then-getting-back-up-twenty-minutes-later policy.

Which resulted in a LOT of screaming.

Which Chris did not really appreciate. As he was unaware of her previous irritating nighttime habits, her new, loud, nighttime habits seemed a distinct downturn of events to him.

But, WHATEVER, man. I'm not dealing with that crap anymore. She's a grown-ass baby. She'll learn.

So we had five nights of battling.

She did not learn.

Last night, she woke up to eat at 3:00. I fed her, she fell asleep, I put her back in her crib. I sat down in bed, but did not lie down because I was trying not to be woken up by her imminent screaming. I fell asleep sitting up (ow). She woke up at 3:20. I got her up, fed her again and she went back to sleep for serious.

I felt great about the lack of sustained screaming.

Until I realized that she TOTALLY WON.

I'm a little scared of this child.

I think she's trying to take over the world.