Vomit is just part of being a parent, right?
From baby spit up to projectile vomiting, parents are expected to suck it up, not gaga, and deal with the all night pea soup events and still be up in the morning to go to work or to continue taking care of the sick and afflicted.
Last night, at midnight, The Man and I woke up out of a sound sleep to find that Boo had unleashed cottage cheese projectile spew on his bed and the hallway floor. While I had child's head over the toilet for the next round, The Man was gagging in the hallway cleaning up the mess. He left the bedding to me.
Repeat every thirty minutes all night, until I left for work and the man and Bug dosed off in our bed, thinking Boo asleep. Until Bug starting screaming that Boo was throwing up in our bed.
Being a good big brother, while The Man hosed off our wee little Exorcist wannabe, Bug stripped the bed and doused it with Febreeze to help out. Not bad for a four year old.
Then the other end of Boo began to run amok. My poor blue eyed baby is blowing at both ends and miserable. And I don't blame him. It sucks having your body turn on you without rhyme or reason. It sucks to be so thirsty you will drink anything, only to have it come back up out your nose. It sucks when you realize mom can't hold you because your covered in yuck and she's trying to clean you off.
It sucks as a parent because you can't do anything but hold their head and clean up their mess and wait. You can't make the virus run its course any faster. You can't make their stomach settle.
All you can do is clean up and wait and watch and hope it passes quickly.
And that you don't step in a pile checking on your child in the middle of the night.
Nothing like puke between your toes to make you feel like a real mom.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Jane Fonda Loathing
This morning, I woke up at some godforsaken hour and couldn't go back to sleep. turned on the TV and there was Jane Fonda in The Electric Whore something.
Let me explain that I have been exercising and watching my diet for a month or more now in an effort to shed the baby weight that is stubbornly clinging to the skinny woman inside of me. She's running out of air and I'm running out of time.
I am walking for blocks on my lunch break--in high heels--and denying myself that Reese's peanut butter cup that I so desperately want. I am drinking enough water to float a barge and eating healthy snacks to stave off cravings. I am chewing gum and popping vitamins and doing everything I'm supposed to do since I'm not quite obese enough to qualify for the Biggest Loser--two more pounds and I'm there! Gillian, come whip my butt into shape!
And I look at Jane Fonda, remember her work out videos and that, even with one foot in the grave, she's still built better than me, and I got mad. I started swearing at the TV. I began punching my pillow. I seriously thought about grabbing a canister of ice cream and having a free for all.
I had to run into the store this morning before work. I caught myself snarling at a employee when they told me to stop sniffing the chocolates. His interruption, although dangerous for him, stopped me from stripping down and smearing Hershey's on my body.
I only had two buttons undone when he stopped me.
I have to say, to a dieting woman, seeing Jane Fonda is like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. Or a donut in front of a hungry one.
I'm being good. I'm drinking my water and chewing my gum and I'll be walking at lunch again. But I really could have used a fat woman on TV this morning as a reminder that, even though my skinny chick is suffocating, at least I'm not her.
Is that too much to ask?
Let me explain that I have been exercising and watching my diet for a month or more now in an effort to shed the baby weight that is stubbornly clinging to the skinny woman inside of me. She's running out of air and I'm running out of time.
I am walking for blocks on my lunch break--in high heels--and denying myself that Reese's peanut butter cup that I so desperately want. I am drinking enough water to float a barge and eating healthy snacks to stave off cravings. I am chewing gum and popping vitamins and doing everything I'm supposed to do since I'm not quite obese enough to qualify for the Biggest Loser--two more pounds and I'm there! Gillian, come whip my butt into shape!
And I look at Jane Fonda, remember her work out videos and that, even with one foot in the grave, she's still built better than me, and I got mad. I started swearing at the TV. I began punching my pillow. I seriously thought about grabbing a canister of ice cream and having a free for all.
I had to run into the store this morning before work. I caught myself snarling at a employee when they told me to stop sniffing the chocolates. His interruption, although dangerous for him, stopped me from stripping down and smearing Hershey's on my body.
I only had two buttons undone when he stopped me.
I have to say, to a dieting woman, seeing Jane Fonda is like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. Or a donut in front of a hungry one.
I'm being good. I'm drinking my water and chewing my gum and I'll be walking at lunch again. But I really could have used a fat woman on TV this morning as a reminder that, even though my skinny chick is suffocating, at least I'm not her.
Is that too much to ask?
Friday, February 13, 2009
Baby Rage
Punk has some control issues. She has to be in control at all time.
When something doesn't go her way, The Man and I grab out ear plugs and hold on.
It gets loud.
There are tears. (The Man can't help himself!)
And the child becomes the most pitiful, screeching, red faced, weeping, snot nosed baby in the world.
Ya gotta love her.
One of the boys takes sippie cup. She gives him a few warning screeches before unleashing a sound that makes the boy's bowels turn to jelly and making him consider entering a monastery at 4 years old.
The Man tells her no. She stops, waits for him to reconsider, because she simply cannot believe the audacity of him, and then lets loose a wail that has him reeling back and holding up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes later, one of two things happens--he gives in or she wears out.
He normally gives in.
It's amazing to watch a tiny woman in training line up her men and put them in their places.
My sons bring her treats and drinks and toys and ask about her. Yes, they fear her, and in that fear, she has won respect.
The Man, despite all evidence to the contrary, thinks Punk can do no wrong. Even as she takes off her diaper and smears poo on the walls.
I just sit back and watch, proud of my prodigy and hopeful for the future if, at fourteen months, Punk can control the male gender so readily.
I will go to my grave knowing I left the male gender in very capable, controlling hands!
When something doesn't go her way, The Man and I grab out ear plugs and hold on.
It gets loud.
There are tears. (The Man can't help himself!)
And the child becomes the most pitiful, screeching, red faced, weeping, snot nosed baby in the world.
Ya gotta love her.
One of the boys takes sippie cup. She gives him a few warning screeches before unleashing a sound that makes the boy's bowels turn to jelly and making him consider entering a monastery at 4 years old.
The Man tells her no. She stops, waits for him to reconsider, because she simply cannot believe the audacity of him, and then lets loose a wail that has him reeling back and holding up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes later, one of two things happens--he gives in or she wears out.
He normally gives in.
It's amazing to watch a tiny woman in training line up her men and put them in their places.
My sons bring her treats and drinks and toys and ask about her. Yes, they fear her, and in that fear, she has won respect.
The Man, despite all evidence to the contrary, thinks Punk can do no wrong. Even as she takes off her diaper and smears poo on the walls.
I just sit back and watch, proud of my prodigy and hopeful for the future if, at fourteen months, Punk can control the male gender so readily.
I will go to my grave knowing I left the male gender in very capable, controlling hands!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Heathens Death Defying Stunt Team
My children are trying to kill themselves.
And drive their daddy bonkers.
I'm not opposed to driving The Man bonkers. It's my life's goal. I've honed it into an art form, so its only natural my children would take up the cause an run with it.
Falling over their own feet and smacking their pug noses on the floor.
Yep. They are their mama's children.
Yesterday, The Man had a rough day.
Boo was running from the bedroom and The Man came around the corner. Boo and The Man collided. Boo went flying back into the corner of a door frame, resulting in a nice goose egg and a sob story. Then Bug threw his SpongeBob toy and hit Boo in the lip.
The Man sprouted two more gray hairs on his poor balding head.
I knew I loathed SpongeBob for a reason.
Punk, being the adventurous midget she is, gladly took a plug in air freshener provided by Boo and worked it like a lollipop. After a call to Poison control and a few panicked moments later, my baby has pine fresh breath and The Man has a new gray hair.
Things seemed to have calmed down until after my return home last night. Then Bug decided to join the act. An office chair, a clumsy four year old, and a hard floor later, Bug was a member of the Heathens Death Defying Stunt Team.
After wrapping all the children in those packing plastics (the bubble kind you like to pop--which I restrained myself from popping and having a moment of sheer orgasmic joy. Barely!) we settled in for the night.
Yes, I left them air holes.
The Man said he was quitting, turning in his notice as a parent. I reminded him that I was sneakier, could move faster, and would halfway to Mexico and a cute Latin lover before he could sputter out a response.
So here I am, on a sunny beach, slathered with sun screen and sipping a Pina colada brought my my new toy, Pedro.
And drive their daddy bonkers.
I'm not opposed to driving The Man bonkers. It's my life's goal. I've honed it into an art form, so its only natural my children would take up the cause an run with it.
Falling over their own feet and smacking their pug noses on the floor.
Yep. They are their mama's children.
Yesterday, The Man had a rough day.
Boo was running from the bedroom and The Man came around the corner. Boo and The Man collided. Boo went flying back into the corner of a door frame, resulting in a nice goose egg and a sob story. Then Bug threw his SpongeBob toy and hit Boo in the lip.
The Man sprouted two more gray hairs on his poor balding head.
I knew I loathed SpongeBob for a reason.
Punk, being the adventurous midget she is, gladly took a plug in air freshener provided by Boo and worked it like a lollipop. After a call to Poison control and a few panicked moments later, my baby has pine fresh breath and The Man has a new gray hair.
Things seemed to have calmed down until after my return home last night. Then Bug decided to join the act. An office chair, a clumsy four year old, and a hard floor later, Bug was a member of the Heathens Death Defying Stunt Team.
After wrapping all the children in those packing plastics (the bubble kind you like to pop--which I restrained myself from popping and having a moment of sheer orgasmic joy. Barely!) we settled in for the night.
Yes, I left them air holes.
The Man said he was quitting, turning in his notice as a parent. I reminded him that I was sneakier, could move faster, and would halfway to Mexico and a cute Latin lover before he could sputter out a response.
So here I am, on a sunny beach, slathered with sun screen and sipping a Pina colada brought my my new toy, Pedro.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Out of the mouths of heathens
Bug picked a scab off his cheek, resulting in blood. Runs to The Man.
B: Daddy! I'm bleeding! I need a banage!
TM: You don't nee a band aid. You're fine.
B; What are you try to do--kill me! I'm bleeding here. I will DIE!
TM: You won't die.
B: Will to if I don't get a banage I'll DIE! I'm bleeding! Don't you see!
When asked who his favorite parent was post trauma--Bug's answer? Mama!
B: Daddy! I'm bleeding! I need a banage!
TM: You don't nee a band aid. You're fine.
B; What are you try to do--kill me! I'm bleeding here. I will DIE!
TM: You won't die.
B: Will to if I don't get a banage I'll DIE! I'm bleeding! Don't you see!
When asked who his favorite parent was post trauma--Bug's answer? Mama!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
What's in a label?
Bug will be going for preschool testing next month.
I still haven't figured out what they are testing him for.
I don't think he'll be peeing in a cup or giving blood to check for disease. I doubt they'll care about his prowess as a spitter of far flung phlegm. I don't think they will be impressed by his amazing ability to repeat one word over and over at increasing decibels until even the cats scurry for cover, grabbing their kitty helmets as they flee.
I doubt they will test his bootay shaking ability, which, despite his tender years, is bordering on legendary, or his ability to deflect the blame for any mishap upon his younger brother. They probably will not test for his astounding appetite or ability to sing "House on Pooh Corner" 800 times in a row and never sing the same song twice.
I fear they will not test for a heart that is two sizes too big and full of joy and love for everyone, even a tree, a car, a stuffed animal, and occasionally his brother and sister.
I doubt they will test for a winning smile or ready hug, although the administrator make just get knocked on her rump by one of my boy's beefy bear hugs.
I'm sure they will check for such unimportant things as comprehension, problem solving, and such--things no four year old really needs. Hell, things his 33 year old mother rarely needs!
So I'm forced to wonder . . .what are they testing him for? And does it really matter? In the end, will these scores affect my child on the road to becoming a good, productive member of society, or are they just another tool to label something which cannot be labeled?
Okay, if the educational system must have their label, I'll give them one for my oldest boy.
"Boy.
Age: However old he wants to be
Name: None of your damned business
Identifying traits: His father's ears and mothers nose and a curved pinky toe that came from the mailman--I think!
Characteristics: Talking too much and occasionally with mouth full. Running at breakneck speed, falling over his feet, and attempting to break said neck. Having fantastic legs for wearing mom's high heels. Known for walking by, farting, and running. Will curl up in a lap and fall asleep without warning, suddenly weighing 400 pounds instead of 40. Will bring you a blanket because he's cold, then stand by and wait for the invitation to share. When asleep, mutters and talks and makes a sweet baby face that will melt the hardest of hearts. Does not take no for an answer."
I think that will at least scratch the surface of my boy.
I still haven't figured out what they are testing him for.
I don't think he'll be peeing in a cup or giving blood to check for disease. I doubt they'll care about his prowess as a spitter of far flung phlegm. I don't think they will be impressed by his amazing ability to repeat one word over and over at increasing decibels until even the cats scurry for cover, grabbing their kitty helmets as they flee.
I doubt they will test his bootay shaking ability, which, despite his tender years, is bordering on legendary, or his ability to deflect the blame for any mishap upon his younger brother. They probably will not test for his astounding appetite or ability to sing "House on Pooh Corner" 800 times in a row and never sing the same song twice.
I fear they will not test for a heart that is two sizes too big and full of joy and love for everyone, even a tree, a car, a stuffed animal, and occasionally his brother and sister.
I doubt they will test for a winning smile or ready hug, although the administrator make just get knocked on her rump by one of my boy's beefy bear hugs.
I'm sure they will check for such unimportant things as comprehension, problem solving, and such--things no four year old really needs. Hell, things his 33 year old mother rarely needs!
So I'm forced to wonder . . .what are they testing him for? And does it really matter? In the end, will these scores affect my child on the road to becoming a good, productive member of society, or are they just another tool to label something which cannot be labeled?
Okay, if the educational system must have their label, I'll give them one for my oldest boy.
"Boy.
Age: However old he wants to be
Name: None of your damned business
Identifying traits: His father's ears and mothers nose and a curved pinky toe that came from the mailman--I think!
Characteristics: Talking too much and occasionally with mouth full. Running at breakneck speed, falling over his feet, and attempting to break said neck. Having fantastic legs for wearing mom's high heels. Known for walking by, farting, and running. Will curl up in a lap and fall asleep without warning, suddenly weighing 400 pounds instead of 40. Will bring you a blanket because he's cold, then stand by and wait for the invitation to share. When asleep, mutters and talks and makes a sweet baby face that will melt the hardest of hearts. Does not take no for an answer."
I think that will at least scratch the surface of my boy.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Out of the mouths of babes
After The Man walked into the heathens room and found that every toy in the big toy box was out in the bedroom.
The Man: I told you not to get all these toys out.
Bug: Why don't you just go back to the living room and watch a little TV. Nothing to see here! (And begins trying to push The Man out of the room) Move it along, Daddy!
During a trip to the bathroom for #2. Bug is grunting and turning red and trying for all its worth.
Bug: Guess I better pull my shirt up for this one, huh, daddy?
The Man: I told you not to get all these toys out.
Bug: Why don't you just go back to the living room and watch a little TV. Nothing to see here! (And begins trying to push The Man out of the room) Move it along, Daddy!
During a trip to the bathroom for #2. Bug is grunting and turning red and trying for all its worth.
Bug: Guess I better pull my shirt up for this one, huh, daddy?
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