Bug: Mama, I need erections for my new toy!
Makes a mama proud!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Reminders
Boo has been ill for almost 72 hours.
We're talking blowing from both ends ill.
We've been pushing pedialyte and holding a head over a toilet so often we've become old hands at wiping his mouth and moving our hands before the next round starts.
I lost my temper with the pediatrician from our office (not our regular ped, whom I adore) and got meds to stop the vomiting. Finally. And they seem to be helping. My son woke up this morning and no longer resembles a concentration camp survivor.
Last night, after meds and exhaustion settled the three of us in our bed for the night, I got a reminder of the baby Boo used to be.
When he was little and needed comfort, he would start stroking me from my face to my breast and back again. Last night, laying with him curled to me, he gently rubbed his little hand over my face, neck, and chest, just as he had when he was small enough for me to carry without bodily harm.
We lay there, his sleepy blue eyes staring into my worried and weary brown ones, while he soothed himself. I don't know if he was remembering me holding him to the breast to nurse him, or me snuggling him up when he was upset, or even me carrying him in a pouch most of the time.
All I do know is my not quite three year old remembers that I brought him comfort and he sought it once more in his time of need.
After he fell asleep, I lay there, watching him quietly weeping from relief that he was resting and from memories of a sweet baby that is now an active little boy.
It's moments like that, bittersweet and fleeting, that I remember why I became a mother, and why I have the best wee little heathens in the world.
We're talking blowing from both ends ill.
We've been pushing pedialyte and holding a head over a toilet so often we've become old hands at wiping his mouth and moving our hands before the next round starts.
I lost my temper with the pediatrician from our office (not our regular ped, whom I adore) and got meds to stop the vomiting. Finally. And they seem to be helping. My son woke up this morning and no longer resembles a concentration camp survivor.
Last night, after meds and exhaustion settled the three of us in our bed for the night, I got a reminder of the baby Boo used to be.
When he was little and needed comfort, he would start stroking me from my face to my breast and back again. Last night, laying with him curled to me, he gently rubbed his little hand over my face, neck, and chest, just as he had when he was small enough for me to carry without bodily harm.
We lay there, his sleepy blue eyes staring into my worried and weary brown ones, while he soothed himself. I don't know if he was remembering me holding him to the breast to nurse him, or me snuggling him up when he was upset, or even me carrying him in a pouch most of the time.
All I do know is my not quite three year old remembers that I brought him comfort and he sought it once more in his time of need.
After he fell asleep, I lay there, watching him quietly weeping from relief that he was resting and from memories of a sweet baby that is now an active little boy.
It's moments like that, bittersweet and fleeting, that I remember why I became a mother, and why I have the best wee little heathens in the world.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Puke and Parenthood
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.
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.
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!
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