Auntie Em? Auntie Em is that you?

 I feel like I am crawling out from under a house blown over by a tornado.  Kind of like when the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz dies and they all come peeking out and the black and white turns to Technicolor.  Yeah, that is how I feel, though it is not a tornado that hit us, oh no my friends…it was another kind of storm.  A sh*t storm.  Literally and figuratively a sh*t storm.

My day was going along according to plan.  I switched my schedule to work early so I would be available to volunteer for a PTA event.  I was kicking this day’s ass.  Work/life balance? Check.  Helping out in my community? Check.  I was the mom that had it all.  Until I didn’t.  I was working the ticket booth/snack stand at the school event when it happened.  That one lonely foreboding drip of sweat trickling ever so slowly down the center of my back.  My jaw clenches and saliva begins building in my tightening throat.

Oh God no!  Please God for the love of St. Elmo please just let me be hot!  Oh, by the way you are more than welcome for that ear worm…”I can see the new horizon underneath the blazin' sky…I'll be where the eagle's flying higher and higher…Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels..Take me where my future's lyin', St. Elmo's fire”.  But it wasn’t just the temperature of the room.  It was far more sinister.  I was hit by the stomach bug.  Crap!  I was stuck there for another hour.  I made the best of it, passing out snacks with a forced smile on my face 1.) Because I was grateful for their support of the school …2.) Out of fear because if I opened my mouth I could not guarantee an accompaniment of vomit would not also slip out with the word ‘thank you’…and 3).  Because I had a pretty high degree of certainty I was infecting these poor families that came out for a night of fun.   No need to call the CDC, I know where the outbreak started.  I am patient zero.

The event ends.  I drive home as if Anderson Cooper were waiting for me with a cup of coffee and some snarky gossip.  I run straight to the bathroom and begin to purge.  I was throwing things up I ate days ago.  It would not stop.  I was throwing things up from next week I haven’t even eaten yet.  I have no idea where it was coming from.  I somehow made it to the couch and there I stayed for a good 7 minutes until another round hit.  This cycle continued for 8 hours…then the fun really started, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself just yet.  In the meantime Chuck got bitten by this nasty, nasty bug.  I swear with all the money that goes into these exotic diseases like Zika, why the hell can’t they through a couple of pennies to finding a flippin cure for the stomach bug?  So now the 2 of us are down for the count.  It is the middle of the night so the kids are sleeping; thank the walking up right Gods for that little blessing.  So two of us with one toilet… our 2nd bathroom is in the middle of being redone.  Two adults.  1 toilet.  You do the math.  The stomach bug which has now progressed from vomiting to include the soupy poopy.  You know the saying “sh*t or get off the pot”.  Truer words have never been spoken. 

I was so dehydrated from throwing and going I was having leg/foot cramps.  My bones ached.  The body aches were far worse than the other stuff.  At one point I had to go to the bathroom so bad, at this point the 2 of us were p*ssing water out of our asses, but the leg cramps were so bad I contemplated just sh*tting on the couch and just torch the place when the dust settled.  I mean at this point there was so much methane built up in our house it was not a far stretch of the imagination.  I mean it could happen.  I was waiting for the windows to blow out.  We were one good fart away from disaster.  Oh and speaking of passing gas, that was a tenuous situation at best.  You couldn’t trust the little buggas.  You try to release just a tiny bit of pressure, but you give your ass an inch, it takes a mile….you think you are good with a small release of pressure but it comes out like a flippin’ balloon you just didn’t tie in time.  You know in all those cheesy teen movies when the child actors way overact a scene and their crazy experiment backfires and when the dust settles they are standing there covered in soot and their hair is standing straight up?  Yeah?  It was like that. 

There were noises heard and things seen that my husband and I cannot un-see or un-hear.  I think if you are thinking of marrying someone it should be mandatory you survive a stomach bug together.  Forget the Pre-Cana classes.  The true test is seeing if you can walk in on your spouse mid-sh*t while they are puking and reload the toilet paper.  If you can survive that there is NOTHING you can’t survive.  Now, in an effort to save my marriage I will not be commenting on the Man Flu.  But, if the weather had been a little nicer and the windows open during this plaque upon our house, our poor neighbors would have thought we were porn addicts.  The moaning coming from our house was enough to put Larry Flint to shame.  Anyone with a husband knows EXACTLY what I mean!!

So as the new day dawns and our GI tracts are starting to stabilize I realize at some point I will need to clean that bathroom.  Our poor, poor bathroom… We asked A LOT of it in the previous 24 hours.  I was trying to put a plan in place.  I am going to need a Haz-Mat suit.  But, for reasons I don’t completely understand myself I know for a fact our local medical supply store does NOT carry Haz-Mat suits.  OK, so I could go to Dick’s Sporting Goods and get some of those rubber waders fly fishermen use and a raincoat.  I then remember the last time I went there.  Remember that debacle?  I got stuck in a sports bra for an uncomfortable length of time while Anna stood laughing at me.  See reminds me of that every time we drive by.  I could go to Home Depot and get a respirator at least.  There is a brand new Dollar Tree right next door, I could grab one of those pincher graspers that helps vertically challenged people reach things.  I know I am short, but I am thinking of getting them for my T-Rex arms.  If I try cleaning out that toilet my stubby little arms will be shoulder deep in the vomit/sh*t stew that I am sure if festering in there.  Oh, as a side note, I was at Dollar Tree the other day…as I am most days and they had a help wanted sign-up.  I really wanted to take an application.  I can fake a smile as good as the rest, I know where EVERY ass-aching item is in there and just think, with an employee discount it could very well be 75 cent Tree for me!  A win-win for everyone.  But I digress…I did think of hiring someone specifically to clean just our bathroom.  Unfortunately, that is not in the budget.  It is a tiny bathroom but even if I paid someone 10 million dollars it would not nearly be enough, plus they would need to sign a non-disclosure payment and that runs into all sorts of legal fees.  All while I was contemplating how to make the bathroom safe for humans to enter it again…Chuck comes out and tells me he bleached it down.  Now that, that my friends is true love.  I want to give a special shout out to my mother in law for taking our children overnight.  She saved their lives.  It really was like the Lord of the Flies…they had donuts and candy for breakfast, they were watching God knows what on You Tube and Emily had her white trash uniform on consisting only of a diaper and sticky hair.  And to my fellow PTA moms and anyone I may have come in contact with that night.  I am truly sorry.  If you do come down with this vicious stomach bug all I can say is Godspeed my friends.  Godspeed.

The cat was nice to me, I must be dying!

So our cat Lucy is very stand-offish.  She is a black cat, about 9 years old (we have had her for about 4 years) and keeps to herself.  She looks like a panther and kind of acts like one too.  She creeps around and all of the sudden she is just there staring at you...no matter where you are, she is there. Staring.  I have never heard her purr or seek out affection.  She isn't a bad cat, just aloof.  Well, today I was sitting on the floor reading with Emily.  Lucy came over and starting rubbing up against me.  I started patting her, she started to purr.  She let me pat her for about 10 minutes, even let me get in some belly rubs!  Now most cat owners would see this as a break through. She finally trusts us.  Not me, my immediate thought was; I am dying from some dreaded disease and the cat has a 6th sense about it.  I have read several articles about cats in nursing homes, they go hang out with a resident right before they die.  If Lucy really is a soothsayer just know I had good run.

So I got to thinking, huh, Erin, that is kind of weird.  Why do I automatically go to the worst case scenario?  Why can't I just enjoy the moment and pat the flippin cat?  Since I have ruminating thoughts and can't stay focused, I gave up pondering such a deep, philosophical question and started thinking about other idiosyncratic things I do, that upon reflection may not be a societal "norm" shall we say.  Here are a few examples;

* I love surveys!  All kinds but I especially love the phone surveys I get.  I answered one years ago and now I get a few a month.  I don't like them for the reason you think or, if you really know me you probably know why I love them.  It is not that I think my opinion is more valuable than anyone else, or  that these people really want to know my thoughts on pollution, dryer sheets, political candidates, etc.  I love getting the calls because I love to f*ck with them!  If I get a call about dryer sheets I might tell them I am a nudist and don't wear clothes, therefore I don't need dryer sheets.  Or, for instance, I just got a political call yesterday and I totally messed with the girl about her candidates record, by the end she didn't know if I were talking about the economy or health care.  I know it is their job and they are just trying to make a living, but, I am very lonely out here.  It has sort of become a sport for me.  Oh, and if I am really busy I just put Emily on the phone with them.  That kid never stops talking!!!

* Here is a weird thing I do, not sure anyone knows this about me.  Not sure why I do this, it makes no sense but every time I cook with a bouillon cube I am compelled to eat a tiny bit of it before I use it.  Just a speck, not enough that I need to chew or anything, I don't like the taste of it....it is just something I HAVE to do.  I am sure if I read the latest version of the DSM-V there is some rare syndrome that makes someone have to eat boullion.  Oh, just an FYI, if I am cooking for anyone other than myself I cut a tiny piece off with a knife.  No need to avoid dinner a dinner party at my house! 

*Oh, that reminds me of another strange thing I do.  When I am daydreaming in the car or wherever, I plan dinner parties in my head.  Not ones that could ever actually happen, but just ones I think would be fun.  The other day I planned one with me, Anderson Cooper of course, he is ALWAYS invited, Andy Cohen is on the list too.  If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times...if I met them in real life we would be besties!!  OK, so back to the dinner party, I would invite Kim and Kanye, not because I like them at all....but so I could tell them they are huge douche bags!   Plus, when AC squared get a little liquored up I am sure their cattiness will start to come out and they will back me up.  OK, so that makes 5 of us.  My party is for 8.  I would invite Chuck, but he wouldn't want to come so that leaves me 3 more guests.  Donald Trump would be on the list, again, not because I like him just because the invitation would read, No spray tan, no comb-overs and no toupes.  My house, my rules!  I would invite Joe Santagato.  Every time I hear him speak I laugh.  He would totally break down the dinner party!  If you have not heard him before look him up on YouTube, you are in for a treat!  Lastly, I would invite my friend Shannon.  She moved to the south a while ago.  I would tell you where, but for the life of me I can never remember the God forsaken place she lives; could be Alabama, Arkansas or regular Kansas...not sure why one is pronounced Kansas and the other is Ark-in-saw.  It should be regular Kansas and Ar-Kansas.  Anyway, she gets me.  She would understand why the guests were invited, why I have an out-out shirt on, and why hosting a dinner party with this crew would seem utterly random yet make perfect sense and we would laugh for hours while planning the next gathering.  

*Oh, there was another odd thing I used to do, but as I get older I have given up the practice.  I would NEVER, EVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE sleep with my back towards the door... and I would be all covered up with only a small blow hole in the blanket to breathe from and peek half an eye ball out of.  Why, you ask?  DUH!  So murderers wouldn't get me....obviously!!  For some insane reason my thought process was, if I were covered up the murderer wouldn't notice me.  They would be like, "oh, that human shaped lump in the bed must just be the covers...there's no head on it...nothing to see here" and move on to the next house.  Always facing towards the door insured me of at least seeing who my killer was before getting slayed, plus if my back were to them I couldn't possibly hear them coming.  Finally at age 43 I realized though just a lowly murderer, they probably have the whole sleeping under the covers thing figured out and are probably on to the fact that if there is a human shaped lump on a bed, it is a safe bet there is a human underneath the covers.  I have thrown years of caution to the wind and I have been sleeping facing away from the door and if I am hot, covers be damned, I am throwing those blankets off!  So, if you do see a post about me being murdered in my sleep you can rest easy knowing I didn't see it coming and I was not overheated at the moment of my demise.

*Another odd superstition about being murdered in my home stems from an episode of Criminal Minds.  Someone was taking a shower, when she slid the shower curtain open when finished, there was a creepy guy standing right there waiting for her.  Since that day forward, I always shower with the curtain end closest to the door open a good foot, foot and a half.  Yeah, it makes a mess but you know what?  Again, if someone comes in to kill me at least it won't be a surprise!  For the record, I have long since stopped watching Criminal Minds...way too scary for someone as neurotic as I am. 

*Here is something I bet none of my faithful readers do; every night before climbing into bed I check under my pillows making sure it is free and clear of snakes.  Several years back I was watching something on Animal Planet, maybe When Animals Attack, anyway, I guy was sleeping and put his hand under his pillow and was bitten by a snake!  Yeah, I know he lived in someplace where deadly snakes were commonplace and yeah, he had one of those rich people houses with open air rooms so the odds were stacked against him.  But, you NEVER KNOW!!!  One of my littles could leave a door open and I don't have much faith in Mary Alice protecting us, the cats are afraid of their own shadows so they are useless.  Even though it is a very small likelihood of a snake finding its way under my pillow I must protect myself!  Chuck, I know you probably don't know about this nightly ritual but I am putting you on blast, if you take this as an invitation to play a joke on me DON'T!  It will not be funny and it will be grounds for divorce!  I will print a set of divorce papers from Legal Zoom faster than you can say, "Robert Shapiro"...fun fact, the guy who defended OJ is the founder of Legal Zoom.  OK, so maybe I won't print them off that fast seeing that I can't figure out how to print anything off of our computer, but, don't for one second think I am above having you print off your own divorce papers, hand them to me so then I can in turn throw them in your face!  Oh, and don't even think of having one of the girls do your dirty work.  I would divorce you AND make sure you have full custody of the girls!! 

* One time I went to use the bathroom at someone's house, someone who shall remain nameless to protect their privacy...anyway, when I got into the bathroom there was a floater in the toilet.  I could not believe it!  This person sh*ts?!!  No effing way!!  So I was in a quandary, what do I do?  Do I flush the toilet first and then pee?  Or do I just pee on their leftover turd?  If I flushed first then I would have to flush again and they would think I have some weird GI issues, which if you a frequent reader of my blog you know I do.  But, the thought of adding to their excrement just grossed me out beyond belief.  I ended up doing the latter so I didn't have to double flush.  But, my friends, I digress.  The moral of this story is I always wait post flush to make sure I never, ever leave a floater!  Chuck is my adoring husband, the man I chose to spend my life with, the father of my children, but God forbid he ever seen actual evidence of my daily sit-down.  This man has seen it all with me; pulled rancid bandages out of my abdominal cavity, seen my uterus sitting on top of my stomach, watched me pluck my eyebrows, he even checked to make sure the second coming of Christ was not slipping out of my ass while I was pregnant, that it was in fact, only a hemorrhoid.  But he will never, ever have proof that I poop!

So now that you have had a little glimpse into my neurotic mind lets recap;

1. Sometimes cats are just nice, it is rare, but it can happen...no need to automatically start planning the music for your funeral.

2.  Don't put much stock in ads or political polls claiming, "if the election were held today, 87% of registered voters polled would support  --blank--"  It could just be me having some fun at the expense of our country's future.

3.  It is safe to eat soups I make for a large group, but you may not want to sneak a taste of one I made just for myself.

4.  You may or may not have been invited to a dinner party in my head.  If you have been, lucky you!!  They are always a good time AND since the Silver Fox is invited to every, single one you didn't just have the pleasure of my company, you got to meet the Coop!!!

5.  F*ck it!  Sleep facing away from the door with as little blanket coverage as you want.  If you are going to get murdered might as well be comfortable.

6.  Put an extra towel down outside of your shower.  It may just save your life!

7.  Snakes are everywhere!  Check twice--Save a Life!

8.  Always, always check the toilet!  Floaters happen way more than people think.  Leave no evidence! 

I am sure some of you had a laugh at my expense, that is fine.  But, keep in mind 94% of my readers will take on at lease one of my neurotic tendencies. I know, I just filled out a survey about it.  I am going to go out on a limb here and predict it will be to never, ever leave a floater behind!  You are welcome my friends!

And the Winner is...drum roll please....

Sadly, not me.  I have waited patiently to receive news that I won "Mother of the Year 2015",  alas, it is the end of February, the call never came... time for my concession speech.

In reflecting on my parenting choices this past year there may be a few instances where I may have missed the mark.  The following are some examples where I may or may not have been 1) a lazy parent, 2) a tired parent, or 3) an a$$hole parent.  You be the judge...

*  I have continued my tradition of blaming my laziness on the news.  "Oh, girls, the news said it was too -blank- to go outside today.  You can fill the blank in with anything really; too hot, too cold, too windy, too snowy, too humid, too dry...you get the picture.  I think this trick will no longer be up my sleeve since Sara now has starting watching the news.  Victoria R.,  I may be calling on you to film some "newscasts" for future use.

*  There may have been a time or two when I blamed our dog, Mary Alice, for destroying some of the girls school worksheets or those crappy McDonald toys.  When you are a parent and you are caught throwing away anything that belongs to your child, no matter how craptastic it is, you have to think FAST!  They can never know you were willingly throwing away their sh*t or they will lose theirs!  My go to since June has been the dog.  Since our dog eats everything she finds (a blog for another day...I promise) it is not out of the realm of possibility.  To further my cause I tear the pages up to make them look eaten. If it involves one of my children who is especially sensitive I sometimes make my dog an unwitting accomplice and get her to chew on it before placing it in the trash.  That's horrible, I know.


*  One of my kids got a new pair of super soft pants for Christmas.  She liked them so much she declared she was going to wear them for the rest of the year.  I always encourage my girls to set goals and do their best to achieve them.  Who am I to discourage ones dream?  Plus what is a few days of poor hygiene when you have a lifetime to bathe? 

*  Emily, my youngest will be 2 1/2 in a few weeks.  She still drinks a bottle.  Truth be told, lots of bottles.  I have a degree in child development.  I know it is wrong.  Do I care? No!  Is it because I am lazy? Yes!  Did I lie to her pediatrician at 18 months and say she was bottle free? Yes!  If anyone tells my pediatrician I am a fraud will I deny I am the author of this blog? TO THE END OF THE EARTH!  Oh, and for any Judgy McJudgertons out there...she still sleeps with me too!

* As a 43 year old woman I still have the sense of humor of a pre-pubescent boy.  I wear that badge proudly.  Farts are funny.  Always have been, always will be.  I have made it one of my parenting missions to instill the love of flatulence in my offspring.   Picture this, our family is sitting around in cozy jammies, the snow is softly falling outside, the electric fireplace glowing...then the stillness is broken by a long, loud fart.  The fart was not by accident, it came from a jar of Flart.  A slime like substance that when squeezed makes very, realistic fart noises.  We all took turns that snowy day, squeezing the flart and squealing with delight from each new noise we heard.  I was never more proud of my 2 year olds vocabulary than I was that day.  She used descriptive words well beyond her years; silent, wet, airy, squishy...If that family scene does not make you immediately think of Norman Rockwell, then you, you my friend are un-American!


*  My children hold me in high esteem, they have high expectations of what I should do for them. 
As their mother I try my best to meet or exceed their expectations.  There are times though when I fall short.  Emily joins me in the bathroom all the time.  She likes to dictate how I pee.  A loud pee is when you can hear it tinkle in the water.  A quiet one, as you can imagine just silently melts into the toilet water.  God help us all if I can not pee on her command.  If there is any tinkle when she requests a quiet one, she loses her sh*t same holds true for her request of a loud one and there is no splash back.  As her mother it breaks my heart not to make her happy, but there is no way to control the volume of your pee.   Now, friends, I know the next time you have the urge to pee you will try to prove me wrong.  I have tried many times.  Don't waste your time.  You're welcome!

In the same vain, you can not make your pets fart on command either.  One day Mary Alice farted next to me.  Emily wanted Mary to pass gas on her too.  Mary was not cooperating.  Emmie was ticked off!  The must have been out of gas and somehow Emily was mad at me!!  Once again, her expectations were not met, and for that my standings in the Mother of the Year contest were lowered. 

 There is always next year I suppose!  So far I am off to a good start!!  Chuck on the other hand is already out of the running for Father of the Year 2016.  Why you ask?  Oh, because last night he was watching TV with Emily when that commercial for cold medicine came on, you know the one with the ball of snot that walks around talking?   Well, in Emily's eyes her daddy can do anything.  She asked him to take boogers out of her nose and make a boogie guy.  Emily threw a fit for about 20 minutes when he tried explaining that he couldn't make a mucous man out of her snot.  Turns out her dad is a huge A-hole too!  I guess I am good company! 

Maybe we can be the Meh- Parents of the Year 2016?!

The sea was angry that day my friends...

A good friend once told me I was her George Costanza.   How you doin' Shannon?...it is obligatory to say that like Wendy Williams.  We all have a friend like George, you know the one, on the verge of being really cool, but something always comes along at the last minute to swat them back down to reality.  I didn't take offense to the moniker when Shannon bestowed it on me.  I saw it as a badge of honor.  Now, I am not letting Shannon off the hook, she is not any cooler than me...she stands shoulder to shoulder with me in nerdom... I just  always have some mishap that tips the scales in her favor.  In this case it was a wave, or to be a bit more precise...many, many waves.

I was dreading the anniversary of my mom's death.  I wanted to get out of my head and needed a good distraction.  Last year we took the girls to Great Wolf Lodge as an escape.  Remember that escapade?  No?  Well here is a recap for those that are new to my blog;

http://talesofaminivanmom.blogspot.com/2015/03/accidental-fecal-release.html

Good, now that you are caught up I decided on something a little less dramatic.  I booked a weekend on the Cape in a hotel with a wave pool and 2 small water slides.  Not so overwhelming and what I thought would be a little more their speed.

So back to the weekend...  Chuck picks up some breakfast items for us to bring.   We are a family of 5.  We are staying 2 nights.  One of my children does not eat.  EVER.  Our plan is to have one breakfast in and one at a restaurant.  Here is what Chuck purchased;
        * 12 full sized donuts
        *  16 mini-cereal boxes
        *  2 boxes of Pop Tarts (each with 8 tarts each)
        *  There may or may not have been a box of granola bars too

I was not going to be seen carrying 13 Price Chopper  bags through the hotel.  There is nothing that screams "WHITE TRASH" more than using plastic grocery bags as your luggage.  In an effort to not look like hobos, I emptied out the grocery bags into a suitcase.  We get situated in the hotel and head down to the wave pool.  The kids are having a blast.  Well, 2 out of the 3 are.  Emily, our 2 year old has a broken leg.  Of course, right?  We have plans to go to a water park and one of my kids breaks a limb. That is a blog for another day though.

Things are going well, we have a nice dinner and head back to our room.  Chuck goes to turn the TV on and it doesn't work.  It wasn't working when we checked in, the hotel said they would send someone to fix it.  As you can imagine, it can't be fixed.  So at 8:45 p.m. they tells us to pack up and they will send someone to bring us to our new room.  Yay!  We hastily pack everything up, no time to make everything neat and organized so I am forced to throw our belongings in the flippin' grocery bags after all!!  The only thing missing from this hobo train were bindlestiffs....apparently that is the proper name of a hobo stick.  You are more than welcome for that bit of useless trivia.  A housekeeper comes to our hotel door, she is going to assist us in bringing the roll-a-way bed to our new room.  Now their are ladies-- and then there are ladies songs are written about!  She is of the latter.  Forget "Your Body is  a Wonderland", forget, "Brick House" she may just be the inspiration for one of the greatest songs ever written...I'm a Little Tea Pot, because man, was she short and stout.  That is saying a lot coming from me, because we share the same body type.  Now, it may not seem relevant for me to comment on her body type, but it will all make sense in a minute.  So as the hobo train starts leaving the station, I am carrying an over tired child with a broken leg and have various totes, etc, wrapped around me, the girls each have 2-3 Price Chopper bags adorning them and Chuck has his hands full with the 2 suitcases, the girls swimmy vests, etc.  Herculina (my nickname for the housekeeper) starts pushing the roll-a-way bed out of the room.  We need to go to the first floor, we were on the 2nd.  I ask Herculina if there is an elevator...she pauses, and then answers "no".  So as we take this sh*t show on the road, Herculina turns and makes a beeline for the other end of the hallway. We make it downstairs without killing each other or breaking anymore limbs and wouldn't you know it, Herculina is already in the room with the roll-a-way bed and not a bead of sweat on her!  Now, I am not calling her a liar, who knows maybe she had a weight belt on under her uniform and she flung the cot on her back as she navigated her way down a tight stairwell, wait, no, yeah...she is a liar!  She took a secret elevator!  She had to have.

So this is where I would say we all got a good night's sleep, but I would be lying.  It sucked!  This new room was so figgin hot and the air conditioner was as loud as a jet engine.  I somehow was relegated to the roll-a-way bed which actually, believe it or not was a hammock in disguise.  I laid down on it and no word of a lie my ass was about a quarter of an inch off the ground.   I thought a sink hole had opened up underneath the hotel just as I got into bed!  I was terrified!  I thought I was going to be lost forever, but then I remembered Herculina had just started her shift and she would come save me!  I started praying to all that was holy she didn't hear me mutter "liar" or "elevator" under my breath earlier in the night.

Chuck and Emmie head out to explore the Cape.  I take the girls back to the wave pool.  Sara is in all her glory...Anna, not so much.  She would wait for the waves to stop and then take a turn swimming.  I was hanging with her on the side of the pool and would occasionally go in with Sara.  I was kind of avoiding the water a little bit this morning too.  My regular bathing suit was still soaked so I threw on the extra one I brought. It is one I have from just after I had Emily.  It was a little loose when I put it on, but it would do.  I was so WRONG!  Once it was introduced to water it took on a life of its own.  The ass part was hanging down to about my knees, whenever I would get in the water all the air trapped in it would bubble up and all the kids in the pool would look at me as if I were a farting machine...the rouching (to help hide my post baby body) was floating around me like those booms they put in the water after a massive oil spill.  I was a mess.  Hence the reason I was avoiding the water too.  Anyway, I had to be a mom and divide my time equally so Sara and I were frolicking in the waves having a great time.  She wanted to sit down in the surf with her.  Sure, that would be fun.  So you know how the Victoria's Secret Models frolic in the surf having their pictures taken?  OK, forget that image completely!  I was the total opposite.  The sea was angry that day my friends!  The waves were no joke.  I got knocked over and could not get up!  Sara thought I was being funny, granted I was laughing, it would be my luck to drown in the undertow at an indoor wave pool.  So there I was all tangled up in my bathing suit...because it was an old maternity suit it had about as much material as a bedspread.  So there I was rolling ass over tea kettle in the surf, over and over and over again.  My kids are in hysterics because they think I am trying to be funny.  My bathing suit is floating away and not covering the parts it really needs to.  I am trying to put all my lady bits back in the suit but sure enough when I get one part covered a wave would come and knock it loose kind of like when you finally think you have a fitted sheet figured out and that one corner keeps popping up?  Yeah, kind of like that!  I am flashing the entire wave pool, with each wave it is a different peep show, moon, stars, another wave--another round of the moon and stars coming out for all the world to see.  My only shot at survival was trying to save myself.  My kids were useless, I had no faith in the lifeguard.  Why you ask?  Oh, because he was slouched in a chair, with his sweat pants AND sneakers on, listening to music on those over-sized headphones...I know he was listening to music and not just noise canceling headphones because his head was bobbing along to a beat...and chewing on a straw to boot.  So yeah, my confidence level in him was about zero. 

I did finally manage to drag myself out of the man-made surf and I guess I an no worse for the wear.  I guess Shannon was right all those years ago.  I am George Costanza.

 

Hey Barbie, I own you b*tch!

So this blog has been sitting in my draft file for while now, I just haven't been in the mood to finish it.  I finally got the energy to sit down and write.  Writing has always been like therapy for me so I figure I might as well work through my sh*t.  Like I said, some of this was written weeks and weeks ago, but I have updated where appropriate.  So here goes....

I have not been in the best of spirits lately.  I am really dreading the holiday without my mom.  I wish I could just curl up in a ball and sleep through the next month and a half.  Thanksgiving is a few days away, my favorite holiday, and I just don't feel it this year.  I have my 25th high school reunion coming up and I don't feel like going.  I am just not in a social mood.  Then Christmas is right around the corner.  Last year, Christmas Eve 2014 was the last time I saw my mom alive outside of a hospital.  She was at my house, sitting on the over-sized chair in the living room.  Every time I look at it I think of her.  I can't imagine looking at it on Christmas Eve this year.  I start to panic just thinking about it!

So with all this going on I have been waxing poetic about life....mine in particular.  Let's just say it has been less than spectacular lately.

*My older two girls are at that beautiful stage in life where they are embarrassed to be seen with me.  Oh, how do I know you ask?  Well, I took them to a movie with their buddy and stopped at McDonalds for ice cream on the way home.  It was a Friday night...I thought I was the cool mom until they whispered among each other then asked if they could sit by themselves at another table.  So there I was sitting alone on a Friday night with my ice-cream and  newspaper I borrowed from the manager.  Not so cool after all.

*Emily has become fascinated by my tattoo.  Of course she spends most of her waking time staring at me in the bathroom...it could be in the shower, she likes to come in and pull the corner back and spy on me, it could be brushing my teeth, or sitting on the toilet.  She has seen me in various states of undress a million times.  Guess when she notices my tattoo?  WHEN WE ARE IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM OF COURSE!!   So I have this tiny little flower where the top of my leg meets my hip... Long story short, it is not exactly where I wanted it but that is a story for another time!  So she starts asking about it and I explain it is a pretty flower tattoo.  Now keep in mind, Emily is two and she believes everything that is covered up by shorts is a bum.  She makes no distinction between a hip, lower abdomen, inner thigh...you get the gist.  She also doesn't quite get the concept of a permanent tattoo.  Her only experience is those crappy rub on ones that she picks off in 2 seconds flat.  So I think the conversation is over.  I was wrong, my friends.  SO. VERY. WRONG!  We are now standing in line to pay for our breakfast when she starts talking, very loudly I might add.  "Mom why do you have a cutie mark on your gina?"  (Cutie Mark for those of you without young children is the tattoo like marks My Little Ponies have)  Umm, Em it is on the top of my leg...I try to explain to her several times over and it ends with her crying because I won't say I have a cutie mark on my 'gina.  Again, cool mom is no where to be found!  (For the record a similar, equally embarrassing situation occurred when  she saw a tampon for the first time).

*Since the day Sara was born 8 1/4 years ago our children have become all consuming.  This includes during the evening hours.  For the past 8 1/4 years it is a rare occasion we actually sleep in the same bed.  I think the fates align about as often as the sighting of Halley's Comet.  One of the girls inevitably needs us for something.  It is completely mind blowing we actually went on the have 2 other children.  Recently my husband and I had some free time, the older 2 were in school and Em was off playing...we decided to try and take advantage of some "almost alone" time.  I said "try" because instead of being something romantic it turned into one of those cliche Rom-Com movies about the super stressed suburban couple doing their best to raise their children while everything gets wacky and goes haywire.  Sadly, we are that couple.   We get into our room and no sooner do we lock the door, toddler foot steps come shuffling down the hall calling for Dad.  "AND.....CUT!"  I swear to God I could hear Nora Ephron's ghost laughing at us from the corner of the room.  Again, cool, spontaneous mom was MIA.

*The last straw came during an epic shower adventure.  The girls gave me a really hard time getting out the door for school.  Emily was having diarrhea and the dog and cats were having a grudge match.  I was beyond stressed and needed an escape.  I put the dog in the kitchen, locked the cats in separate bedrooms and set Emily up with an ipad and Oreos and went to take a shower.  Great!  No effing towels left for me.  We have plenty of towels and Chuck does laundry every single day.  However, more often than not, I have no towel for my shower.  So as my faithful readers can predict it was table cloth time.  Yup, I had my old stand-byl table cloth by my side as I walked into the bathroom for some peace.  I get in the shower and reach for the shampoo.  It is gone.  Not a drop left.  I was in favor of Sara taking showers, I am now reconsidering.  She uses an entire bottle of shampoo and about a dozen towels each time out.  So I stooped to an even lower low than the table cloth towel...I used Mary-Alice's, our dog's shampoo.  Yeah, you read that right, I used her Hartz Extra Gentle Puppy Shampoo.  At least it was Jasmine scented.  So as I am drying off the wet dog smell from my naked mom body with a flippin table cloth I notice a naked Barbie staring up at me all Judgey-McJudgerton like.  She was giving me the stink eye with her perfect blue eyes, her long skinny legs attached to her unrealistic waist and her huge rack.  Then I thought for a moment...  I bought that f*cking doll!  I stood a little taller, looked her dead in the eye and said, out loud, "Hey Barbie, I own you b*tch!"

I decided then and there I was taking back my life!  Insert Rachel Platten's Fight Song here!
                                 This is my fight song-take back my life song!

Addendum;

I called the gym I belong to and signed up for personal training.  I started at 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning.  Take that Barbie!  I was doing great but Christmas derailed me a bit.  I plan to start back soon.

Thanksgiving came and went.  My brother and sister-in-law put on a great meal but I just couldn't get into the spirit of the day. I tried, but...meh.

I ended up driving down last minute to my 25th High School reunion.  I didn't stay very long, again, just wasn't in the mood.  It did end up turning out to be just what I needed.  As I was heading out I stopped to say hi to one of my old classmates.  Turns out he was in the same boat...his dad had recently died and he wasn't going to come to the reunion but changed his mind last minute also.  We cried together, laughed and cried some more.  This is someone I knew and kind of hung out with in high school, but most of our conversations were just things like hey, what's up?  Do you have any Bartles and James?  But this time we were both in the right place and the right time and that talk with him was just what I needed.

Christmas Eve was at least 100 times more difficult than anything I could've imagined.  Full on anxiety attack, couldn't even pretend for the kids.  I would rather have been in a hole somewhere by myself than let my girls see me like that.  Christmas Day was the same misery.  I did fake it for the girls but my mind was a million miles away all day.  I don't even remember what they got for Christmas and I am friggin Santa Claus! 

Oh well, they say the first year is the hardest, though I am not sure it will ever get easier...the holidays just plain sucked. 

But, I just keep telling myself...I am better than Barbie....I am better than Barbie!

Here is to a New, Less Stressful Year!  In the name of all that is Holy, it HAS to be better than last year.

It is all gone to sh*t!

My life that is.  Literally it has gone to sh*t.  Now, we are all adults here, right?  Yeah?  OK, so let’s just jump right into it.  Everybody poops.  I know this to be true because when I was a preschool teacher we had a board book in the class named just that; Everybody Poops.  As a side note, every time I would read that title I would always start singing “everybody poops…sometimes” in my head in the tune of R.E.M's  “everybody hurts…sometimes”.  It is not a glamorous topic of conversation and it makes people uncomfortable, but, let’s face it…everyone has a daily sit down in their bathroom.  If more people did talk about it I may not be in the situation I find myself in today.  Which is a sh*tty one.  Oh, there are going to be a lot of puns in this one, sorry, but I tend to go for the cheap laughs.

So I have had this dull pain in my lower, right abdomen for a few weeks.  It wasn’t a big deal and it wasn’t so painful I needed to take anything for it.  I had a doctor’s appointment coming up and was going to bring it up then.  Well, about 4 weeks ago it started to get worse.  I was at work and it was starting to be a bit more of an annoyance and more of a ‘hmm…that doesn’t feel so good’.  I was kneeling down doing something and when I stood up I felt like I was going to pass out.  So I took a walk downstairs to the ER and get myself checked in.  When the doctor came in I tell him my story and I also give him my differential diagnosis; appendix (which is low on my list because I did a jumping jack in the bathroom before heading down….To my Hasbro peeps, HEY!! (said in a Wendy Williams voice)  You can take the girl out of the ED, but you can’t take the ED out of the girl!!), ovarian mass or an ectopic pregnancy (the same jackass that botched my c-section also tied my tubes…so I am certain he messed that up too).  The doctor agreed and said those were the top 3 of his differential also.  Off to the CT Scan I go.  When I get back he comes in with my results….drum roll please, I have an Ovarian Cyst, which he tells me will continue to feel crappy, but it will most likely just deflate on its own. Then he adds, “or there is a chance it could rupture --if it does you  will have intense, excruciating pain and then it will feel better."  OK, so I will either eventually feel better or feel like I am being gutted like a pig and in my case that will most likely happen at the most inopportune time, like when I am in the middle of Market Basket—though I really need not worry about that…I am sure no one there would notice me writhing on the floor in pain and, if they did, they would probably just through some sawdust on me and go about their day.  OK, I can live with that.  Then he says, there was an incidental finding on your scan.  You have an inflamed bowel.  Oh, OK.  He tells me it could be nothing, or it could be something big.  He doesn’t go into detail about what that “something big” could mean he just tells me the GI specialist wants me to have a rapid follow up in a day or two.  Great, because as a working mom of 3 kids and a puppy, a Girl Scout Troop Leader for one group and an assistant leader for another, and on the board of the PTA I have a ton of free time to pencil in a “rapid follow up”.    I call and they want to see me the next day!  Yikes…what could this “something big” be? 

So I run over to the University Campus on my lunch break.  I am sitting in the exam room when a med student who looks about 10 comes in and asks me what brings me in today.  "Umm, you do".  She looks confused so I explain I don't know why I am there-they requested to see me for an incidental finding on the CT scan.  So she asks me if I have any GI symptoms.  Nope.  Then the fellow comes in and asks me what kind of GI issues I have been having.  Umm, none.  Things are status quo in that department.  Finally the attending physician comes in, again with the questions.  He asks me more in-depth questions about my daily "bathroom" habits...I fill him in on this very glamorous side of my life.  He asks what my poop looks like.  I tell him I guess normal and go on to explain I don't really look at for any length of time.  I go, wipe and flush.  Much like when I blow my nose.  I blow then throw the tissue away, wash my hands and call it a day.  I don't open the tissue to look at it.  As an aside, I don't understand why people blow then open the tissue to look at what comes out.  I find that disgusting, just like those that blow their nose while people are eating.  Strange lot of people.  I try  not to judge people, but if there is any group worthy of a protest it is booger peekers.    Well back to my story, he thinks I may have Chrons Disease.  What the what?  I told him, I don't think so...but since he was the doctor I would humor him and fulfill his request for a stool sample.  If you are eating while reading this, now would be a great time to take a break, finish eating and resume  after a reasonable time to allow for digestion.  OK.  Now comes the fun stuff!  

So I am at home when the "urge" arises.  I head into the bathroom with the needed supplies; a toilet hat, sterile cup, tongue depressor and my ass.  I take care of business and start the process of getting the sample in the cup.  For the love of all that is holy this sh*t is NOT normal!!  Maybe I have should have been looking at it all along!  I am trying to get this toxic sludge into the cup without vomiting and I am struck with fear.  I was terrified of passing this sample in...all I could think was after they received the sample Erin Brockovich would be knocking down my door declaring my house a superfund hazardous waste site.  The government would come and cover my house in one of those tent things like in the movie ET and people in space suits would be wandering around examining everything.  

I go ahead with the plan and drop the specimen off at the lab.  I apologized profusely and told them I would nominate them in the next round of Champion of Excellence awards.  If those lab techs were paid 3 million dollars a year, they would still be grossly underpaid for the tasks they are charged with.  They are truly doing God's work.  

So while I am waiting to hear the results, about 10 days they tell me, I do some investigating.  I head straight to the internet and while looking up Chrons I am checking all the boxes.  Could this be true?  I decide to ask people to talk to me about one of the most taboo topics; their bowel habits.  So I know my study wasn't up to international research standards, my sample was not large, about 5 people and there wasn't a standard questionnaire, but I gathered enough data to realize I am an outlyer.  Turns out most people don't go to the "bathroom" if you know what I mean 4+ times a day.  Most people don't have intense stomach cramps when they do go.  Most people don't get a sudden urge to go and go NOW.  Most people don't have to stop mid-sentence to run to the bathroom.  Most people don't relate to Sh*t brick from American Pie.  Most people don't have to drive pretty much standing up for fear of sitting down and having a different kind of car accident.  Most people's poop doesn't look like raw brownie batter on a good day, Chinese rice on a bad day.  Oh, and I may or may not have something other than the weather in common with Al Roker.  Huh, imagine that.  I guess my status quo I bragged to the GI fellow isn't something to be proud of.

I finally hear back about 2 weeks later that my poop did not show signs of Chrons.  I was stunned, not because it wasn't Chrons, but, I was honestly expecting them to tell me what I gave them wasn't human.  So they want me to come back in.  I set up another appointment because "things" are getting worse and I am in near constant pain.  So now they are thinking I have IBS-D which for the non-medically inclined people is basically a sh*tting disorder.  I don't like the idea of them "thinking" it is something.  I say bring Hugh Laurie out of retirement, make my case a story line on House and he will have this "sh*t" solved in 60 minutes!!  Side note-when they told me this you know what I immediately did?  Went to McDonalds for fries and a Coke.  I'll show them!  I ended up in the bathroom for the better part of the afternoon, but it tasted soooo good!

My GI doc tried me on a med and sadly that made things worse.  Yay me!!  So now I get to try this awesome new diet called FODMAP.  It is pretty much everything free--gluten free, lactose free, soy free and some other free things that I can't pronounce.  If I do find something I can eat it also has to be low fat.  Oh, and I am a vegetarian and most of the veggies I eat are now out. Beans too.  Fear not though, if I am symptom free I can have 2 brussel sprouts or 5 centimeters of a stalk of celery.  I went to the grocery store last night looking for some things I can have.  I left with a dairy, soy, gluten free ice-cream-ish product and a low fat, dairy, soy, gluten free coffee creamer-like product for caffeine free coffee.  At that point why bother?  And a GMO, gluten, soy, dairy and something else free butter substitute.  I am afraid of trying that one, very afraid!  After spending 30 minutes of only finding those 3 things I was so overwhelmed I just left.  Chuck and I are going out to dinner tomorrow for our anniversary so I will officially start on Sunday.  Chuck did surprise me with some gluten free pasta the other night and today he is going grocery shopping and took time to look at the list of stuff I can eat and will pick some up for me today.  He said it doesn't seem that bad, but then when I suggested OK, if you don't think it is that bad you should do it with me.  The word "no" could not come out of his mouth fast enough.  

So the take away from my whole "crappy" adventure, forget the national conversations on racism, sexism and feminism.  Let's start talking sh*t!  My new mantra is "Let's break the Taboo--everyone goes Poo!".  You never know, one crappy conversation may just make a difference in someone's life and save the planet.  Now I am not a tree hugger but imagine how many trees would be saved from the decline in toilet paper being used, the amount of water saved from less and less toilets being flushed.  My national dialogue starter may just save the planet!!  You are all so very welcome!

Oh, and I apologize to anyone that needs to be around me for the next 6 weeks when I take on this whole new diet.  I am going to be one hangry lady!!!


 






 

It's all coming back to me now.

I hope you sang that in your head with a Celine Dion voice.  Your ear-worm for the evening....you're welcome!

So having a baby is a wonderful thing.  All the pain and exhaustion you have is completely forgotten by the time you start thinking about having another.  That is why so many people tend to get themselves in this situation several times over.  The thing is, they don't stay small forever.  They turn one and then two...the TERRIBLE 2's!!  Emily just turned two.  I know can you believe it?  It has been 2 years since you all had to listen to me whine and complain about the flipping hole she left in my belly.  Well, technically not her, more like Romeo the craptastic doctor that ruined my body forever.  But I digress.  Back to Emily and the terrible 2's...if I am being completely honest, and I always am with my faithful readers, Emily hit the terrible 2's at about 9 hours old!!  The difference is now she has the words and attitude to go along with it.  Here are some of the reasons for her honest to God, full on tantrums;

*  The girls were playing the back yard today.  They found a salamander and proceed to, in their opinion, play with it...in mine torture it.  They had a blast for a few hours making it a home, holding it and trying to make it do tricks in a pie plate on the kitchen table.  I was totally grossed out about the whole thing but, my inner pre-school teacher kicked in and I said a prayer on behalf of the poor salamanders life, which, undoubtedly will be lost at some point this weekend and let them have a hands on science lesson.  So they are done playing.  I tell them they all need to wash their hands before touching anything else.  Sara and Anna comply...though Anna kicked Sara off the bathroom stool and Sara retaliated by splashing soapy water in Anna's eye...I don't intervene because that seemed like a fair fight.  Now it is Emily's turn to wash her hands.  She flat out refuses.  She was the one man-handling that little amphibian more than anyone...I pick my battles with her but, this WILL be a mommy victory!  I chase her toddler body and wipe her hands with a wet, soapy paper towel.  No sooner do I let go and she flops her body down on the kitchen floor and has a full on tantrum.  Yeah, that's reasonable.  Since Emmie is my 3rd child, I step right over her and finish my conversation with Chuck.

*  Being clean really is an issue with Emily.  She just doesn't like it.  Last night I was at a friend's house and her granddaughter came over.  I wanted to take her home.  She is so sweet and funny, but you know what got me the most?  She was CLEAN!  Her clothes were clean.  Her face was clean.  Her hands were clean.  Her hair was clean.  My children, Emily especially, look homeless on a daily basis.  Emily hates getting her face washed, hates baths and anything generally associated with cleanliness.  If I do manage to get a swipe in with a face cloth she freaks out until I "wipe the clean off"...so I have to take my hands and wipe her face.  That is the only way to turn her from Cybil back to Emily.


*  Emily's love of all things filthy extends to her hair.  She has blond curly hair, not sure where that comes from, I swear Dr. Romeo probably gave us the wrong baby, so if you are unable to wash and or brush curly hair guess what happens?  Dread locks.  My 2 year old daughter has organic dreadlocks.  They completely formed on their own.  Since I don't know what to do with them I figure I will not fight this one... just embrace my hippie child and dress her in tie-dye shirts and spray her with patchouli.  Oh, speaking of clothes, I am so sick of the fight-- she wears her clothes to bed at night, many times she doesn't want to change the following day.  My theory of dressing her goes something like this, "is there any chance we could see someone today that we saw yesterday?  No, great, dirty clothes it is.  Yes, she gets changed.  Third child...I have no fight left in me...

*  Again, with the hygiene.  One time I changed Emily's poop and there was a sticker in there.  It was not in her poop.  One fell into her diaper.  Now, every single diaper change she INSISTS on inspecting her poop over and over and over.  If I roll the diaper up without letting her look at her sh*t lovingly and comment on it...the sh*t will literally fly!!  She will scream so loud the heavens will open up and thunderbolts will crash!  So if you are ever around for a diaper change be prepared to sit and have a half hour dissertation on Emily's excrement.  After said dissertation, you will then be treated to her butt shaking show, that again, needs to happen with each and every diaper change or there will be hell to pay.  You will then see me trying to quietly and ever so gently sneak the clean diaper back on.  Why am I putting it on like a super stealth ninja trying to steal the crown jewels?  Oh, that is easy...she DOES NOT want you to put a clean diaper on her.  She wants to wear the dirty one again.  Em and I have been late to many playgroups/events because I (a 42 year old with degrees in Child Development) can not get my child to cooperate and put a friggin clean diaper on.  I have added Wheelock College to my speed dial...there have been so many times as a parent, I felt it my duty to return my degree because I am, in essence a fraud.

*  Another fun tantrum was when Emily wanted to pat the dog in the Dr. Jeff Rocky Mountain Vet commercial.  She did not care the dog was on TV and not actually in our house.  She did not care the commercial was now over.  She did not care that our TV screen was hard and you can't reach inside it.  She didn't care she had her own, real live dog in front of her she could pat FOR REAL!  Nope, she wanted that dog and she wanted it NOW.  Thank God our neighbors are elderly and have poor hearing because the way she was screaming, crying and carrying on sounded like I was torturing her....I wouldn't blame them if they called the police on us, or DCF...hell, the thought of calling them crossed my mind at about minute 18 of the tantrum!!



*  Proud parenting moment--as we were walking out of Emily's playgroup the other day she grabs hold of my hand, looks at me lovingly and says, "I hate you mom".  Lovely!  Now in Emily's defense she has 2 older sisters who use that word with each other so often I am sure Emily thinks it is a term of endearment.  Now if there is anything slightly distasteful to her sensibilities she just blurts out "I hate it".  Here are a few of the things Emmie hates; me, Chuck, her sisters, her dog, lunch, food, naps, the car, Bubble Guppies, me, coloring, tubs, brushes, our cats, me again, the ipad, the sun, the rain, the moon, diapers, night-night, socks, you get the point...

*  This tantrum was mind boggling.  She was done eating.  I asked if I should save it or throw it away.  She clearly stated I should throw it away.  So like an a$$hole I gave a piece to the dog and I had some...The rage that came over her would be frightening if she weren't so flippin cute.  She is screaming those were hers and she wants them back!  Now!  Well, both Mary and I had swallowed our apple slices...there was no way we could give them back.  She was out for blood!  I told her I could cut another apple.  Nope, she didn't want to eat anymore.  She wanted her apples back!  Give them back they are mine--she shouted over and over again.  Once more I offer her another apple, once again she turns me down.  I ask her if she doesn't want another apple to eat why does she insist on getting her old ones back.  So I can throw them away she answers.  This went on for another few minutes and I just walked away laughing.  Now when she says she is done, me and Mare wait  for her to leave the kitchen before we sneak her leftovers.


*  Emily doesn't quite understand the meaning of privacy.  When I go into the bathroom she follows me in and says, "I give you privacy."  Um, yeah, no Emily...if you were outside of the closed door you would give me privacy.  But, you are inside of the closed door, staring at me and cheering me on when I pee yelling, "You peed!  Good girl Mommy!"...I am not a security expert or anything but I am pretty confident Emily, when I say that is the absolute opposite of privacy.   It is an exercise in futility trying to convince her otherwise.  It is easier for me to pop a squat with her watching than risk kidney damage trying to get her to understand why her argument is weak.  Though every time I am in there on the toilet I can't help but sing Hall & Oates's Private Eyes.  Earworm #2 for the night, again, you are more than welcome my friends.

*  One of her tantrums that spurred her on to scream she hates me happened when I refused to lock her in the dog's crate, with the dog, so they could take a nap together.  Now, I am all for children having the experience of having pets to grow up with, but I draw the line at them sleeping in a locked crate together.  Maybe I am just an overly cautious helicopter mom or an a$$hole, I am sure my kids would go with the latter of the two, but that one I am not budging on. 


 *  I could go on and on about her wonderful two year old behavior but I don't want to bore you all to death.  So I will leave you with this one, again, I am apparently that hands-off parent not completely dedicated to my children's well being...I mean I never wrapped my babies to me with a colorful looking ace bandage thingy and I supplemented them with formula, oh the horrors!  And under no circumstance will I ever, EVER eat one of my children's boogers.  Yup, Emily picked her nose and proudly showed me her treasure.  She was so proud, so proud in fact that she wanted to share it with me.  Placing it in the tissue I was holding was not good enough, oh no, she wanted me to eat it.  ABSO-FRIIGIN-LUTELY NOT!  The look on her face when I told her no, I would not eat your mucus was what I imagine a child to look like when you told them their puppy just died.  She was so hurt that I would not eat it.  She looked physically pained.  She fell to the floor and sobbed the saddest cry I have ever heard from her.  Her dramatics did not sway me in the least.  I wiped the booger off her finger and threw that tissue in the trash so fast she didn't even notice.  Now I know I am not the perfect parent and I am almost certain I am giving my children's future therapists a lot to work with but,  when Emily is in her teen years and I am invited into a counseling session to help her process her traumatic childhood I will punch the therapist in the face if she accuses me of not demonstrating my undying love for my child by not snacking on her snot.

Oh, guess what?  In my experience 3 year olds are WAY harder than 2 year olds...