Monday, January 30, 2012

Judgement with a Side of Malice

Let me start by saying, I am not typically a judgy person.  In fact, The Firefighter has often complained about how long it takes me to form an opinion even on something as innocuous as a vacation locale.  I tend not to form opinions until I feel well informed and have considered the topic from every conceivable angle.  Even after all that consideration, I will not typically judge another person for coming to a different conclusion.  

I am also not quick to anger.  I have a really, really long fuse.  However, that doesn't mean I don't get mad.  I got absolutely incensed last night after reading a very nasty email I received from a person who didn't have the balls to leave their name - only "a better mom than you".

But, if I'm honest, I'm writing now in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.  Perhaps, I should have expected this censure, since I blog as openly and honestly as I do, but when I began this writing journey, I couldn't imagine that anyone beyond my own small circle of family and friends, would be even the remotest bit interested in the daily highs and lows of my life.  But never fear, my loyal readers,  I have no intention of changing my ways.

However, I do feel the need to defend myself against this spineless and mean spirited attack.  Perhaps, I am judging you too harshly, "a better mom than you,".  Maybe you genuinely wanted to offer help, but I do take offense at your way of stating it.  

For starters, this blog is merely a small snapshot of our lives.  I can see how you came to your conclusions, but it does not encompass the whole of who we are or what we represent.  

I am NOT a bad mother.   I am not lazy and I don't parent haphazardly.   Quite the opposite, actually.  I parent very deliberately.  I have strong convictions when it comes to parenting, however, unlike my anonymous emailer, I don't judge others for choosing a different way.  All anyone can do is what we feel is in our families best interest.  

Yes, I chose gentle parenting because it feels right to me.  I feel it is right for my children.  I don't believe in spanking.  Though, I accept that you may feel it's the best method.  I understand that it may be more efficient and effective for curbing undesirable behavior than talking a child through her emotions and impulses, but really why?  Is it more effective because the child has suddenly become self aware or suddenly developed self control?  No.  It's more effective because they now fear being hit.   I don't want my children to fear me.   I have no desire to break her spirit or bend her will to my own. 

I believe spanking sends a conflicting message to the child.  It says hitting is an acceptable means of expressing your anger, rather than as a last resort of self defense.  This is completely counter productive to what I'm trying to accomplish with my child.  Spanking may be quick, but, in my opinion, it is lazy parenting.  Gentle parenting takes tons of patience, effort and time.  If you try it, you'll find that out.

And, no, I will not keep my child in my house until she can "behave".  Sorry, I don't care if I "inconvenienced" a stranger because they had to listen to my kid scream for the whole 3 minutes it took me to get out of the store.  When did we start to allow children to be less than human?  Children are not born mini adults complete with an adult's knowledge.  Self control must be taught.   Recognition of emotions and the reasons we feel them must be taught.  Acceptable behavior must be taught.  I must give my child ample opportunity to practice these skills, otherwise how else will she learn?   Admittedly, some times are more successful than others, but it's our mistakes that teach us.  

Miss Chatterbox is NOT a brat.  She must assuredly will not become a juvenile delinquent.  How dare you say such a thing.  Trust me, Anonymous, I understand my child better than you ever could.  I understand that she is high spirited, spunky, and feels everything so much more intensely than your average child.  You know why I understand her, Anonymous?  Because I used to be just like her.   I remember trying to explain it to my mom once.  I told her it felt like I would just burst at the seams if I didn't run around and get it all out.   Miss Chatterbox is only three.  She doesn't yet recognize or is able to verbalize when she needs time to get all the wiggles out.  At this point, it is up to me to give her enough outlets for her energy.  I admit, I got it wrong this time.  I make lots of mistakes, as a parent, wife, and human.  I am not perfect, nor have ever made any claims to be.  But I don't give up, I keep trying. 

I do not ignore my other child, as you imply, Anonymous.   I simply don't write as much about The Bun, yet, because she is only 5 months old.  At this point, her life consists of being adorable, eating, pooping, cooing, rolling over,  learning to sit up, and sleeping.  While precious, it's not nearly as interesting to write about.  But contrary to your insinuations, Anonymous, I spend ample time with The Bun, encouraging siting, crawling, cooing, grabbing, and promoting sisterly affection.  I spend a considerable amount of time encouraging Miss Chatterbox to interact with her sister, be empathetic to her sister, and to understand that her sister is littler than her.  The result?  Miss Chatterbox rarely has jealous moments now because we've made an effort to give her Mommy or Daddu's undivided attention whenever she's exhibited that emotion, so that she never felt like she had to fight for it.  Now, she loves to make her sissy smile.   She tells me all the time how much she loves her sissy and loves to help mommy with sissy.  In return, The Bun's eyes follow Miss Chatterbox everywhere she goes.  She even fusses when Miss Chatterbox leaves the room.  So, I believe the foundation for a good relationship between the two has been laid.  
Contrary to the light hearted tone I take on my blog, I take my parenting very seriously.  You're right, Anonymous, motherhood is serious business.  And, no,  I don't love every moment of being a mother.  I'd be lying if I said I did.   Nor do I think it's a joke.  But I pity you, Anonymous, for not being able to find the joy and humor in it.   I want to play with my children.  I want my children to see me happy.  I want them to see the mutual love and respect between their daddy and me.  I want them to know the world is full of joy, love, and happiness.  I want to nurture their curiosity without squashing their spirits.  I want them to have a strong sense of self and not be easily swayed, but to have an empathetic soul.     

And, Anonymous, if you feel you have the right to blast someone you don't even know, I wonder what you teach your kids.  Do you lead by example?  What example are you setting?  Do you exhibit the behaviors you want them to?  Or the whole "do as I say, not as I do"? 

Perhaps, you should do some self reflection before you send me another nastygram.  I will not be as nice the next time.  


Sunday, January 29, 2012

Jinx (Miss Phoebe Chronicles - Volume 2)

The Firefighter and I jinxed ourselves -big time- this weekend.

He had just come back from a weekend long class at the Fire Academy and we were catching up about what went on with the kids while he was gone and he mentioned how much better Miss Chatterbox's behavior has been.  I agreed and enumerated the ways it has been an almost complete turn around from last summer.

I should have knocked on some wood, thrown salt over my shoulder, cut the balls off a gerbil or whatever the hell it is you do to get rid of a voodoo curse.

Today's been a day, Y'all, because Miss Phoebe has made her grand reappearance.   I think I missed my calling.  I should have been a seer.  I swear, it's like we held a seance and "called" the demon to the surface by just saying how good Miss Chatterbox has been.

( For those of you who don't know - Miss Phoebe is the nickname we jokingly gave to Miss Chatterbox's, umm, difficult side.  Disclaimer - I neither believe in voodoo, or demons. )

Right off the rip, Miss Chatterbox poured her cereal and milk into my work bag while I was changing The Bun's diaper.  Thankfully, my laptop wasn't in there or it could have been disastrous!  But still, I'm sure I'll be wiping soggy rice crispies and mushy bananas out of there for at least a week. Yuck.

But she didn't stop there.  Oh no, my girl certainly isn't a quitter, that's for sure.

Next, she TPed the Dining/Living/Kitchen area with not one, but 3 rolls of toilet paper while I was taking a very short bathroom break.  Darn it if it wasn't the "good" toilet paper I'd splurged and bought on the last Walmart trip.  I mean really, who sets the price on that stuff?  You'd think it was meant to wrap and store your fine china, not wipe your butt.  I don't really blame her about that one though.  I've been known to throw a roll or two in my day, though, it was the cheap stuff stolen out of the dorm bathroom.  Give it a couple of years, her butt will learn to discriminate between single ply Scott and Charmin extra soft and not waste the good stuff.

At this point, I decided that a trip to the park for a picnic was the best way to exorcise the demon.

It seemed to work.

Then we went to the grocery store.

If only, right?

We were in there less than 2 minutes, when Miss Chatterbox climbed out of the cart and took off running.    I hollered at her to stop in the best stern mom voice I could muster.  But she didn't.  So, it left me in a huge conundrum.  Do I take off after her and leave The Bun alone, or do I holler even louder and hope she listens?  Either way, I was doomed to the snide judgement and remarks of the sancti-mommies and the childless.

What happened next was equal parts funny and embarrassing.  I decided to take off running after Miss Chatterbox. Believe me, it was not a pretty sight.  I certainly did not conjure up images of Pamela Anderson running down the beach in a teeny tiny bathing suit.  Far too many bits and bobbles were jiggling for that.  Nope.  I'm sure it was more like Fat Albert in a string bikini.   Especially, considering baby belly #3 has started to pop already.  Definitely, not good for the ol' self esteem.  Even so, at least I'm still considerably faster than Miss Chatterbox.


She looks back at me while still running forward, then runs head first into the left butt cheek of a lady who gave new meaning to the phrase, junk in the trunk.  She bounced off and knocked over a cardboard end cap, which scattered gravy packets and sage in every direction.  She got up to run again, but I grabbed her, slung her over my shoulder kicking and screaming so loud it's echoed throughout the store and unceremoniously plopped her misbehaving ass in the grocery part of the cart.

Of course I'm wayyyy in the back of the store, and have to walk all the way through it to get the front door.  Not easy considering she's in full on tantrum mode, standing up and trying to jump out of the cart.  I am trying to ignore the tantrum - as in not even making eye contact AND instead interacting loudly with her sister.  It tends to be the most expedient tantrum ending method with her.  But, this time she will not be ignored.  Just as we round the corner to go past the check out lines, Miss Chatterbox pulled down her pants and mooned the entire set of check out counters.  On a Sunday.  You know, the busiest day of the week, when most people do their shopping.  WTG, Child.  That's one way to show your ass.


Gotta love her.


Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Why, Mommy, Why?

Miss Chatterbox has entered the age of  the "why".

And it doesn't bother me in the least.  Really.  I never miss an opportunity to cram obnoxiously useless knowledge into my offspring's head.  I'm raising world class, Trivial Pursuit champions here,  People.

 And I'm a geek.  I'm cool with that.  After all, not just anybody can rock these glasses.

But, I may have gone a little overboard today.  Judge for yourselves.

Conversation takes place, in the car, a few minutes after getting vanilla milkshakes.  

Mommy, my ice-cream melting!  Why it do that?

Because it's a frozen emulsion.

No, it nilla, Mommy.  Why it a frozen mulshion?

An emulsion is when two liquids, that are usually immiscible, are mixed.  In this case, the milk fat globules are in the dispersed phase and the sugar water is in the continuous phase.  But it's not just an emulsion.  It is also a foam.

Foam?  Why it foam?

It's foam because of the air particles also dispersed throughout the liquid.  Since it has so many particles in different phases, ice cream exists in a constant state of flux.

Why it f*&ks, Mommy?

Flux, Baby.  Not f*&ks.


Better.  All matter can be considered in a state of flux because it has outside forces, like temperature, working on it.  Heat in this case.  Heat instigated the change in this ice cream system.


Because heat enters this ice cream system as energy and excites the water/sugar particles causing them to change states.  When the liquid water changes states, or evaporates -

Vapooprate?  I vapooprate.  Why ice cream vapooprate?

Well you, poop, but you don't evaporate.  Evaporate means to turn into vapor.  When that water leaves the system, it changes the fundamental crystalline structure of the ice cream.  That's how ice cream melts.   That's also why it tastes different when it's melted.


I'm mentally patting myself on the back and thinking, that I finally found a use for that seemingly useless and stupid 40k molecular biology degree, I have.   And that I've worn Miss Chatterbox down.

Mommy, look at my pretty picture!  I'm painting!

I glance into the back seat just in time to see that she's fingerpainted the ENTIRE window with ice cream.


But hey, it's an improvement.  At least she didn't chuck the milkshake out the window on to a cop car this time.  Doubly good since I have expired tags right now, but that's another story...

How do you deal with your child's constant "whys"?

Monday, January 23, 2012

Look A Likes

My kids look so much alike, it's freaking me out and giving me some serious deja vu.

                                                   This is Miss Chatterbox at a 5 months.                      

This is The Bun a few days shy of 5 months.  
Excuse the poor lighting - I only have my camera phone right now.

It's kinda creeping me out.

Why, you ask?

I'm not really sure.  Maybe because I value individuality and uniqueness and I feel like they may lose a little of that if they can be mistaken for each other.  Or maybe because I'm feeling a little bit like a chinese factory that churns out identical knickknacks.   If they start to look anymore alike, I may be forced to stamp 1 of 3, and 2 of 3  (maybe 3 of 3 when they arrive) on their feet so I can tell them apart.


Last night, I had a moment when I was rocking The Bun, at some god awful hour that should be illegal to be awake, when I couldn't remember what year it was or what kid I was holding!  I must have wandered around for a good 5 minutes in that black hole before the space time continuum decided to click back into place.  Or maybe I watch too much Star Trek.


Am I over thinking this?  As an only child myself, I don't have personal experience with sibling interactions, so I have no idea what is the most important part to worry about.  So I'm overcompensating and worrying about it all.

What is the most important thing to know/do/worry about when it comes to siblings?

Friday, January 20, 2012

Let's Get Romantical

The Firefighter and I have been feeling a little disconnected lately.  After a couple of particularly exhausting days of endless butt wiping, tutus, and pretend tea parties, he announced that we need a Romantical Getaway.

Interesting, I thought, coming from the man whose idea of romance includes putting "sex" in the iCal and emailing me a reminder.

"What do you have in mind?"

"How about we get a sitter and rent a room at the Holiday Inn by the Airport for a night?  Maybe we could just ask them for a few hours instead of the whole night.  It would be cheaper."


"Boo, that's called prostitution, not romance."

"No it's not since we're married.  Why are you holding out?  Not like you can get any more pregnant.  The damage is already done."

That's my Boo, Tactful is his middle name.

I've never expected much in the romance department given he is a typical specimen of Southern American Redneck.   Whose mating call is the revving of a diesel dually pickup truck, and mating rituals include buying pink camo for his lady to go huntin' with him and putting a pink john deere or "doe" sticker on the truck window behind his female's head.

But The Firefighter is right.   Lately, I've felt like no more than the oven he puts his sperm to cook a real person and he's felt like a paycheck with honey do hands.

So I got to thinking about the Us of before kids and the Us of after kids.  

In some ways, we are better after kids.  We are less selfish, more in tune with each other, more likely to compromise, and we are much more likely to do helpful things for each other.  We will always and forever be connected by the 3 little people we made.

But, those 2.25 kids, that we love more than life itself, are sucking the life out of us.  Seriously, yo!  They are like little baby vampires that suck energy instead of blood.  By 7 pm, on any given night, we change into Parental Zombies.

And the hours that used to be dedicated to canoodling and intimacy, pre-children, have been replaced by bargaining and negotiations. 

"If we make love, I'll fold the clothes AND put them away."

"If you leave me alone, I'll iron your uniforms."

"If we get jiggy with it, I'll fold the clothes, put them away, AND get up with The Bun for her 5 am feeding."

"Deal."  Or more frequently,  "Don't mess with me, I can puke on command."

Kids.  They really put a damper on your sex life.  Seriously.  It's been downhill ever since I took the batteries out of my vibrator to put in that stupid talking Elmo a couple years ago.  

Calgon, take me away!  Just not to the Holiday Inn...

Any suggestions for a cheap parental getaway?



Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Food Fights

Before I was a parent, I made all kinds of ridiculous promises to myself.  Chief among these was that I wouldn't cook meals that were catered to the kids.  They would learn to eat the well balanced meals that mommy and daddy eat.  And they would eat their veggies without complaint.  Yeah.  I'm not really sure what dimension of reality I was living in, but it certainly wasn't this one.

Ignorance is Bliss.

I really should have known better.  After all, I was a notoriously picky eater as a kid, myself.  Not just picky, no, I was a total food racist.  I discriminated against foods based on color .  If a food was green, I wouldn't eat it.  No ifs, ands, or buts.  But don't think that it was just limited to vegetables.  Oh no, regular, run-of-the-mill kid pickiness wouldn't do for me. I also wouldn't eat green skittles, green m & m's, green popsicles or even drink through a green straw.  Because, you know, some of the green might get into my drink and I would turn into a leprechaun.  Makes total sense, right?  I may have had an overactive imagination.  Collateral damage of being an only child.

Anyway.  Enter Miss Chatterbox.

She had food problems from the get go.  She was over a year old before she ever drank more than 4 oz at a time.  And She never ate baby food willingly. It didn't matter if it was homemade or otherwise, veggies or fruits.  I used to call her my little llama, because she was a spitter extraordinaire.  Seriously.  Feeding her, used to require a poncho and some serious dodgeballesque ducking skillz, homie!   Somewhere around 9-10 months old, I started on table food because she had about 10-12 teeth already.

But nothing is ever simple,  is it?  Miss Chatterbox isn't your typical type of predictable picky.  She has no fail safes.   No hotdog, mac and cheese, chicken nugget, biscuit or rice that I can build a "normal" meal for the rest of us around.  There isn't a single food on this planet I can guarantee she will eat.  I will get all excited because one day she will just chow down on something I made, and I think, "Great!  Something she will eat!"  But the next time I present her with the exact same food, she will spit it out and proclaim, "That's yuck, Mommy!"  All the while, projectile spewing the chewed up bits into my hand.  Apparently, there is no acceptable substitute for my hand.  Napkin?  Trashcan?  Nope, she REALLY wants me to get just how gross it is.

She just randomly decides to eat some days and not others.  It doesn't really worry me because she's a healthy weight and gets a daily dose of vitamins.  But it does annoy the crap out of me!  Why?   Because, she's not eating because she's not hungry.  She's not eating because she is stubborn.  And the days, and sometimes weeks, she goes eating only minimal amounts, she spends most of her time exhibiting a stunning array of split personalities and an exuberance of emotions.  Seriously, she could give that chick on The United State of Tara a run for her money.  I'm thinking a career in acting might be in her future.   Or maybe I just need to start saving for the therapy bills, now...

Note for posterity - Just kidding, Sweet Pea, Mommy doesn't really think that.

Miss Chatterbox does throw epic tantrums, though, when her blood sugar swings and is, in general, unpleasant during her periods of food refusal.   It is so aggravating because the solution is soooooo simple.  Just eat something, child, anything, damn it!  Chocolate milk, cookies, french fries, I don't care - just eat something so we can all go to sleep!

Which leads to my "I'm a bad mommy" secret.   The real reason why it pisses me off, isn't because I'm worried about her nutrition or the development of bad eating habits. (Hey, I give her vitamins)  It's because she won't sleep.  If she won't sleep, I don't get any "me" time.  I absolutely depend on that small window of time between her sleeping an me crashing to get stuff done and try to recharge my batteries.  If I don't get that time, I get parental burnout.  And that's not happy for anyone.

So, you can see, "What's for dinner?"  is totally a loaded question.  If I choose correctly, everyone's happy.  If I don't?  Sigh.

I wish!  This kind of stuff does NOT impress my picky eater.  

As we round the 5 month mark for The Bun, all I got to say is, "Bring your A game, Baby.  Mommy's ready for you."

How do you handle your child pickiness?

Saturday, January 14, 2012


Now that of the necessary parental parties have been informed, I can say.....

Remember when I said I had the worst stomach flu EVER?


The Horn Clan

That's right, folks, looks like it's going to Irish twins for the Horn Clan.  And I can honestly say, no one is more surprised than I am!

Last Friday, I finally caved, after two weeks of craptacular pukiness and went to the local urgent care.  I described my symptoms and I was asked, "Could you be pregnant?"

To which I responded, "No way, Jose!"

"Well, let's do a test, just to be absolutely certain."

"Fine. But I'm not going to be."  I responded in my most petulant, teenagerie voice.

Ten minutes elapse 

The doctor enters my room and clears and throat and says, "Mrs. Horn, you are pregnant."


"Mrs. Horn?"

"NO FUCKING WAY! It isn't possible." I practically scream because, you know, classy is my middle name.

"I'm afraid it's true."

"No Doc, you don't understand.  I have an IUD.  AND my husband and I have had sex ONCE since my second daughter was born 4 months ago, as he likes to remind me, daily.  THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE."

"You have an IUD?   You need to go to a OB, today.  Tell me about your past pregnancies."

I list the plethora of problems I've had.

"Hmm.  That needs to be a high risk OB.  Let me make some calls, I'll be right back."

Twenty minutes later, I find myself on my way to the high risk OB.

The whole drive, I'm just dumbfounded.  My mind still hasn't completely wrapped around it a week later.  I will admit to initially not being happy about it because, let's just say, enough time hasn't gone by to "dull" the memories of the last disaster.  While my oven seems to bake 'em just fine, the door sticks and I am scared of another c-section.  By scared, I mean that sensation of waking up, not able to breathe, in a cold sweat from a nightmare where Freddy was chasing me down Elm Street with Jason's chainsaw into a field filled with those creepy children of the corn surrounded by flesh eating zombies with atomic bombs strapped to their chests.  Yeah, that kind of scared.  Or maybe I just shouldn't watch that many horror flicks.


The OB managed to reassure me that I will not have to do another c-section without anesthesia, that women have back to back pregnancies all the time, and, no, my uterus won't just explode open.  However, she did also explain while everything looks healthy now, there is an exponentially higher risk of miscarriage, and GD, given my history of both.

So, how did The Firefighter take all this?  Better than me, that's for sure.  When I called and told him, because as you other wives of firefighters know this kind of crap only happens when they are on duty, he laughed and said, "Oh that's good.  I'm happy for you.  Is it mine?"

The Firefighter is fond of the taste of shoe leather, and while it's a rare occurrence, I wasn't in the mood for humor.  So, I may have been a little bit bitchy back.  Okay, Okay, you got me, a huge bit bitchy.

"Of course it is, Jackass.  If I don't wanna have sex with you, do you really think I wanna have it with someone else where I might actually have to work at it?"

Luckily, my husband is a good man and understands me well enough to know that I'm like a wild animal in that I only bite when I'm freaked out.  He just laughed and reassured me that he was joking, it will all be okay, and he is very happy about it.

Now, I'm not much of a God person, or a believer in fate, but I have to say, with all the odds stacked against the creation of  this child, he or she must be meant to be here.   And I've made peace with this pregnancy with that thought.


 We are BOTH getting neutered.   ASAP.  No ifs and or buts.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Birthday Blues

Miss Chatterbox was considerably less than impressed with her 3rd birthday.   No, more than that.  She was downright disappointed.  Like tantrums and tears disappointed. Of course, I don't deny that it's my fault.

Now in my defense, last weekend had too much going on to throw a party.  Several of the key players were sick, The Firefighter was tied up in class, and I didn't want to expose the newly recovered Bun to lots of new germs.  Nor am I a real believer in massive parties for small children.


At the last minute, I felt a little bit weird not acknowledging her actual day of birth, at all.  So, I ran out (right before dinner - literally) bought a cookie cake and sprinkles, as well as a balloon.  Rushed home, and told Miss Chatterbox, "Happy Birthday!  Want to decorate a giant cookie?"

Miss Chatterbox cocks her head to the side as she looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

"My birtday, Saturday, Mommy.  It no Saturday."

"Yes, baby, It's Saturday, right now! Your birthday is today."

"NOOOOOOOOOO!   It  not.  My birtday Saturday.  I wait for Saturday."

"You want your birthday cookie?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!  IT NOT MY BIRTDAY!"  Then she ran off to her room and slammed he door.

Sidenote:  I thought door slamming didn't start until the teen years.  Boy howdy, was I wrong.  If she slams that door one more time, *grumble grumble* I swear, I'm gonna take it off the hinge!  Having a door is a privilege, damn it!  Eek!  I sound like my mother!!

Moving on.

It was at that moment I realised that she had specific expectations for her birthday.  Serious expectations.  It turns out that she wants a Christmas like spectacle that starts in the morning and ends when she goes to sleep.


For some reason, I am just not feeling excited about this prospect, like I was Christmas.  Not that I don't want to make it special for her, I do.  It just feels kinda like work.  And work is not fun.  I'm hoping I just have a wicked case of the Mondays, even though it's, umm,  Friday.  Or maybe I'm getting Grinchy in my old age.  I sure hope not.  Green fur does nothing for my complexion.


Anyone think I can pull something like this off?   

This weekend we will try again.  Wish me luck!

PS - Big news post coming soon!

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Pre Coffee Conversations

A recent, pre-coffee, bleary eyed conversation with The Firefighter revealed that he can be sweet and an asshole, all at the same time.  It's quite a trait.  Good thing I have a sense of humor.

Him: Babe, did you have a deadline to meet last night?

Me: No? (Momentarily panicking as I ask myself what did I forget to do)

Him: 'Cuz your sawmill was working overtime!

Me: Ha ha, buttmunch.  It's way to early for you to be so chipper. The sun isn't even up yet.   So, is that why you slept on the couch?  Why didn't you roll me off my back?  That's what I do with you?

Him:  Yeah.  I thought about it, but you were getting some really good sleep, and you've needed it since I've been gone so much lately.

Me: (Thinking, "Aww, how sweet.")

Him:  And, for some reason, your snoring keeps the kids asleep.  Kinda like a lullaby, but with more chainsaw.   It must have been deafening on the inside.

Me: (Giving a mean stink eye)

Him:  But I love you...even your snoring.  And I know exactly where Miss Chatterbox gets her mean face from.

(Laughing as he ran away)

Me: That's right, Boo, you better run.



Happy Tuesday, Y'all.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The Christmas Crud

I've neglected this blog because my household has been S.I.C.K.  Ugh.  Exactly one day after our Christmas celebration, the quarantine began.  The Bun, as the most vulnerable, was the first to fall prey to RSV.  

We have a long history with RSV.  Poor Miss Chatterbox got sick with it when she was only 11 weeks old and it was brutal.  Even after a couple of weeks in Children's Hospital, it was still a full 3 MONTHS before her cough finally went away.  3 years later, the wheezing is controlled, but has never fully left.

I had sincerely hoped to avoid this scenario with The Bun.  But alas, Christmas day, she was diagnosed, at 15 weeks old, with RSV.   The Bun has been so healthy and robust in comparison to her sister's fragility at the same age, that I was lulled into a false sense of security.  That last week before Christmas, I took her everywhere with me.  I exposed her to large, germy crowds and I feel some intense mommy guilt about it.  I know, I know, even the ER doc told me it wasn't my fault, and that it could have happened whether I took her out or not.  RSV can live on a surface for up to 48 hours and we could have brought it home with us instead.

YUCK.  Like I needed something else to feed my Clorox wipe obsession.  I went into full on sanitation mode with that info.  No surface, toy, phone, shoe, light switch, ceiling fan, rug, bedding, carpet in my home was spared.  Not even The Firefighter.

Helpful Marital Advice:  Don't try to sanitize your spouse with Clorox wipes or Lysol.  They don't like it.  Not even if the Lysol is manly smelling.  


The Bun still has a long way to go, but 11 days in, she has exceeded all expectations.  While we did end up in the ER, she didn't even have to stay overnight.  So, I am hopeful she will avoid the whole asthma game.  But she isn't leaving the house again until she's at least 21.  Or in a Bio level 4 hot zone suit enveloped in duct tape and bubble wrap.

I was the next to fall prey to the nastiest stomach flu, I have ever encountered in my 31 years of life.  8 days later, I still feel like POOP!  Oh well, this too shall pass, right?

With The Firefighter on crazy overtime, me hugging the porcelain throne or occupied with The Bun, Miss Chatterbox has been left to her own devices a little too often....

I kinda wish I had been a little more with it and taken photos so I could give you a the pictorial version of my week.   But, who am I kidding?  I was feverish and puking my guts up, yo.  I was in total survival mode.

Let's call this adventure,  Miss Chatterbox Discovers the Fridge or  The Gift that Keeps on Smelling.

Now, I've been pretty lucky, in that in almost 3 years, Miss Chatterbox has never really messed with the refrigerator.  That changed 8 days ago.  During one of my numerous trips to the john, I hear a cracking sound followed by her shrieking in delighted giggles.  Then repeated. And repeated again. Sigh.  I knew exactly what this meant, so since this had to be an extended visit to the crapper - ahem - I call to her in my new found "mom voice."  As she rounds the corner, I see no less than 6 egg yolks streaming down various parts of her body and dripping onto my carpet.  Gotta admit, it was a pretty funny sight.  She was certainly happy with herself and I didn't have the heart to ruin it by correcting her.  But, since my mother instilled an intense fear of salmonella in me, I quickly plopped her in my bathtub (a rare treat) and finished my business - ahem.  What?  I'm a mom.  I'm used to an audience.

When I came out to the kitchen, it really wasn't the disaster I had expected.  I cleaned it up quickly and moved on to tending to The Bun's next round of breathing treatments and turned on Dora for Miss Chatterbox (have I mentioned how much I HATE Dora?  Where the bleep are her parents?  Why do they let a preschooler wonder all over creation with an f'in monkey on her shoulder and a talking map? Could her voice be anymore annoying?)  Have you spotted my colossal error yet, my smarter than me friends?  That's right, y'all.  I cleaned up without inventorying the fridge.

That night, when I go to make a quick dinner for Miss Chatterbox (all the while cursing the FD, Boo, and overtime marathons) I realize we are missing the mayo, egg salad, and yogurt.  AND I don't find them in any of the usual places, but I'm too tired and sick and put much effort into it.  I figure that I'll look for it in the morning.  After all, they are sealed up.  How much could it stink?

The next couple of days blur together in a feverish haze and the mystery of the missing food has completely slipped my mind.

Until, The Firefighter walks in the door and says, "Good God, babe, what the $%&* is that SMELL?"

Oops.  My bad.

So the search began.  After an agonizing and gagging two hours, with more than one visit to the toilet for me, we find the missing items.  The mayo was under the couch and the yogurt in her dresser.  Luckily, both were unopened.

However, the egg salad container had blown up and we found it spewing it's contents all over my favorite, extra large, special ordered, monogrammed, Vera Bradley tote bag hidden WAAAYY back in the very furthest corner of my closet.  Can we say, EWWW GROWDY!

Damn kids.

Mmmmm, egg salad.  Hungry, anyone?