Started using a new site for my rants...
http://forevermommy.wordpress.com/
If you are so inclined, please update to the new page :)
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Potty Patrol
If I would have to pick, I think I would say potty training is my favorite part of parenthood...and by "favorite" I clearly mean most despised. The 1st run with the fe-mini, I was taken aback by how maddening it was and how frustrating the whole process could be. The random stop, drop and pee opportunities. The slick: "I will just stand here and pee and see if she notices." The morning pee sheets from nighttime slips. And the ever wonderful, in the middle of the store HAVING to pee that very instant or the threat of an aisle 3 wet clean up being immanent. Then there are all of the associates: the pull ups, the "waterproof" mattress cover, potty chairs (we bought 2 of those), potty books, potty dolls (for boys he is named Potty Scotty!) and the potty treats for celebratory purposes...there are really so many glorious aspects to choose from that to narrow it down to just one is impossible.
So now we are working on getting the Final Frontier out of diapers. My doctor told me when he turned two, "You can start potty training him now and he will be trained when he is 36 months or you can start potty training him at 35 months and he will be trained at 36 months." I was a little discouraged with that news but have always heard the boy bladder is a little tougher to coerce so I can't say I was surprised. At the same time I was a little relieved because I remember all of the months between 18 and about 30 with Girl Wonder that I spent pulling my hair out and cursing the urine fairies. I have to say this took a little of the pressure out. I was reminded again, as with the 1st, when he is ready you will know. He will just WANT to go. So this time around I am trying to remove the control freak from the equation and just let nature take it's course so to speak.
This being said I have wanted to provide the best "learning environment" possible for my little man. We have been using the other two kid potties and have noticed that things with a boy are juuuust a bit different. I didn't account for the "willy factor" when initially choosing these potty seats for my gal and after our first couple go rounds of wet floors upon evacuation I realized something had to be done or I may just pop another vein in my head. So I researched the millions of potty seat options online. Being that my boy isn't really a boy by his own admission but in fact just a grown man in a pint-sized body I recognized that he doesn't want no stinkin kiddie seat. He wants to sit on the big one like a real man! So I found this perfect little contraption complete with a ladder so the kid can climb up to the throne himself, handles so he can hold on while he "goes for a ride," a foot stool so he can further brace himself for the shuttle launch and a cushy, foamy seat complete with a "lip" to keep things from going awry so to speak. It really seemed like the most all-inclusive choice. To say I was thrilled was an understatement. I used to get excited about buying a new bathing suit and now my skirt gets blown up when I discover new and inventive contraptions made to teach my children basic life skills--my how things have changed.
So being there was something new in the house and size and weight matter in the animal kingdom, his older sister got 1st dibs on the test drive. She gave the new seat her seal of approval and then moved on. The boy got to see the item in action so when nature called he would be clear on how to mount it.
That time arose later that night when we were getting ready for bed. I don't know what it is but bedtime seems to be Deuce-thirty for both of my littles. This is when I have had the most success with the boy and his shuttle launches. This night was no different. So he ran in, jumped on the seat and within minutes came running out and celebrating, "I peed. I peed. I really, really peed." So his sister and I ran to the bowl and saw no evidence of such--false alarm. "OK buddy, just try again." Two minutes later, same drill. "OkkkkNooooo buddy! Hold on!!! DON'T MOOOOVE!" I quickly got to the bathroom and gathered as much toilet paper as humanly possible in hopes of capturing the wonder poop and by the time I tore the ply I heard a thud! Ahhhhhh! Nooooo!
There, in the hallway, lay his stool sample for all to see and as Mother of the Year, my first gut response was a loud and disgusted, "BOOOOOOO!!!!" Really? You booed your own kid for going to the bathroom? You BOOED him? REALLY? Yes, really. I don't know what came over me but all I can say is I am not proud of it and rest assured psychotherapy has already begun for such transgressions.
Girl Wonder came down to see what all the booing was about and saw the pile on the floor and immediately started in on the little fella. "Why did you poop on the floor, Chase?" You are supposed to go in the potty!" Meanwhile I am whisking away the excretion with my wad of wastepaper and throwing it in the toilet when the Hubba comes upstairs to see what the commotion is all about. The Reporter gives him the full update of the situation complete with ghastly noises and criticism and I am just about to turn around to say "Not a step closer!" but realized it was too late. I had gotten MOST of the dung wiped away but there were still a few nuggets of shrapnel left in the aftermath and the Hubba stepped right atop! UGH!
By this time I had realized that our reaction of disgust to this situation could have set our boy back months in terms of progress so I quickly changed the tune to that of joy and accomplishment. We danced around the bathroom and once everything was cleaned up, ran into the kitchen for the coveted "potty treats." While we stood around the crystal candy bowl waiting for the prince to make his choice the female counterpart pipes up with, "Why does HE get a potty treat? He pooped on the FLOOR not in the potty!" Trying to explain to a 4-year-old that her 2-year-old brother doesn't quite have the sensation of full evacuation down pat just yet is about as intelligent as trying to explain quantum physics.
Needless to say it was an eventful first run. Based on previous experience I am sure it is only going to get better. I look forward to the next few months and the defecation that it will bring. Good times for all to enjoy! Hope you enjoyed it too :)
So now we are working on getting the Final Frontier out of diapers. My doctor told me when he turned two, "You can start potty training him now and he will be trained when he is 36 months or you can start potty training him at 35 months and he will be trained at 36 months." I was a little discouraged with that news but have always heard the boy bladder is a little tougher to coerce so I can't say I was surprised. At the same time I was a little relieved because I remember all of the months between 18 and about 30 with Girl Wonder that I spent pulling my hair out and cursing the urine fairies. I have to say this took a little of the pressure out. I was reminded again, as with the 1st, when he is ready you will know. He will just WANT to go. So this time around I am trying to remove the control freak from the equation and just let nature take it's course so to speak.
This being said I have wanted to provide the best "learning environment" possible for my little man. We have been using the other two kid potties and have noticed that things with a boy are juuuust a bit different. I didn't account for the "willy factor" when initially choosing these potty seats for my gal and after our first couple go rounds of wet floors upon evacuation I realized something had to be done or I may just pop another vein in my head. So I researched the millions of potty seat options online. Being that my boy isn't really a boy by his own admission but in fact just a grown man in a pint-sized body I recognized that he doesn't want no stinkin kiddie seat. He wants to sit on the big one like a real man! So I found this perfect little contraption complete with a ladder so the kid can climb up to the throne himself, handles so he can hold on while he "goes for a ride," a foot stool so he can further brace himself for the shuttle launch and a cushy, foamy seat complete with a "lip" to keep things from going awry so to speak. It really seemed like the most all-inclusive choice. To say I was thrilled was an understatement. I used to get excited about buying a new bathing suit and now my skirt gets blown up when I discover new and inventive contraptions made to teach my children basic life skills--my how things have changed.
So being there was something new in the house and size and weight matter in the animal kingdom, his older sister got 1st dibs on the test drive. She gave the new seat her seal of approval and then moved on. The boy got to see the item in action so when nature called he would be clear on how to mount it.
That time arose later that night when we were getting ready for bed. I don't know what it is but bedtime seems to be Deuce-thirty for both of my littles. This is when I have had the most success with the boy and his shuttle launches. This night was no different. So he ran in, jumped on the seat and within minutes came running out and celebrating, "I peed. I peed. I really, really peed." So his sister and I ran to the bowl and saw no evidence of such--false alarm. "OK buddy, just try again." Two minutes later, same drill. "OkkkkNooooo buddy! Hold on!!! DON'T MOOOOVE!" I quickly got to the bathroom and gathered as much toilet paper as humanly possible in hopes of capturing the wonder poop and by the time I tore the ply I heard a thud! Ahhhhhh! Nooooo!
There, in the hallway, lay his stool sample for all to see and as Mother of the Year, my first gut response was a loud and disgusted, "BOOOOOOO!!!!" Really? You booed your own kid for going to the bathroom? You BOOED him? REALLY? Yes, really. I don't know what came over me but all I can say is I am not proud of it and rest assured psychotherapy has already begun for such transgressions.
Girl Wonder came down to see what all the booing was about and saw the pile on the floor and immediately started in on the little fella. "Why did you poop on the floor, Chase?" You are supposed to go in the potty!" Meanwhile I am whisking away the excretion with my wad of wastepaper and throwing it in the toilet when the Hubba comes upstairs to see what the commotion is all about. The Reporter gives him the full update of the situation complete with ghastly noises and criticism and I am just about to turn around to say "Not a step closer!" but realized it was too late. I had gotten MOST of the dung wiped away but there were still a few nuggets of shrapnel left in the aftermath and the Hubba stepped right atop! UGH!
By this time I had realized that our reaction of disgust to this situation could have set our boy back months in terms of progress so I quickly changed the tune to that of joy and accomplishment. We danced around the bathroom and once everything was cleaned up, ran into the kitchen for the coveted "potty treats." While we stood around the crystal candy bowl waiting for the prince to make his choice the female counterpart pipes up with, "Why does HE get a potty treat? He pooped on the FLOOR not in the potty!" Trying to explain to a 4-year-old that her 2-year-old brother doesn't quite have the sensation of full evacuation down pat just yet is about as intelligent as trying to explain quantum physics.
Needless to say it was an eventful first run. Based on previous experience I am sure it is only going to get better. I look forward to the next few months and the defecation that it will bring. Good times for all to enjoy! Hope you enjoyed it too :)
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Itsy Bitsy Spider...
I started a new workout program this weekend. Over his vaca, Hubba had taken it upon himself to rid our garage of all of its excessive crap and in the process made it very hospitable. He also managed to set up a pseudo-gym with a bench and accompanying set of weights so Mama could get her lift on. That's what I like to call a "win-win."
The fe-mini decided she wanted to join me on my highway to health. We hadn't completed even one circuit of the Hubba-derived exercise recipe when she started screaming. And I don't mean crying; I'm talkin Texas Chainsaw Massacre screaming. This was followed by a repetitive "Owie! Owie! Owie!" so I knew it wasn't from the exercise regimen. I begged to know what was wrong and she pulled up her shirt to reveal, "Something BIT meeeee!" And sure enough there was a distinct point of entry along with an almost immediate area of swelling. I assessed the surroundings and found one bastard spider laying on the cement complete with a look of guilt in his beadie little eyes. It didn't take me two seconds before I decided he needed to die. I quickly grabbed a dumb bell and obliterated the sneaky little schister! While Girl Wonder was thanking me for "saving her life" I realized I had just rid the situation of the offender and thus any clues to the toxicity level of said offender. I would have been smarter to capture the aggressor which would have in turn alleviated the next 45 minutes of subsequent Internet research trying to identify the evil enemy, half of which was spent listening to bellows of pain from the midget. The Hubba and I were both silently anticipating a trip to the ER. After about an hour of swelling regression and tear turn-off those fears subsided.
I never really got a positive ID on the arachnid but after some discussion we both agreed that the recent upswing in the spider population on the home front rendered some sort of action. We devised a plan of attack and I was sent out with marching orders--serious stuff on the outdoor perimeter and herbal homemade remedies for the indoors.
I sat at the store amongst thousands of bottles of toxicity made for all multi-segmented creatures. With kids in the cart, I mumbled out loud the each label and their apparent claims of carnage. Ant, fly, hornet, mosquito, rodent--evidently everything BUT spider. I was irked. I continued looking...bee, beetle, yellow jacket, wasp...then I stumbled upon the ever-respected "roach." Girl Wonder tilts her head to one side and says, "Roach?" and I replied "Yes, you know? Cockroach?" To which she further inquires, "What is cock?" to which I respond with laughter of uncontrollable proportions and she again says, "Mom! (as if to say: "Snap out of it. Get it together lady!") What is cock? What is it!?" and all I could come out with is just more silent, body-shaking laughter. And THIS, my friends, is a prime example of how my perpetual immaturity and grand mental capacity for potty humor continues to get me into conversational combat with this kid! Wish me luck in this large chore of actually raising a mature human being. At this rate it's really not looking good!
The fe-mini decided she wanted to join me on my highway to health. We hadn't completed even one circuit of the Hubba-derived exercise recipe when she started screaming. And I don't mean crying; I'm talkin Texas Chainsaw Massacre screaming. This was followed by a repetitive "Owie! Owie! Owie!" so I knew it wasn't from the exercise regimen. I begged to know what was wrong and she pulled up her shirt to reveal, "Something BIT meeeee!" And sure enough there was a distinct point of entry along with an almost immediate area of swelling. I assessed the surroundings and found one bastard spider laying on the cement complete with a look of guilt in his beadie little eyes. It didn't take me two seconds before I decided he needed to die. I quickly grabbed a dumb bell and obliterated the sneaky little schister! While Girl Wonder was thanking me for "saving her life" I realized I had just rid the situation of the offender and thus any clues to the toxicity level of said offender. I would have been smarter to capture the aggressor which would have in turn alleviated the next 45 minutes of subsequent Internet research trying to identify the evil enemy, half of which was spent listening to bellows of pain from the midget. The Hubba and I were both silently anticipating a trip to the ER. After about an hour of swelling regression and tear turn-off those fears subsided.
I never really got a positive ID on the arachnid but after some discussion we both agreed that the recent upswing in the spider population on the home front rendered some sort of action. We devised a plan of attack and I was sent out with marching orders--serious stuff on the outdoor perimeter and herbal homemade remedies for the indoors.
I sat at the store amongst thousands of bottles of toxicity made for all multi-segmented creatures. With kids in the cart, I mumbled out loud the each label and their apparent claims of carnage. Ant, fly, hornet, mosquito, rodent--evidently everything BUT spider. I was irked. I continued looking...bee, beetle, yellow jacket, wasp...then I stumbled upon the ever-respected "roach." Girl Wonder tilts her head to one side and says, "Roach?" and I replied "Yes, you know? Cockroach?" To which she further inquires, "What is cock?" to which I respond with laughter of uncontrollable proportions and she again says, "Mom! (as if to say: "Snap out of it. Get it together lady!") What is cock? What is it!?" and all I could come out with is just more silent, body-shaking laughter. And THIS, my friends, is a prime example of how my perpetual immaturity and grand mental capacity for potty humor continues to get me into conversational combat with this kid! Wish me luck in this large chore of actually raising a mature human being. At this rate it's really not looking good!
Monday, September 12, 2011
It's all in a name...
Some people tend to get the most information from their kids at night as they lay them down to sleep. I suppose being that I have been blessed with what can only be described as a "sleeper from hell" I am not one of those people. My moments of clarity regarding my gal come while she is atop her thrown...the porcelain one. I don't know why this summons her deep thoughts and worldly questions but I have grown to except this and almost embrace it. I will take "quality" time wherever I can get it and that includes being amongst excrement and odor.
Out of the clear blue sky (where most of these Toilet Tidbits come from) she starts talking about her name. She looks dead at me and says "Mom, I really don't like my name!" She's never voiced any distaste for it previously so I am a little taken aback and proceed to ask her why. She then explains: "Because it has the "My" word in it and it makes me feel like I'm saying everything is "Mine" and I don't like that." Perhaps this lends to the reason she is constantly claiming territory in the land but that is beside the point. So I take the bait and ask her what name she would prefer. Without hesitation she chimes in (as though she has been thinking about this for much longer than this 15 minute eradication) with her answer: "Chase! You can call me Chase because that would mean that you'd have to chase me all around." After pontificating the notion of having 2 kids with the same name, I do believe smoke began to pour from my ears. I pointed out that it would be a bit difficult to discern one Chase from the other and she assured me, "Oh if he runs away you won't have to handle it. I will put on full speed to get him." Hmmm, now THIS is a plan I can get on board with. I chase you and you chase him. That doesn't sound at ALL crazy. She is not as speedy as her brother and much less erratic. Boy Wonder starts off in a straight line as though there is a jet pack attached to his back and then suddenly he cuts to the left in a jutting, zig zagging motion, much like the talents of Adrian Peterson (HA-I can only hope!) Now I am 20 years removed from my soccer training and hate to admit that those hard "cuts" aren't as easy and fluid as they used to be. I do fear a blown ACL/MCL at some point in my competition as a mom. I have been pondering lately what the first injury to put me on the disabled list is going to be. For some reason I am leaning toward having a tooth knocked out but I suppose that is because that has been one of my biggest fears for all of my life is losing a tooth in combat. Probably the very reason that I chose swimming over the abundance of other sports I played as it always ended up in the "Least Likely Arena to Lose a Tooth in Battle" column of life but that is a different story altogether. All these previously recorded thoughts about my son needing to be garbed in protective gear and I feel that I should probably be outfitted in the same. Again, another story for another day...
At the end of the day I just found it interesting that Girl Wonder was so attuned to her sensitive side and the "vibe" her name is putting out there. The only thought I ever gave to my name is the fact that "Jo" rhymed with soooo many unappealing and insulting words but this realization didn't come until at least 4th grade when my classmates start recognizing the same. To be a "Ho" at age 8 was quite a tall order. I didn't even figure out how insulting "Blow" was until a much later date. And now realizing that I have doomed my daughter to the very same name fate I am beginning to think that this Conversation from the Throne will be continued a few years down the line. Now I will hold the interest of seeing if she can actually reach the age of 8 before her friends embark on this name-calling frenzy which sends her to the court house with a Request for Name Change. And so the Circle of Life continues :)
Out of the clear blue sky (where most of these Toilet Tidbits come from) she starts talking about her name. She looks dead at me and says "Mom, I really don't like my name!" She's never voiced any distaste for it previously so I am a little taken aback and proceed to ask her why. She then explains: "Because it has the "My" word in it and it makes me feel like I'm saying everything is "Mine" and I don't like that." Perhaps this lends to the reason she is constantly claiming territory in the land but that is beside the point. So I take the bait and ask her what name she would prefer. Without hesitation she chimes in (as though she has been thinking about this for much longer than this 15 minute eradication) with her answer: "Chase! You can call me Chase because that would mean that you'd have to chase me all around." After pontificating the notion of having 2 kids with the same name, I do believe smoke began to pour from my ears. I pointed out that it would be a bit difficult to discern one Chase from the other and she assured me, "Oh if he runs away you won't have to handle it. I will put on full speed to get him." Hmmm, now THIS is a plan I can get on board with. I chase you and you chase him. That doesn't sound at ALL crazy. She is not as speedy as her brother and much less erratic. Boy Wonder starts off in a straight line as though there is a jet pack attached to his back and then suddenly he cuts to the left in a jutting, zig zagging motion, much like the talents of Adrian Peterson (HA-I can only hope!) Now I am 20 years removed from my soccer training and hate to admit that those hard "cuts" aren't as easy and fluid as they used to be. I do fear a blown ACL/MCL at some point in my competition as a mom. I have been pondering lately what the first injury to put me on the disabled list is going to be. For some reason I am leaning toward having a tooth knocked out but I suppose that is because that has been one of my biggest fears for all of my life is losing a tooth in combat. Probably the very reason that I chose swimming over the abundance of other sports I played as it always ended up in the "Least Likely Arena to Lose a Tooth in Battle" column of life but that is a different story altogether. All these previously recorded thoughts about my son needing to be garbed in protective gear and I feel that I should probably be outfitted in the same. Again, another story for another day...
At the end of the day I just found it interesting that Girl Wonder was so attuned to her sensitive side and the "vibe" her name is putting out there. The only thought I ever gave to my name is the fact that "Jo" rhymed with soooo many unappealing and insulting words but this realization didn't come until at least 4th grade when my classmates start recognizing the same. To be a "Ho" at age 8 was quite a tall order. I didn't even figure out how insulting "Blow" was until a much later date. And now realizing that I have doomed my daughter to the very same name fate I am beginning to think that this Conversation from the Throne will be continued a few years down the line. Now I will hold the interest of seeing if she can actually reach the age of 8 before her friends embark on this name-calling frenzy which sends her to the court house with a Request for Name Change. And so the Circle of Life continues :)
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Camp Out?
A few months ago Girl Wonder got in her head that she needed to experience the Great Outdoors. She was insistent that camping was the missing piece to her puzzle. She talked about it quite a bit and asked on a fairly regular occasion when we could have a camp out. Suffice it to say, I was certain the answer to that question was "Never." Hubba Hubba has made it abundantly clear in the tenure of our relationship that under no uncertain circumstances was camping something he was willing to do. He detests being dirty, refuses to lay amongst critters and bugs and rather enjoys the lavish lifestyle of a stove/oven combo. I had to find a way to break it to her so I just came out with it. "Honey, Daddy really doesn't like camping so I don't think we will be going for quite some time <insert "never" here> Thinking this would take the wind out of her sails and I would soon after be wiping some tears she pipes up with: "Well, do you like camping?"...uh oh...I feel a trap coming on..."Yes, baby I love camping." (this coming from someone who has never packed more than a case of beer and a sleeping apparatus for a camping trip) and then she decides, "Well then, we will just wait until Daddy has to go out of town again for work and then WE will go camping!" Wow, the tender age of 4 and already plotting on what we will do when the proverbial cat is away.
Needless to say after sharing this transaction with the Hubba he was feeling a little sheepish--seemingly as though he was standing in the way of his little princess' happiness. So when he suggested that during his one vacation that he takes all year that we go camping I have to say I was a little surprised. I suppose a fine illustration to just how much he loves this gal. He quickly started researching places in Colorado with water and cabins--he was only willing to take this "camping" thing so far--and within hours our destination was determined and reservations were made.
Now I hear people talk about taking their kids camping ALL the time. After having traversed the experience the only question I am left with is WHYYYYYY!!!!????? I literally packed enough food and supplies to last us a good 6-month stay in a bomb shelter. Our house looked like a ghost town before we left as almost everything in it was coming with us. It just seemed stupid to me to haul all of our belongings 3 hours away just to unpack them and enjoy them outside for the sake of outside. We could have just popped a tent in the backyard and called it good. Honestly, I think if the wee one's would have experienced THAT we wouldn't have had to up the ante to a far-away excursion but whatever.
Luckily we got to take our pooch with on this vacation and I think he appreciated that about as much as any dog could. Our 1st stop was the Garden of the Gods (gorgeous) and boasting clouds that distended and inflated to the likes of a big head of blown-up cauliflower that you might see in a Macy's Day Parade. The sights were breathtaking and the heat was ON. The dog was about to pass out from all of the out-of-the-ordinary exercise in the mid-day heat and when we got back to the car he jumped right in. As we tried to associate the kids and get some food in them we heard a howling from someones engine, as though they were tearing down the road at 100 miles an hour. The Hubba and I looked at one another, looked around and we both came to it at the same time--the dog had propped his ass directly on the 1st piece of real estate in the car--the accelerator. Thank God for working brakes is all I have to say because that parking lot was FULL of cars, people and pets and with a 40 pound dog sitting on the "go" button we could have had quite an eventful experience. The pandemonium in my mind's eye is excessive...
Unfortunately, in-car navigation missed the updated version that included our campsite so we spent the better part of an hour searching for our final destination all the while to questions of "Haven't we gone this way already? Haven't we seen this part before?" Backseat driver takes on a whole new meaning. Once we arrived the kids were pleasantly surprised to find a huge playground right across the dirt patch from our cabin. It was a space filled with 70's era play equipment that begged to be climbed upon and beckoned a closed-head injury. The playground in particular touted a over sized metal merry-go-round to the likes of which I have not seen since I was their age. Truly I thought these were outlawed for safety reasons but backwoods Colorado evidently missed the memo. With a multitude of miniatures at the play area the kids jumped right in the action. The merry-go-round was irresistible. They climbed on along with about 17 other campers. I was quickly sized up and noted to be the biggest kid on the playground and therefore nominated the official pusher. OK. I'll bite. I could use a good work out. After about 30 minutes of hurling kids around in circles, listening to them scream with glee (none louder or girlier than my boy, of course) and stopping occasionally to let off a green passenger or two I set a goal. I decided that the day would only be a success if I forced one of them to lose their dinner. Try as I might my goal went unrecognized and I felt a tinge of defeat. Once the playground had cleared out a bit and most of the kids had gone back to their campsites disoriented my kids took a whirl at the apparatus on their own. This would be Boy Wonder's 1st lesson in centrifugal force. While I was the pusher my kids just sat down and held on for dear life. Left to their own devices a sense of bravery set in. The Moose was feeling like some sort of hot shot and decided that he was capable of things greater than himself. He branched out and tried on some tricks of the 8-year-olds who had come before him. As the merry went round he attempted to stand up, lean back, let the wind blow through his not so present hair and hold on with his head leaning outside of the bars into open space. Shockingly, the pull of this law of nature was more than he had bargained for and to say he went FLYING is an understatement. The next thing I knew his chubby little hands gave way and he was violently thrown from the apparatus. His head, being as large as it is, got kind of stuck under the moving vehicle and it finally pushed him out of the way of its tumultuous path and onto his face. This all happened in a matter of seconds at which point I am scooping him up to assess the damage, wishing we had brought his helmet, and he was SCREAMING! I figured he had broken an arm, a tooth or received a concussion. Once I got him turned around he looked up at me and all I could see were blue eyes--his face was COVERED in sand. His screaming mouth was FULL of sand. His nasal cavities were impacted with sand. He was NOT pleased. I got to quick work exfoliating his face and he is still wailing. I finally reached my whole hand inside of his mouth and scooped out no less than a quarter of a cup of dirt and then the crying immediately ceased. So I learned here that my son is not so much affected by pain as he is by irritation. Good to know. After a thorough dusting and further evaluation he had only a 4" long bleeding wound on his arm, a sand-burned elbow and a slightly more lumpy cranium. All in all I call that a win because if you had seen it happen you'da thought we'd be taking a trip to the ER.
This trip was filled with firsts. This was our first attempt at putting Boy Wonder into anything but a crib for sleep. The cabin was equipped with one queen bed and a bunk bed. We figured, by his age his sister had already been sleeping in a real bed for 6 months so surely he was ready too. HA! Being a risky venture to begin with we wanted to make sure he was as close to the ground as possible so he got the bottom bunk. Set both the kids up with their sleeping bags and pillows and thought that the days adventures would easily have exhausted them to the point of pass-out. Another "laugh out loud" thought. Hubba and I figured we would give them a chance to settle in and then retire once they had fallen asleep. We sat outside by the campfire and listened to the chaos ensue. Boy Wonder's new found freedom caused a ruckus and he was up and down and up and down again. So our attempt at some alone time fell short and we decided to go in and wrangle the beast. Once we were arrived the up/down program stopped. He was in his bed but couldn't seem to keep himself from talking whilst his sister could keep herself from telling him to shut up. Meanwhile she is up top, singing herself to sleep, kicking her legs like an Olympic runner. This wouldn't have been a big deal but the mattresses of the beds were coated with vinyl (I don't even WANT to know why) so with the rubbing of the polyester sleeping bag against this material there was easily more scratching than in an 80's rap song. To say it was obnoxious falls short of reality. The bed-time charades started at 8:30 and it was now approaching 11 and the girl was still strong at it. I was trying my damnedest to block it out but was just relieved that The Ox had decided to drift off--I'd call that a push. At about 11:30 I remember looking at my watch and realizing the scratching had almost ceased entirely and felt myself floating off to sleep. At 11:45 I hear the boy cry out. I looked down at the floor and saw a gleaming white heap in the pitch darkness and realized that he had dropped his coveted silky blankey. I rolled over to retrieve the blankey so he could resume to slumber and in my effort reached down to feel silky soft SKIN--the boy had tumbled out of bed and he, was in fact, the white crumpled ball on the cold, wooden floor. With my heart appropriately broken, I lifted him off the floor and positioned him between us in our bed. His response: "Fanks, Mom!" as though I had saved him from a burning fire. UGH
Now being that we never, and I mean NEVER allow our kids to come to bed with us this was a new experience. I didn't want him to fall again so between us was really the only option. From that point on I had to serve as human guard rail. The 1st couple of hours I spent head to head with him, we successfully breathed the same air and I could hear his little heart beat. It was actually kind of sweet...kind of. I was reminded of the famous song from Patrick Swayze's hit film "Dirty Dancing"...something along the lines of, "I feel your breath in my face, your body close to me..." but then became starkly aware that this song was not an ode to one's child. After the cuteness wore off the exhaustion set in. My body was contorted in such a way that would have made my Pilates instructor proud. Without such studious training in the arena I don't believe I could have held these "poses" for such a duration and saw this as an opportunity to hone my skills and practice my form. My head was wrenched back while the mini man nestled his head in my chest. Then at one point he had extended his arm across my face and pushed me with his leg so that I was literally given no more than a balance beam's worth of space in which to lay. After this experience I am sure I could work in the circus as a tight rope walker. I decided I was not going to get a lick of sleep in this position and opted to change direction and place my head at the bottom of the bed with the dog. You know it's bad when you choose to share air with a canine as opposed to your kid. With the absence of my body as a safety device Bam Bam rolled over and threatened to fall once again. I quickly fashioned my body into a net-like arrangement and cradled his head with the flexion of my foot. The remainder of my leg and side-body served as a back brace and he fell back to sleep. Unfortunately I didn't. I think I received a total of 45 minutes of sleep that night and woke up in DIRE need of coffee. The Hubba professed that he had about the same amount of sleep and it was then and there that I fell in love with him all over again. He looked at me with his droopy eyes and said "Baby, I was thinking that maybe we might think about perhaps going home tomorrow instead of the day after??" The joy that this brought me was inexplicable. The happy dance ensued as there was a light at the end of my tunnel. I sprinted to the front desk to boast of our early departure. Upon my return the kids has started to stir. My nighttime cohort climbed out of the room and looked up at me with his sort-of sad face and announced "Mommy, I pooped in your bed!" You have to be f#$%^ing kidding me? I said "Are you serious!?" and he said "Yes." so I hurried into the cabin to assess the damage. Upon investigating further I found that he hadn't in fact pooped but peed all over our comforter and sheet (now I'm thinking I know why the mattresses are covered in vinyl). Being that I was prepared for a nuclear holocaust I had packed replacement bed furnishings so luckily we were covered for yet another night.
The rest of that day was filled with a train ride, swimming, more playground time and 2 hours of straight down-pouring rain coupled with a thunder and lightning show. Monday couldn't come fast enough. Don't get me wrong, it was a "nice" time, a good 1st experience, an interesting outing but this is not something that I will be doing again any time soon. After asking the fe-mini if she'd enjoyed herself she responded affirmatively. I then prodded further to see if she was interested in a return venture that I was going to have to cleverly ward off to which she said, "Sure, I'll go but maybe not until I'm a little older." which in my estimation is when she is old enough to pack her own $h!t and sleep in her own cabin. I translated this to mean she appreciated the experience but wasn't interested in another go-round for quite a long time. And so I fell in love with her all over again too.
Needless to say after sharing this transaction with the Hubba he was feeling a little sheepish--seemingly as though he was standing in the way of his little princess' happiness. So when he suggested that during his one vacation that he takes all year that we go camping I have to say I was a little surprised. I suppose a fine illustration to just how much he loves this gal. He quickly started researching places in Colorado with water and cabins--he was only willing to take this "camping" thing so far--and within hours our destination was determined and reservations were made.
Now I hear people talk about taking their kids camping ALL the time. After having traversed the experience the only question I am left with is WHYYYYYY!!!!????? I literally packed enough food and supplies to last us a good 6-month stay in a bomb shelter. Our house looked like a ghost town before we left as almost everything in it was coming with us. It just seemed stupid to me to haul all of our belongings 3 hours away just to unpack them and enjoy them outside for the sake of outside. We could have just popped a tent in the backyard and called it good. Honestly, I think if the wee one's would have experienced THAT we wouldn't have had to up the ante to a far-away excursion but whatever.
Luckily we got to take our pooch with on this vacation and I think he appreciated that about as much as any dog could. Our 1st stop was the Garden of the Gods (gorgeous) and boasting clouds that distended and inflated to the likes of a big head of blown-up cauliflower that you might see in a Macy's Day Parade. The sights were breathtaking and the heat was ON. The dog was about to pass out from all of the out-of-the-ordinary exercise in the mid-day heat and when we got back to the car he jumped right in. As we tried to associate the kids and get some food in them we heard a howling from someones engine, as though they were tearing down the road at 100 miles an hour. The Hubba and I looked at one another, looked around and we both came to it at the same time--the dog had propped his ass directly on the 1st piece of real estate in the car--the accelerator. Thank God for working brakes is all I have to say because that parking lot was FULL of cars, people and pets and with a 40 pound dog sitting on the "go" button we could have had quite an eventful experience. The pandemonium in my mind's eye is excessive...
Unfortunately, in-car navigation missed the updated version that included our campsite so we spent the better part of an hour searching for our final destination all the while to questions of "Haven't we gone this way already? Haven't we seen this part before?" Backseat driver takes on a whole new meaning. Once we arrived the kids were pleasantly surprised to find a huge playground right across the dirt patch from our cabin. It was a space filled with 70's era play equipment that begged to be climbed upon and beckoned a closed-head injury. The playground in particular touted a over sized metal merry-go-round to the likes of which I have not seen since I was their age. Truly I thought these were outlawed for safety reasons but backwoods Colorado evidently missed the memo. With a multitude of miniatures at the play area the kids jumped right in the action. The merry-go-round was irresistible. They climbed on along with about 17 other campers. I was quickly sized up and noted to be the biggest kid on the playground and therefore nominated the official pusher. OK. I'll bite. I could use a good work out. After about 30 minutes of hurling kids around in circles, listening to them scream with glee (none louder or girlier than my boy, of course) and stopping occasionally to let off a green passenger or two I set a goal. I decided that the day would only be a success if I forced one of them to lose their dinner. Try as I might my goal went unrecognized and I felt a tinge of defeat. Once the playground had cleared out a bit and most of the kids had gone back to their campsites disoriented my kids took a whirl at the apparatus on their own. This would be Boy Wonder's 1st lesson in centrifugal force. While I was the pusher my kids just sat down and held on for dear life. Left to their own devices a sense of bravery set in. The Moose was feeling like some sort of hot shot and decided that he was capable of things greater than himself. He branched out and tried on some tricks of the 8-year-olds who had come before him. As the merry went round he attempted to stand up, lean back, let the wind blow through his not so present hair and hold on with his head leaning outside of the bars into open space. Shockingly, the pull of this law of nature was more than he had bargained for and to say he went FLYING is an understatement. The next thing I knew his chubby little hands gave way and he was violently thrown from the apparatus. His head, being as large as it is, got kind of stuck under the moving vehicle and it finally pushed him out of the way of its tumultuous path and onto his face. This all happened in a matter of seconds at which point I am scooping him up to assess the damage, wishing we had brought his helmet, and he was SCREAMING! I figured he had broken an arm, a tooth or received a concussion. Once I got him turned around he looked up at me and all I could see were blue eyes--his face was COVERED in sand. His screaming mouth was FULL of sand. His nasal cavities were impacted with sand. He was NOT pleased. I got to quick work exfoliating his face and he is still wailing. I finally reached my whole hand inside of his mouth and scooped out no less than a quarter of a cup of dirt and then the crying immediately ceased. So I learned here that my son is not so much affected by pain as he is by irritation. Good to know. After a thorough dusting and further evaluation he had only a 4" long bleeding wound on his arm, a sand-burned elbow and a slightly more lumpy cranium. All in all I call that a win because if you had seen it happen you'da thought we'd be taking a trip to the ER.
This trip was filled with firsts. This was our first attempt at putting Boy Wonder into anything but a crib for sleep. The cabin was equipped with one queen bed and a bunk bed. We figured, by his age his sister had already been sleeping in a real bed for 6 months so surely he was ready too. HA! Being a risky venture to begin with we wanted to make sure he was as close to the ground as possible so he got the bottom bunk. Set both the kids up with their sleeping bags and pillows and thought that the days adventures would easily have exhausted them to the point of pass-out. Another "laugh out loud" thought. Hubba and I figured we would give them a chance to settle in and then retire once they had fallen asleep. We sat outside by the campfire and listened to the chaos ensue. Boy Wonder's new found freedom caused a ruckus and he was up and down and up and down again. So our attempt at some alone time fell short and we decided to go in and wrangle the beast. Once we were arrived the up/down program stopped. He was in his bed but couldn't seem to keep himself from talking whilst his sister could keep herself from telling him to shut up. Meanwhile she is up top, singing herself to sleep, kicking her legs like an Olympic runner. This wouldn't have been a big deal but the mattresses of the beds were coated with vinyl (I don't even WANT to know why) so with the rubbing of the polyester sleeping bag against this material there was easily more scratching than in an 80's rap song. To say it was obnoxious falls short of reality. The bed-time charades started at 8:30 and it was now approaching 11 and the girl was still strong at it. I was trying my damnedest to block it out but was just relieved that The Ox had decided to drift off--I'd call that a push. At about 11:30 I remember looking at my watch and realizing the scratching had almost ceased entirely and felt myself floating off to sleep. At 11:45 I hear the boy cry out. I looked down at the floor and saw a gleaming white heap in the pitch darkness and realized that he had dropped his coveted silky blankey. I rolled over to retrieve the blankey so he could resume to slumber and in my effort reached down to feel silky soft SKIN--the boy had tumbled out of bed and he, was in fact, the white crumpled ball on the cold, wooden floor. With my heart appropriately broken, I lifted him off the floor and positioned him between us in our bed. His response: "Fanks, Mom!" as though I had saved him from a burning fire. UGH
Now being that we never, and I mean NEVER allow our kids to come to bed with us this was a new experience. I didn't want him to fall again so between us was really the only option. From that point on I had to serve as human guard rail. The 1st couple of hours I spent head to head with him, we successfully breathed the same air and I could hear his little heart beat. It was actually kind of sweet...kind of. I was reminded of the famous song from Patrick Swayze's hit film "Dirty Dancing"...something along the lines of, "I feel your breath in my face, your body close to me..." but then became starkly aware that this song was not an ode to one's child. After the cuteness wore off the exhaustion set in. My body was contorted in such a way that would have made my Pilates instructor proud. Without such studious training in the arena I don't believe I could have held these "poses" for such a duration and saw this as an opportunity to hone my skills and practice my form. My head was wrenched back while the mini man nestled his head in my chest. Then at one point he had extended his arm across my face and pushed me with his leg so that I was literally given no more than a balance beam's worth of space in which to lay. After this experience I am sure I could work in the circus as a tight rope walker. I decided I was not going to get a lick of sleep in this position and opted to change direction and place my head at the bottom of the bed with the dog. You know it's bad when you choose to share air with a canine as opposed to your kid. With the absence of my body as a safety device Bam Bam rolled over and threatened to fall once again. I quickly fashioned my body into a net-like arrangement and cradled his head with the flexion of my foot. The remainder of my leg and side-body served as a back brace and he fell back to sleep. Unfortunately I didn't. I think I received a total of 45 minutes of sleep that night and woke up in DIRE need of coffee. The Hubba professed that he had about the same amount of sleep and it was then and there that I fell in love with him all over again. He looked at me with his droopy eyes and said "Baby, I was thinking that maybe we might think about perhaps going home tomorrow instead of the day after??" The joy that this brought me was inexplicable. The happy dance ensued as there was a light at the end of my tunnel. I sprinted to the front desk to boast of our early departure. Upon my return the kids has started to stir. My nighttime cohort climbed out of the room and looked up at me with his sort-of sad face and announced "Mommy, I pooped in your bed!" You have to be f#$%^ing kidding me? I said "Are you serious!?" and he said "Yes." so I hurried into the cabin to assess the damage. Upon investigating further I found that he hadn't in fact pooped but peed all over our comforter and sheet (now I'm thinking I know why the mattresses are covered in vinyl). Being that I was prepared for a nuclear holocaust I had packed replacement bed furnishings so luckily we were covered for yet another night.
The rest of that day was filled with a train ride, swimming, more playground time and 2 hours of straight down-pouring rain coupled with a thunder and lightning show. Monday couldn't come fast enough. Don't get me wrong, it was a "nice" time, a good 1st experience, an interesting outing but this is not something that I will be doing again any time soon. After asking the fe-mini if she'd enjoyed herself she responded affirmatively. I then prodded further to see if she was interested in a return venture that I was going to have to cleverly ward off to which she said, "Sure, I'll go but maybe not until I'm a little older." which in my estimation is when she is old enough to pack her own $h!t and sleep in her own cabin. I translated this to mean she appreciated the experience but wasn't interested in another go-round for quite a long time. And so I fell in love with her all over again too.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
FOREVER Mommy!
A friend of mine asked me a couple of months ago if I was feeling "OK" because every time she read my blog it seemed like I was ranting about something and really down on myself. This gave me some serious pause and even lead to a fairly significant hiatus from writing. After all, my intention here is not to be Debbie Downer complete with the "Waah Waah Waah" music. After giving this some serious consideration I came up with a couple of things...#1. if my blog feels "negative" it doesn't need to be read. #2. even though I tend to complain a good bit about the in's and out's of parenthood, frankly I think that is just how I roll. I realized that it's not so much complaining as it is strenuously, emphatically observing. #3. somewhere, someone else may be bitching and nail-biting over the very same thing I bring to the table and actually not feel like Joan Crawford or Archie Bunker for losing their patience every so often. Lately my patience on this subject matter has been just about zero and I'm just curious as to how others deal with it.
Last week we had my niece from NY here for a visit and invariably when we have company the kids kinda go wacko. Boy Wonder was "walking the dog" which consisted of pulling an entire roll of Christmas ribbon through the house by one end, leaving the other end somewhere near the Equator. Needless to say there was ribbon all over the top floor of the casa and I was none too thrilled. I walk upstairs to see this and immediately my blood boileth over. Silly? Perhaps. Real? DEFINITELY. My niece just nicely and kindly says, "Oh Chasey it looks like we have a mess here. It's OK, let's clean it up." Meanwhile I am at the top of the stairs about to have a stroke. I was inquisitive as to how she could be so patient and so happenstance about the whole thing? How she could just sweetly pick up the ribbon and get to work cleaning it up without popping a vein in her forehead was beyond me. I stood there knowing that I was some sort of defective who came unequipped with such pleasant parenting poise. I confessed that she had me beat in the patience arena and was going to be a great mom, then continued to lament over my lackluster ability to stay calm in these "moments of crisis." And then suddenly seven little words came tumbling from her lips that made this whole thing make sense..."Because you deal with it EVERY DAY!" Ahhhh! Why this hadn't occurred to me before is a mystery. And this leads me to my next segment of discussion...
In the past 2 years I have noticed a stark spike in the whole "Grand Inquisition." I did assume that Girl Wonder would come equipped with interesting and thought-provoking questions but I had no clue how rapid-fire, incessant and mind-numbing they would be. I suppose if I wasn't blessed with the Trifecta this whole thing would be more bearable but the fact that the triple-whammy is upon us just makes my head spin. I think I am going to do an experiment today and see how many times they use the word "Mommy?" in question form. This is what the drinking games of yore were made of..."OK, every time the short one says 'mommy' you have to take a shot!"...oh WOW, sounds like something straight out of the "Casey Anthony Parenting Handbook for Idiots"...
The thing is that half the time the question isn't even really a question. Again, I realize she is trying to figure out this complexity called "Life" but it can still send me for a whirl, can't it? She will ask questions about things she knows the full answer to which leads me to wonder if she KNOWS she is irritating me, if she has received a recent, unseen blunt trauma to the head by the minier version and has forgotten the answer or if she is checking to see if the answer is still the same as it was 5 minutes ago.
I can say to her, "Wow sweetie, good job on that head stand!" and she'll reply, "WHAT'S good job?"...umm, did you really just ask that? <I don't orate these words but I think them.> "Good" and "Job"--you are asking me what this is? Coming from a girl who at the age of 3 told me that her brother kept trying to swipe her milk because hers was more "impressive" and upon inquiring further to discern if she really knew what the definition of "impressive" was got this phrase back--"Yeah, you know? More appealing!" The words "good" and "job" clearly cannot baffle her. And then I have to have an internal discussion with myself as to whether or not I am really going to justify this nonsense with a response, complete with counting "1,2,3..." in my head just to keep from losing it entirely. I sense she is just looking for reiteration which at this point in the game I am all too unwilling to dole out. This whole asking question after question after question is just exhausting, making me feel more like Alex Trebec than a mom. And if they were REAL questions I think I would be more apt. Not more capable--just more apt. And this is where I am haunted by the phrase of my youth, "Are you talking just to hear yourself talk?" and wondering if there might be some validity to that statement in this situation. All I know is that it makes me want to pull my hair out.
But then there are occassions that she is asking good, hard questions. Here, my 1st assumption is that the kid is lying awake at night looking for ways to make me look stoopid. There are questions that come out her mouth that I want to vocally and strenuously answer, "SERIOUSLY!?!?" but I know upon asking that the answer is: "YES! Seriously." These are the types of questions that made me wish I had pursued a masters (or PhD for that matter) and they are rich questions that deserve answers. I, unfortunately, am just unequipped to give them. The most obvious would have to be "How did I get in your tummy?" (how does one REALLY answer that?) followed by "Are pirates real?"--do you want the long or short answer for that one? Then there's the good ol' "How is chicken made?" which brings us into the oh so comfortable topic about eating animals and which ones are off limits (at least in this country) and my favorite brain cramper of all-time, "Where do cells go when they die?" I've gone 34 years without wondering that. Perhaps now you can see why I want to bellow, "SERIOUSLY???" from the top of my lungs. Granted all viable, questions--I just have no clue how to go about answering them in 4-year-old speak.
Somehow the boy factor has entered the equation as well. He has either caught on to the aforementioned irritation and has embarked on the same barrage of "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?" just to light my fire from another angle or he is just hitting the ground running and hoping to wear me out physically AND mentally. They are truly turning into the dynamic duo of inquisitional doom. He's only 2 so his questions have not yet met his sister's intellect but I do believe in a short time they will. With this joker I am foreseeing things like, "Why does this thing down here poke out every morning when I wake up?" along with, "Why doesn't this "cape" work when I jump off the top of the house?" as well as "Why does dog poop taste so much worse than human poop?" At the time of writing his favorite phrase in this arena is, "Mom I have a question to ask..." but when I ask him what he wants to ask he looks at me with a blank stare--I do believe this is his 2-year-old mind gearing up for some doozies. Or I will ask him a question and his answer is "Maybe, Of course." These are the types of things that insanity is made of! Just the other day we were talking about Titin the WonderDog and I was telling Boy Wonder that Titin could do tricks also to which he asked, "Does Titin go to gymnastics too?" Ummm, not quite buddy!
All this to say is I am heading into a realm of life where patience is paramount and I seem to be fresh out. I am brought to a deeper understanding about the conquests of parenthood and recognize that this is a job not only of strength, longevity and sticktoitiveness but clearly one of wits...and ignorance. I think if I can hone in and perfect just one of those skills I would be in good shape. So either I embark on a mission to become smarter or just figure out a way to ignore the inquisitions. The Magic 8 Ball says, "Outlook not so good." Looks like "Forever Mommy" is holding a WHOLE new meaning! Wish I could have foreseen the irony in the titling of my blog. ;)
Monday, August 1, 2011
Marking His Territory
I've toiled over what to title this excerpt of parenthood...there were so many viable options. My 1st thought was "Parental Retardation"--I think that is the most glaringly obvious title. A close 2nd was "Poool Party" and this was followed by "Gut-Check Sunday." After reading this feel free to insert the title you find most fitting.
Being that it has been hotter than Africa here as of late, the kids spend most of their afternoons frolicking in our backyard blow up pool. Since we live in a quiet, residential with 7' fences we generally just let our kids do their thing when it comes to backyard clothing and 9 times out of 10 they opt for the suits of birthdays. It is also noteworthy to mention that we are embarking on the infancy stages of potty training Boy Wonder. All this to say is, we should have seen it coming.
We weren't outside for 5 minutes and the Moose is already making whizzle on the side of the pool. My instinct is a sigh of relief as I figure at least he didn't do it IN the pool. We escort him to the outdoor potty that we have placed in the grass for such opportune teaching moments and coerce him to finish his business in the appropriate location. He insists he is done and jumps back in the water. Hubba and I continue our leisurely conversation. Ten minutes later the proverbial "Stool Pigeon" bellows the 3 words we never thought possible..."MOM, HE POOPED!" Hubba and I halted and stared at each other. He then asked, "There's poop in the pool?" and she snitches, "YA, THERE'S POOP!" I was half-waiting for the voice of Spaulding from Caddyshack to scream, "Doooodie! Doooodie!" but it never came. We both ran over to the side of the pool and watched in wonder. A submarine the size of the boy's forearm made its way amongst the waves and threatened to contaminate the occupants. Hubba looked over and said "I'm speechless. I don't even know what to do!" In addition to the "forearm" there were approximately 4 other portions of small intestine doing the backstroke. I quickly grabbed the skimmer and began to excavate, thoroughly gagging throughout. I just kept shaking my head and laughing, wondering how the hell I could be so ridiculous as to let this non-potty trained kid swim sans pants. I guess it's just that he has been in this pool naked no less than 100 times this summer and has never once so much as let out a grunt. Needless to say, the pool had to be deflated, drained and disinfected.
Whilst refilling the "temporary toilet" with water the kids hung out on the perimeter. Girl Wonder sat and bounced on the overly inflated basin, turned to me a knuckle and a half up the nostril and begged, "Mommy do you want to get your suit and come swimming with us?" Her request was followed by a swift insertion of the aforementioned, booger-laden finger into her cake hole. WHY must they do this!? I beg to know. I just get done fishing tot-turds out of the watering hole and you're shoving bats from the cave down your gullet. I'm sorry to say but your request to go swimming is less than well-received when accompanied with such antics. The Hubba scolded the act and explained that it was disgusting and impolite to ingest the nasal nectar. Meanwhile I am GAGGING...again!
No sooner had we resumed our conversation when the female 411 was throwing her brother under the bus yet again. As they waded in the ankle deep water she cries, "He's peeing again!" SERIOUSLY!? I don't know what's worse, the fact that the kid has relieved himself 3 times in 30 minutes or the fact that I wasn't smart enough to put a diaper on him after the 1st indiscretion. Needless to say, swim time was over.
The kids were evicted to the other side of the yard to extract some ripened vegetables from our garden which was followed by a quick trip to the kitchen for cleansing. Lord knows the dog has also marked his respective territory and it seems he and Boy Wonder do their "marking" in a similar manner. We just don't want to run the risk of ingesting dog urine. So we usher the kids up the deck and into the kitchen and about 30 seconds into the mission the town crier yells, "Mom, he did it again! He peed on the kitchen." Sure enough, I walk in to find the kid peeing all over the kitchen cabinets, rug and floor. AWESOME. Finally I get a clue and put a diaper on the miniature schnauzer and if I could have I would have smacked myself silly for allowing all of this "marking" to take place. Why on earth would I think that my simple request of, "Please stop peeing/pooping in non-designated areas." would be heeded? And again, why would I think that simply because he had relieved himself out the gates that he was "done?" Clearly there was lots more where that came from and lots of fluid reserves to keep us on our toes.
It was a day of revelation, reality and repulsion. Another chapter of "Humble" in the novel of life. Luckily I was in good enough spirits to laugh off a majority of the excretion. Today as I was changing him for his nap he looked up at me with sad eyes and confessed, "I pooped in the pool." to which I responded, "Yes, you did and how did that make you feel?" to which he stated, "Not very great." This was the perfect segue into the life lesson that everyone makes mistakes, life is not fool-proof and we are usually given a second chance to try things again. It felt good to be able to have that conversation with him. He smiled largely and gave me a tight hug. Guess I should take a piece of my own advice and lighten up on myself as without this written record of the incident it would all be forgotten 5 years from now as is true of most of our mistakes. My take home message here is, even if you are having a moment of "Parental Retardation" there is still a good chance that you'll get a re-do with the same exact predicament and an even better chance that you'll be the only one holding on to the memory of the mistake. I'm just trying to live each day better than the last. I'm not always successful but this is my goal. Even if I don't achieve this goal, I know there are little eyes watching me try and hopefully seeing that even if we can't take back our mistakes we can make every last effort to do it better next time!
Here's to always trying to do it better!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Butterfly Wings
Have you ever seen those videos on the news of parents going ape shit at their kid's ball game and brawling with another family over the scoreboard--or Little Joey's performance? I used to think that these were rare, isolated incidents that one just doesn't see in real life. After the miniature gymnastics class this morning I am thinking I may actually be front row to one of these competitive chaotic clashes before I know it.
I guess I just never knew that parents were really this competitive. Now let me remind you that I am talking about TWO year olds here. The parent of said tots must accompany the child for the class as trying to wrangle the attention of these midgets without another set of hands would be physically and emotionally impossible. Now the way I see it, we are at this class to get our little ones to start learning to follow direction, meet other kids, learn the basics of gymnastics and expel a little 2-year-old energy. For the most part, all other parents agree with me. They are mellow and are also there to get their kid involved in some tumble fun.
But then there are the fanatics. In the 4 weeks we have been attending the same few are insistent every class as they were upon 1st meeting. These are my three "favorite" comments of the day:
While traveling from one gym station to the next the teacher asks the kids to "flap their wings" making "Follow the Leader" not so painful and a little more fun. As one of the Olympic Hopefuls whirly bird's out of control the mom looks at her and huffs, "Those are the most hideous butterfly wings I have ever seen!" Now, I've heard of negative reinforcement but this was ridiculous. Then one mom totally lost her cool when her daughter wasn't performing as she was directing, picked her up and gave her a little shake saying, "WHAT is wrong with you today?!? Why aren't you listening?!?" She then put her down, glared at the teacher and rolled her eyes as if to say "Sorry for bringing such a disgrace to your gym." The child then proceeded to cry and look about as worthless as her mom had just made her feel.
As we went about our 45 minute shebang, little Susie lost her attention yet again. She was off zigging when she, according to her mother, should have been zagging. Her mom took the little girl's face in her hands and repetitively scolded "Focus! Focus!" which brought me to wonder, if they are acting like this in public how the hell do they treat these poor kids at home? Perhaps it's just me and I am just not competitive enough but these actions seemed a little rash, in my opinion. We are talking about 2-year-olds with the attention span of a gnat. Can you really expect them to fall in line at the immediate moment of request and adhere to the standard of perfection? And if they don't, is public humiliation really the route to take to remedy the situation? I'm just there hoping my boy has a good time and sweats off his breakfast feast. I'm not expecting this class to produce a gymnastics champion and don't feel that applying that kind of pressure at this young of an age is appropriate. I certainly can't imagine diminishing the self-worth of a little one by telling them that their form is crap and their fricken butterfly wings are hideous. But who knows, maybe if we talk to Mary Lou Retton she would say that her folks were on her heels from the time she was walking, expecting perfection and not accepting anything but. I guess I'm just not one of those parents and will perhaps subsequently not be watching my boy on the high bar in the Olympics. I suppose if my son hits adulthood with his self-esteem intact that will be a preferred substitute!
After the numerous exhibitions of parental discipline in this tiny tot class I DO think I will be witness to my 1st mid-competition brawl without shock or surprise. I will be prepared, as I have seen from toddler hood that some folks mean BUSINESS. Little Joey is GOING to be a star even if I have to berate him/her into it! And don't you DARE speak ill of him or I'll turn the berating to you! I now see how these things get started. Seems they are "started" before the game even begins. Another fine lesson in the reality of parenthood and life. It's not always how you think it should be but it IS just the same. Learning life lessons from other's misbehavior is so much "cheaper" than making the mistake yourself, no?
I guess I just never knew that parents were really this competitive. Now let me remind you that I am talking about TWO year olds here. The parent of said tots must accompany the child for the class as trying to wrangle the attention of these midgets without another set of hands would be physically and emotionally impossible. Now the way I see it, we are at this class to get our little ones to start learning to follow direction, meet other kids, learn the basics of gymnastics and expel a little 2-year-old energy. For the most part, all other parents agree with me. They are mellow and are also there to get their kid involved in some tumble fun.
But then there are the fanatics. In the 4 weeks we have been attending the same few are insistent every class as they were upon 1st meeting. These are my three "favorite" comments of the day:
While traveling from one gym station to the next the teacher asks the kids to "flap their wings" making "Follow the Leader" not so painful and a little more fun. As one of the Olympic Hopefuls whirly bird's out of control the mom looks at her and huffs, "Those are the most hideous butterfly wings I have ever seen!" Now, I've heard of negative reinforcement but this was ridiculous. Then one mom totally lost her cool when her daughter wasn't performing as she was directing, picked her up and gave her a little shake saying, "WHAT is wrong with you today?!? Why aren't you listening?!?" She then put her down, glared at the teacher and rolled her eyes as if to say "Sorry for bringing such a disgrace to your gym." The child then proceeded to cry and look about as worthless as her mom had just made her feel.
As we went about our 45 minute shebang, little Susie lost her attention yet again. She was off zigging when she, according to her mother, should have been zagging. Her mom took the little girl's face in her hands and repetitively scolded "Focus! Focus!" which brought me to wonder, if they are acting like this in public how the hell do they treat these poor kids at home? Perhaps it's just me and I am just not competitive enough but these actions seemed a little rash, in my opinion. We are talking about 2-year-olds with the attention span of a gnat. Can you really expect them to fall in line at the immediate moment of request and adhere to the standard of perfection? And if they don't, is public humiliation really the route to take to remedy the situation? I'm just there hoping my boy has a good time and sweats off his breakfast feast. I'm not expecting this class to produce a gymnastics champion and don't feel that applying that kind of pressure at this young of an age is appropriate. I certainly can't imagine diminishing the self-worth of a little one by telling them that their form is crap and their fricken butterfly wings are hideous. But who knows, maybe if we talk to Mary Lou Retton she would say that her folks were on her heels from the time she was walking, expecting perfection and not accepting anything but. I guess I'm just not one of those parents and will perhaps subsequently not be watching my boy on the high bar in the Olympics. I suppose if my son hits adulthood with his self-esteem intact that will be a preferred substitute!
After the numerous exhibitions of parental discipline in this tiny tot class I DO think I will be witness to my 1st mid-competition brawl without shock or surprise. I will be prepared, as I have seen from toddler hood that some folks mean BUSINESS. Little Joey is GOING to be a star even if I have to berate him/her into it! And don't you DARE speak ill of him or I'll turn the berating to you! I now see how these things get started. Seems they are "started" before the game even begins. Another fine lesson in the reality of parenthood and life. It's not always how you think it should be but it IS just the same. Learning life lessons from other's misbehavior is so much "cheaper" than making the mistake yourself, no?
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Deep Thoughts...
Have you ever looked at your child, or any child for that matter, and knew for a fact they are just hearing a different tune between their ears? I get that feeling about the fe-mini from time to time. Maybe it's because she busts out in dance at inopportune moments when there is clearly no music playing or perhaps it's just the little things she says. Lately she has been pulling out some whoppers...
We were going through a spell of what I like to call "Senorita Sassy-Pants" a few weeks ago. These are times when there is just no getting through to her, every situation is a virtual catastrophe complete with an outrageous temper tantrum and she invariably gets some time to think about it in her room. I found that I was having to talk with the girl almost hourly because of her indiscretions and lippy mouth. She was being mean to her brother and not sharing very well so when dad came home we had a chat. Hubba was in the living room watching as I sat her down at the kitchen table and had a serious discussion about how she had been acting during the course of the day. I was also lining out how I expected her actions and words to change in order to keep things peaceful and without consequence. I went on in my wordy ways and explained precisely how I was hoping she would act to which she replied, “But mommy, what if that’s not how I roll?” I had to do a double take--did she just say "That's not how I ROLL!?" Hubba in the other room is turning purple because he is laughing so hard which makes me know that my ears weren't deceiving me. Every ounce of my being is focused on not laughing and this girl didn't so much as crack a smile. She wasn't trying to be "cute" or funny. She was just keeping it "real!" So then the mental Rolodex starts flipping through pages trying to figure out where she would ingest such a phrase. At last check Dora the Explorer wasn't breaking it down to her peeps with such words. Came up negative with Backyardigans and Elmo as well. I just find it super interesting that she hears f-bombs going off right and left, exploding with great wonder and twinkle and never tries that one on for size but has the capacity to hear "that's not how I roll" and runs like the wind with that one. I suppose I should be grateful instead of inquisitive and just leave it at that.
Then we were spending some kitchen time together last week; I was doing dishes and she was eating, of course. As she watched me complete my task, I could feel her keenly watching my every move. I could feel I was being microscopically studied but this is fairly commonplace for her. Finally after a few moments of silence, said silence is broken with her proclamation of, "Mom? I love you...even though you aren't perfect!" Wow! Um, thank you, I guess. Such knowledge at such a tender age. I wanted to ask, "What makes you think I am not perfect?" but a bigger part of me didn't really want to know what she truly thought. In a way I guess I should be grateful for this as well. Now I can really just "be me" without fear of letting the perfection cat out of the bag so to speak. I no longer have a facade to live up to. Whew! What a relief. A breath of fresh air, if you will! Oh and speaking of breath, earlier that day she had notified me that "whistling is a great way to make music without wasting valuable energy!" Again, astute observations of a 4 year old.
And my final tid bit of late was during a car ride to sign her and Boy Wonder up for kiddie gymnastics class. We were driving with the windows open, sun shining in, slight breeze--amazing Colorado weather. She and the boy were in the back seat soaking up the wonderment and taking in the views. Suddenly the girl chimes in with this statement: "Mommy, the Earth is the PERFECT place to live!" I gave it some thought and agreed that in all of her planetary knowledge she was making a good point--the Earth is pretty perfect. I also gave reverence to the fact that she was noting that "life" was perfect and she was a pretty happy human. Now this is not entirely due to the living situation that her dad and I have provided but in part it is. I guess I was just happy that she was happy. So I took this as a compliment--hey, I take them where I can get them especially considering the harsh reality of the statement in the paragraph above! No sooner had she finished this thought, when she jumped into an opposing mind set. She toiled, "But mommy, I don't know what I want to do or what I want to be!" Is this girl really already consuming her mind with thoughts of occupation and life's purpose? I couldn't believe this to be so. I inquired, "Do you mean you don't know what you are going to do for a job when you grow up?" to which she affirmed. Wow. A little early for this talk but I'll run with it. I simply assured her that it was OK that she didn't know what she wanted to be and that she had plenty of time and opportunity to try all kinds of different things and see what she liked best and what she was best at doing. I then thought further and admitted out loud "Honey, I'm not even sure what I'M going to be and I am 34 years old!" She thought about that for a quick minute, let the words settle into her bones and suddenly, as though sunshine was coming directly from her mouth and all of the hope, aspiration, and faith in the universe were bursting from her soul said "You're gonna be SOMETHING!" I could literally HEAR the smile, confidence, marvel and optimism spewing from her body with the firm and undeniable belief that her mom was "gonna be something!"
It was then that I realized, even though she doesn't believe me to be perfect she believes me to be something. That something is not small or inconsequential. That something is REAL, it's tangible and it is powerful. The hope that our children have for us is as strong as the hope they have for themselves. As much as they want to have purpose and fulfillment in their lives they want us to have the same. Our purpose and effort in life accentuates their meaning, gives purpose to their existence. So while we do what we do every day for our kids I believe it goes deeper than that. When we strive for excellence and give the best that we have to give, they see this. They are able to acknowledge that what they are seeing is not perfection but true and genuine perseverance. So while I was agonizing a few blogs back ("Who is THAT?") at the fact that my life as I knew it (pre-kids) was over when I look more closely I realize that it is only just the beginning! What a revelation...and what a relief!
Happy Tuesday! Hope it is filled with genuine perseverance!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Bio-Food Breakdown
A couple of months ago I wrote about some recent discoveries involving my food sensitivities and I just wanted to write a bit again about my experience with this and how things have progressed.
I woke up exactly 30 days after starting this whole journey and literally felt like a new person. 30 days honestly felt more like a year! I guess I didn't anticipate things being that hard and feeling THAT bad. But again, I guess it just goes to show how bad my eating and digestion had gotten over the past 34 years! It felt like a fog has been lifted and like I had been given a new ability to process and I can honestly say that things have continued to get better and better as the weeks have gone on.
I never knew food could have such a big impact but in saying this I feel naive and stupid because why wouldn't food have this large of an impact? Why wouldn't it be the single most important factor in my health? As I have read many times over, you don't put crap fuel in a Ferrari. Now, please don't think that I am comparing my body to the beauty of a Ferrari but I AM comparing it to the importance. I think it would cost about as much to fix one of my "engine parts" as it would to fix a Ferrari so the comparison is relational. I guess a more accurate analogy would be, "You wouldn't put unleaded fuel in a diesel engine." My point is I am just surprised that more doctors aren't emphasizing this in their health protocols. No, it's not easy to pay attention to what you eat--especially after YEARS of throwing garbage down the gullet...not to mention booze, pills and all the other crap that we ingest unwittingly--but even if it's not easy it is essential. I would think convincing a patient to embark on a food overhaul would/should be a lot easier than convincing them to undergo gastric bypass. But as it has been pointed out to me, doctors aren't here to keep us in tip-top, they are just making sure we don't die. The rest is really up to us. And PLEASE tell me where it is written that life is supposed to be easy! I beg to know who got this bright idea and passed it along to the masses. I surely know I was never told this but somebody somewhere was and the word spread like wildfire. I guess that since I have now seen at my own hand that things can change, be different, and be leap years better all with the slightest bit of planning, restraint, will power and effort it makes me wonder why this "way" is not being promoted and urged by more health care professionals regardless of its lack of ease. So that is my soap box on that matter.
All this to say is that at the month marker of changed habits, it stopped being hard. I am over the devastation and grief of losing the foods I once loved and have moved into acceptance and love of the new. The most interesting part of this whole thing is that once I eliminated all of the offending foods, reset my system and evicted the criminals within I have now established a new response to disagreeable digestives. I have tried so many new things and quickly know if I have crossed something that my body does not operate on. The reaction was one that truly surprised me, however. On more than one occasion I have made and consumed specific foods which were clearly not meant to be in my bloodstream. On each occasion my body responded as though it was drunk. It was the WEIRDEST thing. I would get super tired and pass out. Then I would wake up a few hours later feeling dizzy, the room spinning. Fully equipped with headache, dry mouth, diarrhea and nausea...seriously as though I had polished off a fifth of whiskey! One night I woke to go to the bathroom and actually ran face-first into the wall. I kid you not, I don't think I could have passed a field sobriety test and I did not have so much as a sip of any alcohol. This illustrated to me that just because certain foods might be considered "healthy" or "good" it doesn't mean that this applies to everyone. My take home message here is that each of us has our own set of foods that our bodies operate best on--our own personal "Bio-Foods." In my case the food I was eating was causing intestinal bleeding! I recognized the blood stoppage about 2 weeks into my detox. I was just floored that these foods I was ingesting were doing that much harm.
My stomach hasn't been the only thing to improve. I've noticed that my skin is clearer (that pesky spot of psoriasis which I have had for as long as I can remember is GONE!) my energy has sky rocketed and my mood in general has just flipped. It honestly feels like someone else is now occupying my body and mind. I had gotten so accustomed to feeling like crap that this "new me" feels like a stranger in a strange land. Before this overhaul I would say that I was depressive. At the very least HIGHLY sensitive and excessively moody--perpetual PMS. I now feel like I am even-keel, way more easy going and so much kinder! Could this be the key to happy living? Throw out the Prozac and instill a bio-diet?
This whole thing has been so intriguing for me that just for shits and giggles (no pun intended) I decided to try taking my daughter off wheat too (wheat was my biggest allergen.) A friend of mine suggested that this hideousness is hereditary and I figured with my gal's digestive dilemmas that we have been struggling with for the past 2 years it was worth a shot. After being off the stuff she is now a "Regular Rita"...What was once an "every-3-day-endeavor" is now as the good Lord intended--on the DAILY! She no longer cries, bleeds, strains or argues about going to the bathroom. She just goes and shuts up about it. I have to say that I was both shocked and relieved. The simple removal of one food item brought the tension and worry regarding her poop schedule to a screeching halt! What once was a daily predicament of rolling around on her bed, crying, whining, "Mommy I don't want to go potty. It huuuurts!" is now an in-and-out mission with no tears, tummy massages or struggle. What used to be a literal pain in the ass is no longer so. I ask every time, "Did it hurt?" to which she peeps, "No mommy, not at all! It felt great!" and then, of course I get the full-on break down of the entire scenario. She'll say "Look! Just 3 dollops and none of them hurt." And there I go with "too much information..."
I suppose all of this may borderline on too much information. But my thought is that I am probably not the only one out there who has felt like physical crap and has issues with digestion. I just never knew there was another alternative. I just kind of figured I was doomed to feel like crap when eating forever. It never occurred to me that I could be eating the wrong things. Exhaustion? Isn't EVERY mother of 2 midgety midgets exhausted? Shockingly the answer to that is "No." Now I am actually capable of chasing Chase! I don't wake up wanting to go back to sleep anymore. I don't hit that wall again at 4pm and want to turn in for the night. I sleep like a normal person and have the energy of a normal person. Who knew a mom was allowed to have energy? :)
To be fair, I won't blame ALL of my problems on the food I was eating. They also found that I had some fairly significant, not-so-lovely bacteria in my gut which has since been remedied with simple supplements. I suppose I can thank essential vitamin balance for my transformation as well. Either way, my life has, once again, changed. I am now eating to live, instead of living to eat--what a difference. Food is fuel, not fixation. And even though change is strange it's better than never knowing what is on the other side. Here's to discovery, courage to change and willingness of abandonment. Only when we abandon everything we fear are we free to become the person we were intended to be!
For more information about the food sensitivity test please visit: http://www.nowleap.com/
For more information about the supplements/vitamins please visit: http://us.cpoliquin.com/?Click=1076
I woke up exactly 30 days after starting this whole journey and literally felt like a new person. 30 days honestly felt more like a year! I guess I didn't anticipate things being that hard and feeling THAT bad. But again, I guess it just goes to show how bad my eating and digestion had gotten over the past 34 years! It felt like a fog has been lifted and like I had been given a new ability to process and I can honestly say that things have continued to get better and better as the weeks have gone on.
I never knew food could have such a big impact but in saying this I feel naive and stupid because why wouldn't food have this large of an impact? Why wouldn't it be the single most important factor in my health? As I have read many times over, you don't put crap fuel in a Ferrari. Now, please don't think that I am comparing my body to the beauty of a Ferrari but I AM comparing it to the importance. I think it would cost about as much to fix one of my "engine parts" as it would to fix a Ferrari so the comparison is relational. I guess a more accurate analogy would be, "You wouldn't put unleaded fuel in a diesel engine." My point is I am just surprised that more doctors aren't emphasizing this in their health protocols. No, it's not easy to pay attention to what you eat--especially after YEARS of throwing garbage down the gullet...not to mention booze, pills and all the other crap that we ingest unwittingly--but even if it's not easy it is essential. I would think convincing a patient to embark on a food overhaul would/should be a lot easier than convincing them to undergo gastric bypass. But as it has been pointed out to me, doctors aren't here to keep us in tip-top, they are just making sure we don't die. The rest is really up to us. And PLEASE tell me where it is written that life is supposed to be easy! I beg to know who got this bright idea and passed it along to the masses. I surely know I was never told this but somebody somewhere was and the word spread like wildfire. I guess that since I have now seen at my own hand that things can change, be different, and be leap years better all with the slightest bit of planning, restraint, will power and effort it makes me wonder why this "way" is not being promoted and urged by more health care professionals regardless of its lack of ease. So that is my soap box on that matter.
All this to say is that at the month marker of changed habits, it stopped being hard. I am over the devastation and grief of losing the foods I once loved and have moved into acceptance and love of the new. The most interesting part of this whole thing is that once I eliminated all of the offending foods, reset my system and evicted the criminals within I have now established a new response to disagreeable digestives. I have tried so many new things and quickly know if I have crossed something that my body does not operate on. The reaction was one that truly surprised me, however. On more than one occasion I have made and consumed specific foods which were clearly not meant to be in my bloodstream. On each occasion my body responded as though it was drunk. It was the WEIRDEST thing. I would get super tired and pass out. Then I would wake up a few hours later feeling dizzy, the room spinning. Fully equipped with headache, dry mouth, diarrhea and nausea...seriously as though I had polished off a fifth of whiskey! One night I woke to go to the bathroom and actually ran face-first into the wall. I kid you not, I don't think I could have passed a field sobriety test and I did not have so much as a sip of any alcohol. This illustrated to me that just because certain foods might be considered "healthy" or "good" it doesn't mean that this applies to everyone. My take home message here is that each of us has our own set of foods that our bodies operate best on--our own personal "Bio-Foods." In my case the food I was eating was causing intestinal bleeding! I recognized the blood stoppage about 2 weeks into my detox. I was just floored that these foods I was ingesting were doing that much harm.
My stomach hasn't been the only thing to improve. I've noticed that my skin is clearer (that pesky spot of psoriasis which I have had for as long as I can remember is GONE!) my energy has sky rocketed and my mood in general has just flipped. It honestly feels like someone else is now occupying my body and mind. I had gotten so accustomed to feeling like crap that this "new me" feels like a stranger in a strange land. Before this overhaul I would say that I was depressive. At the very least HIGHLY sensitive and excessively moody--perpetual PMS. I now feel like I am even-keel, way more easy going and so much kinder! Could this be the key to happy living? Throw out the Prozac and instill a bio-diet?
This whole thing has been so intriguing for me that just for shits and giggles (no pun intended) I decided to try taking my daughter off wheat too (wheat was my biggest allergen.) A friend of mine suggested that this hideousness is hereditary and I figured with my gal's digestive dilemmas that we have been struggling with for the past 2 years it was worth a shot. After being off the stuff she is now a "Regular Rita"...What was once an "every-3-day-endeavor" is now as the good Lord intended--on the DAILY! She no longer cries, bleeds, strains or argues about going to the bathroom. She just goes and shuts up about it. I have to say that I was both shocked and relieved. The simple removal of one food item brought the tension and worry regarding her poop schedule to a screeching halt! What once was a daily predicament of rolling around on her bed, crying, whining, "Mommy I don't want to go potty. It huuuurts!" is now an in-and-out mission with no tears, tummy massages or struggle. What used to be a literal pain in the ass is no longer so. I ask every time, "Did it hurt?" to which she peeps, "No mommy, not at all! It felt great!" and then, of course I get the full-on break down of the entire scenario. She'll say "Look! Just 3 dollops and none of them hurt." And there I go with "too much information..."
I suppose all of this may borderline on too much information. But my thought is that I am probably not the only one out there who has felt like physical crap and has issues with digestion. I just never knew there was another alternative. I just kind of figured I was doomed to feel like crap when eating forever. It never occurred to me that I could be eating the wrong things. Exhaustion? Isn't EVERY mother of 2 midgety midgets exhausted? Shockingly the answer to that is "No." Now I am actually capable of chasing Chase! I don't wake up wanting to go back to sleep anymore. I don't hit that wall again at 4pm and want to turn in for the night. I sleep like a normal person and have the energy of a normal person. Who knew a mom was allowed to have energy? :)
To be fair, I won't blame ALL of my problems on the food I was eating. They also found that I had some fairly significant, not-so-lovely bacteria in my gut which has since been remedied with simple supplements. I suppose I can thank essential vitamin balance for my transformation as well. Either way, my life has, once again, changed. I am now eating to live, instead of living to eat--what a difference. Food is fuel, not fixation. And even though change is strange it's better than never knowing what is on the other side. Here's to discovery, courage to change and willingness of abandonment. Only when we abandon everything we fear are we free to become the person we were intended to be!
For more information about the food sensitivity test please visit: http://www.nowleap.com/
For more information about the supplements/vitamins please visit: http://us.cpoliquin.com/?Click=1076
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Public Intoxication
Have you ever had one of those situations that was so embarrassing and horrific that you were CERTAIN it had to be a dream and that there was no way this was going down in real life? So caught off guard and taken aback by the production that you have no doubt, at any moment you will wake up and go "Wow! That was weird." but knowing full well this IS actually happening and there will be no awakening? This was my yesterday.
I was so excited to have the opportunity to meet my beautiful niece for a bite and some adult conversation. Boy Wonder and I dropped the fe-mini off at school and we hooked up with her after Pilates class and a quick trip to the store. Everything seemed within sorts, in retrospect, there was no reason to believe anything would go awry.
My niece decided she wanted a bite from a local Boulder eatery (which will remain unnamed for the sake of anonymity and any further embarrassment) so we took a leisurely walk inside and luckily were about the only people in the place. Out of nowhere my boy became very irritated and whiny. He put his arms up and asked to be held which he NEVER does. That should have been my first clue that something was off. So I picked him up and when he got face-level his whining increased. My niece was finishing up her order and stepped aside from the line. Then the boy cried to me, "My teeef hurt!" and arched his back, drew up his legs, threw his head backward and started really crying. Being that this boy rarely cries from pain my brain was processing, trying to figure out what was wrong all the while the stoned cashier was looking on as if to say "Are you guys going to order something or what?"
Two seconds into the mental processing, the crying halted and was replaced by a fully opened mouth of flowing stomach lava that was evicted ALL over everything in a 3 foot radius--a chocolate milk extravaganza. I can still see the whole thing in my mind's eye--in slow motion. My hair, as luck would have it, was for once NOT up in a pony tail and was blown backward with sheer force of stomach contents. I, again, think of Lard Ass from Stand By Me shooting projectile excretions onto every object in range. Once it registered that this boy was, in fact, embarking on a Barf-o-Rama my horrendous & poorly tuned maternal instinct to put him down and let him defile the floor kicked in. As I write this I cover my face in embarrassment that this was my gut. I guess in that split second I figured that it was better the floor than my entire person. The floor was going to have to be cleaned up regardless. After I put him down I reached for a fountain drink cup on the counter top and put it under his chin but of course, by that point he was done. All that was left was the wake of disaster and one very sad toddler. The cashier kind of "huffed us" as though to say "Are you serious right now!" He seemed more irritated than anything else. And I felt the blood rush to my face and felt like I was going to cry of humiliation. I assessed the damage and noticed he had barfed out an entire section of snack chips that sat on the rack at the register. Awesome! My boy was standing in the middle of this puddle of doom looking like he had just polished off a fifth of Jack Daniels. Poor guy looked totally glazed over and out of it. He just looked drunk. How do you even START to clean up something like this? It was a literal hazardous waste zone. They passed some paper napkins over the counter and my niece and I got to work pushing and pooling the mess on the floor. We tried to wipe him down but he was just covered. My niece removed his shirt as I pushed puke on the floor, and all she could say was "Do you think we could get a mop out here!?" I was too horrified to speak any directives. I just kept saying "I am soo sorry! I am soo sorry!"
Finally the guy with the mop rounded the corner. I have never been so happy to see anyone in all of my life. PLEASE just erase this mess from the floor and remove any evidence of its occurrence from the premises. Times like these I wish there was a mind eraser to eradicate such from my memory. I continued to clean the floor and the guys behind the counter continued to look on with apathy mixed with irritation. The dude with the mop finally said, "I'm going to have to ask you to pick up the napkins." I almost said "No shit!" but didn't want to push my luck and piss him off...clearly I was not long on luck this day.
As he mopped they were nice enough to issue us a garbage bag for our clothes. Thank GOD I wore layers and could at least remove the larger, outer portion of puked on paraphernalia. This would be a much different blog had I been forced to walk the windy streets of Boulder in puke pants and a sports bra. Another fortuitous mention is the fact that I miraculously had a spare set of clothes in the diaper bag for the boy. Poor guy had been through enough. Making him chill in vomit attire just seemed too much to ask. The only misfortune of the clothing crisis was that the outfit belonged to his sister. I was desperate. He was going to wear these clothes and that was the end of the story. Running around Boulder trying to find an acceptable outfit for a 2 year old boy that doesn't cost $300 seemed like a stretch at that point so I was down to cross-gender my son for the sake of cleanliness and hygiene. At this point he really seemed no worse for the wear. His cheeks had regained color and he didn't mind dressing in drag one bit. My beautiful, God-send of a niece had hosed him off in the bathroom sink, washed his shoes, hands, face--being every ounce of mother that I was not--while I was washing my hair in the opposing sink as well as my hands and face, removing my clothes and any trying to wash off any trace spew from my apparel. There's just something about regurgitated, previously digested milk that emits a smell unlike any other. I finally looked at my niece and said "Would you mind if we went back to your house and showered?" There was just no getting away from the stench short of a shower and a washing machine. Interestingly the only thing that didn't stink were his shoes! Hats off to my girl Suzanne, a diligent employee of Vans footwear, who sent Chase some Christmas Kicks this year. They were COVERED in splatter and cleaned up perfectly. My niece who has the nose of a bloodhound bravely raised them up and declared "I can't smell a thing! Amazing!" I am still in awe at how she handled the whole situation as though this was her child. Completely unphased by all accounts and was a sheer genius in keeping me calm. I am forever indebted as I don't know how I would have fared without her. As she put it, "You would have been crying your eyes out." True story! Instead I was apologizing profusely and trying to push aside the humiliation. At the end of the day, "Shit happens. Buy toilet paper!"
This gives new definition to the phrase "Walk of Shame." I have done this walk before but never under these pretenses. We surfaced from the bathroom and I walked back to the register, hair dripping wet, to pay for the "damages." The guy gave me the look like "NOW what do you want?" I sheepishly apologized yet again and stated that I wanted to pay for the cup and the chips that my kid rendered unsellable. His face looked kind of surprised and he said "We'll get a tally for you. One minute." Soo, 3 minutes and $20 later he sweetly says, "Would you like your receipt?" All I could do was laugh! Did you seriously just ask me if I want black and white proof of this situation to take home with me? I replied "Yes, I will frame it and hang it in his bedroom." Finally he was laughing. He then went into a dissertation about how he didn't believe that this was a "sick" vomit but instead an "I ate too much" vomit. I almost inquired as to where he received his medical training but again, didn't want to stir the hornets nest. I just confessed to him that he had never done such a thing, wasn't sick this morning, caught me completely off guard and flatfooted. He seemed relieved. He then chimes in "Ya know, we can't sell those chips for obvious reasons but you can certainly take them home with you." Again, I laughed. To me this sounded absurd! If you can't sell them why on earth would I want to consume them? That is just disgusting! I imagined the Hubba's reaction to a box full of "Chuck Chips." And even after hosing them off I would be constantly reminded of the situation--I just didn't want to go there. I told him I'd pass. He insisted "They are vacuum sealed so really they should be fine to eat. We just can't sell them." Again I took the hall pass. Upon going out to tell my girl about the ludicrous proposition I jokingly asked: "You wouldn't eat them would you?" She mulled it over for a second and then piped up "Sure. I don't see why not. It'd be a shame to just throw them away." I pictured us out on the streets trying to peddle our puke chips to the bums and getting turned down on basic merit. I was actually relieved that she agreed to take them as I did feel bad being so wasteful but truly couldn't come to a place of peace in serving previously spewed upon snacks.
As we showered off at my niece's house I could hear her in the kitchen diligently disinfecting the packages of chips and I had to laugh. Not in a million years did I foresee the outcome of this day. I learned many valuable lessons about my child, myself and my family. "In it for the long haul" came to mind. We all survived the situation without spontaneous combustion and I combated my biggest hurdle of pre-motherhood angst. The thing that worried me most before having kids was that if one of them puked I would run for the hills. Puking is my Kryptonite. Always has been. How on earth could I tell a kid "I love you, but not enough to stand by and watch you puke. That's where I draw my line." I begrudgingly admit that I wasn't the Super Mom I was hoping to be in the situation as I didn't hurl myself in front of the "bullet" and take one for the team but I also didn't throw him across the room so I am going to have to be happy with little victories. Even though I will never be setting foot in this eatery again, I left with the knowledge that it could have been MUCH worse and I took the nugget that when my kid says his "teef hurt" I best be heading for a trash can!
Another adventure in the life and times of a Mommie!
I was so excited to have the opportunity to meet my beautiful niece for a bite and some adult conversation. Boy Wonder and I dropped the fe-mini off at school and we hooked up with her after Pilates class and a quick trip to the store. Everything seemed within sorts, in retrospect, there was no reason to believe anything would go awry.
My niece decided she wanted a bite from a local Boulder eatery (which will remain unnamed for the sake of anonymity and any further embarrassment) so we took a leisurely walk inside and luckily were about the only people in the place. Out of nowhere my boy became very irritated and whiny. He put his arms up and asked to be held which he NEVER does. That should have been my first clue that something was off. So I picked him up and when he got face-level his whining increased. My niece was finishing up her order and stepped aside from the line. Then the boy cried to me, "My teeef hurt!" and arched his back, drew up his legs, threw his head backward and started really crying. Being that this boy rarely cries from pain my brain was processing, trying to figure out what was wrong all the while the stoned cashier was looking on as if to say "Are you guys going to order something or what?"
Two seconds into the mental processing, the crying halted and was replaced by a fully opened mouth of flowing stomach lava that was evicted ALL over everything in a 3 foot radius--a chocolate milk extravaganza. I can still see the whole thing in my mind's eye--in slow motion. My hair, as luck would have it, was for once NOT up in a pony tail and was blown backward with sheer force of stomach contents. I, again, think of Lard Ass from Stand By Me shooting projectile excretions onto every object in range. Once it registered that this boy was, in fact, embarking on a Barf-o-Rama my horrendous & poorly tuned maternal instinct to put him down and let him defile the floor kicked in. As I write this I cover my face in embarrassment that this was my gut. I guess in that split second I figured that it was better the floor than my entire person. The floor was going to have to be cleaned up regardless. After I put him down I reached for a fountain drink cup on the counter top and put it under his chin but of course, by that point he was done. All that was left was the wake of disaster and one very sad toddler. The cashier kind of "huffed us" as though to say "Are you serious right now!" He seemed more irritated than anything else. And I felt the blood rush to my face and felt like I was going to cry of humiliation. I assessed the damage and noticed he had barfed out an entire section of snack chips that sat on the rack at the register. Awesome! My boy was standing in the middle of this puddle of doom looking like he had just polished off a fifth of Jack Daniels. Poor guy looked totally glazed over and out of it. He just looked drunk. How do you even START to clean up something like this? It was a literal hazardous waste zone. They passed some paper napkins over the counter and my niece and I got to work pushing and pooling the mess on the floor. We tried to wipe him down but he was just covered. My niece removed his shirt as I pushed puke on the floor, and all she could say was "Do you think we could get a mop out here!?" I was too horrified to speak any directives. I just kept saying "I am soo sorry! I am soo sorry!"
Finally the guy with the mop rounded the corner. I have never been so happy to see anyone in all of my life. PLEASE just erase this mess from the floor and remove any evidence of its occurrence from the premises. Times like these I wish there was a mind eraser to eradicate such from my memory. I continued to clean the floor and the guys behind the counter continued to look on with apathy mixed with irritation. The dude with the mop finally said, "I'm going to have to ask you to pick up the napkins." I almost said "No shit!" but didn't want to push my luck and piss him off...clearly I was not long on luck this day.
As he mopped they were nice enough to issue us a garbage bag for our clothes. Thank GOD I wore layers and could at least remove the larger, outer portion of puked on paraphernalia. This would be a much different blog had I been forced to walk the windy streets of Boulder in puke pants and a sports bra. Another fortuitous mention is the fact that I miraculously had a spare set of clothes in the diaper bag for the boy. Poor guy had been through enough. Making him chill in vomit attire just seemed too much to ask. The only misfortune of the clothing crisis was that the outfit belonged to his sister. I was desperate. He was going to wear these clothes and that was the end of the story. Running around Boulder trying to find an acceptable outfit for a 2 year old boy that doesn't cost $300 seemed like a stretch at that point so I was down to cross-gender my son for the sake of cleanliness and hygiene. At this point he really seemed no worse for the wear. His cheeks had regained color and he didn't mind dressing in drag one bit. My beautiful, God-send of a niece had hosed him off in the bathroom sink, washed his shoes, hands, face--being every ounce of mother that I was not--while I was washing my hair in the opposing sink as well as my hands and face, removing my clothes and any trying to wash off any trace spew from my apparel. There's just something about regurgitated, previously digested milk that emits a smell unlike any other. I finally looked at my niece and said "Would you mind if we went back to your house and showered?" There was just no getting away from the stench short of a shower and a washing machine. Interestingly the only thing that didn't stink were his shoes! Hats off to my girl Suzanne, a diligent employee of Vans footwear, who sent Chase some Christmas Kicks this year. They were COVERED in splatter and cleaned up perfectly. My niece who has the nose of a bloodhound bravely raised them up and declared "I can't smell a thing! Amazing!" I am still in awe at how she handled the whole situation as though this was her child. Completely unphased by all accounts and was a sheer genius in keeping me calm. I am forever indebted as I don't know how I would have fared without her. As she put it, "You would have been crying your eyes out." True story! Instead I was apologizing profusely and trying to push aside the humiliation. At the end of the day, "Shit happens. Buy toilet paper!"
This gives new definition to the phrase "Walk of Shame." I have done this walk before but never under these pretenses. We surfaced from the bathroom and I walked back to the register, hair dripping wet, to pay for the "damages." The guy gave me the look like "NOW what do you want?" I sheepishly apologized yet again and stated that I wanted to pay for the cup and the chips that my kid rendered unsellable. His face looked kind of surprised and he said "We'll get a tally for you. One minute." Soo, 3 minutes and $20 later he sweetly says, "Would you like your receipt?" All I could do was laugh! Did you seriously just ask me if I want black and white proof of this situation to take home with me? I replied "Yes, I will frame it and hang it in his bedroom." Finally he was laughing. He then went into a dissertation about how he didn't believe that this was a "sick" vomit but instead an "I ate too much" vomit. I almost inquired as to where he received his medical training but again, didn't want to stir the hornets nest. I just confessed to him that he had never done such a thing, wasn't sick this morning, caught me completely off guard and flatfooted. He seemed relieved. He then chimes in "Ya know, we can't sell those chips for obvious reasons but you can certainly take them home with you." Again, I laughed. To me this sounded absurd! If you can't sell them why on earth would I want to consume them? That is just disgusting! I imagined the Hubba's reaction to a box full of "Chuck Chips." And even after hosing them off I would be constantly reminded of the situation--I just didn't want to go there. I told him I'd pass. He insisted "They are vacuum sealed so really they should be fine to eat. We just can't sell them." Again I took the hall pass. Upon going out to tell my girl about the ludicrous proposition I jokingly asked: "You wouldn't eat them would you?" She mulled it over for a second and then piped up "Sure. I don't see why not. It'd be a shame to just throw them away." I pictured us out on the streets trying to peddle our puke chips to the bums and getting turned down on basic merit. I was actually relieved that she agreed to take them as I did feel bad being so wasteful but truly couldn't come to a place of peace in serving previously spewed upon snacks.
As we showered off at my niece's house I could hear her in the kitchen diligently disinfecting the packages of chips and I had to laugh. Not in a million years did I foresee the outcome of this day. I learned many valuable lessons about my child, myself and my family. "In it for the long haul" came to mind. We all survived the situation without spontaneous combustion and I combated my biggest hurdle of pre-motherhood angst. The thing that worried me most before having kids was that if one of them puked I would run for the hills. Puking is my Kryptonite. Always has been. How on earth could I tell a kid "I love you, but not enough to stand by and watch you puke. That's where I draw my line." I begrudgingly admit that I wasn't the Super Mom I was hoping to be in the situation as I didn't hurl myself in front of the "bullet" and take one for the team but I also didn't throw him across the room so I am going to have to be happy with little victories. Even though I will never be setting foot in this eatery again, I left with the knowledge that it could have been MUCH worse and I took the nugget that when my kid says his "teef hurt" I best be heading for a trash can!
Another adventure in the life and times of a Mommie!
 |
| You'da never know the kid had puked an hour earlier. Still looks like a boy even in girly-man clothes :) |
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Who is THAT?
I just recently had something very odd happen. It was one of those "Wow!" moments that I had previously never experienced and the impact of this experience was a lot deeper than I had initially given credit.
I ran into a fellow mom friend of mine that I had met at a Mommy's Group out here in Colorado. She and I became fast friends at the group and we bumped into each other after the fe-mini's dance class. Just to give you a little background for this story, in the beginning of our friendship we had one of those "small world" moments. We discussed where we were from--did the "Oh ya me too!" Then moved on to the "Where did you go to college?" which brought out her response of, "Oh ya? I had a really good friend who went there too." Which manifested into swimming speak and led to, "Oh really? She was an athlete there too!" and bam, 6 degrees of separation rears its head once again. Just when you think you can move to a new state and get totally lost in a bunch of people who will never know who you used to be you are shown just how foolish you are! Needless to say, I did a good bit of shit-disturbing, hell raising, boy chasing and just all around trouble making with this co-friend in college. We had lots of fun together and it was kind of cool that my new friend knew her. All this transpired oh about 3 years ago.
So fast forward to present day (if I haven't totally confused you already). We were doing the Mom catch-up..."How are the kids? The Hubby? How's life? Anything new?" when she tells me that she recently went back to California for a visit and spent some time with our co-friend. I responded, "Ohh how great! How is she doing?" Mom friend proceeded to say how well she was doing and how cute her little boy was etc. etc. Then she said, "Ya, she asked about you too. She said, 'So how is KatieKascht doing?'" Now being that my mom friend has only known me as a mom she was not familiar with my maiden name. Nor was she aware of the fact that when pronounced it sounds more like the name of a Johnnie Cash offspring but nonetheless she paused for a moment and asked our friend "Who's that?" and then finally got her bearings about herself as to who I was and resumed speak. Now all of this seems very trite, boring and unremarkable until we get to the place of her saying the name "KatieKascht" and my first gut response was: "Who is that?" as well! I was too embarrassed to admit this right then and there but this freaked me out! I heard the name, processed, couldn't draw it up. Processed again, nothing. Processed one more time...Ahhhh--ME! THAT is who she is talking about! Seriously? Should it take THIS long to get there? And should the first, natural response be that of confusion and non-familiarity? There must be cause for this...Have I eaten today? Check. How did I sleep last night? Well enough. Did I suffer a severe brain injury on the way over here? Not that I can recall...So, what the hell?
Am I so far removed from who I used to be that I have no conscious recollection of her? So different that it takes me a good 5 seconds to realize that I haven't ALWAYS been a mom of two kids and actually DID lead a life of opposition for quite some time? This lead me to do an inventory of sorts of pre-mom/post-mom personality traits and this is what I came up with:
Pre-Mama Post-Mama
1. Partied all the time Haven’t been to a party in almost a year
2. Drank constantly Was pregnant/breast feeding for 3 years
3. Slew of friends Can count them on one hand
4. Social butterfly Homely recluse
5. Loud & Obnoxious …this is still intact but solely for the kids'
benefit
6. Light Heavyweight @ 170lbs Featherweight @ 130lbs (odd!)
7. Read only when forced Read anything I get my hands on
(how backassed is THAT?)
8. Did laundry once a week Do laundry once a day
9. Washed dishes when all went missing Again, with the daily
10. “Sleeping” was a sport to me Sleeping: such a distant memory it hardly
hurts at all anymore
11. Lived on pancakes & peanut butter Eat from the food groups daily
12. Bedtime= at least Bedtime=
13. Waketime= Oddly, still the same
14. Naptime=always Naptime=You’re funny!
15. Fave pastime-Lounging by the ocean Fave Pastime-Pastime? What's this?
I’m confused.
16. Fave TV Show-Seinfeld Fave TV Show-TV is a waste of valuable
time
17. Fave Color-Baby Blue Fave Color-Sleep
18. IQ-130 IQ-105 (on a good day)
19. Cleaned when we had company Clean at any given opportunity
20. Knew EVERYTHING about kids Don’t know $h!t about kids
All this to say is, I am clearly not the person I used to be. But strangely I have abandoned her with blatant disregard. No funeral, no mourning, no bon voyage--just gone. Is this what all mom's go through? Is this a "symptom" or "side affect" of the condition that is becoming a parent? Or have I fallen prey to a classic pitfall of motherhood that no one ever tells you about? One of those dirty little secrets that people like to keep under wraps cuz no one told them just so they can snicker under their breath while they watch you go down in flames? Like the one about morning sickness. How the hell was I supposed to know that it could start at anytime and last ALL day and night? BITTER! Or is this one of those pieces of the puzzle that you don't get until after you have thrown the whole puzzle away because you just couldn't find it, only to find said piece under the couch one day and say "$h!t! This is the one I have been looking for all along...well, I threw the rest of it away. I guess this piece will go in the trash too." I feel like I have metaphorically "trashed" KatieKascht. She is a distant memory of my psyche known only in lore by those who claim to have been her cohorts. Without their existence she may not even live in the recesses. She is an enigma; a mirage so to speak. I guess my next question is, will she ever come back? Certainly not in the above pretenses, but in any form? I suppose this is a question for the ages. Only time will tell and I suppose the fun part about it all is that I can re-create Katie 4.0. Ditch the not-so-cute qualities and adapt some more admirable ones. Figure out what I really like as opposed to what I think I am supposed to like. Maybe I will go back to school and pick my own major this time versus letting my friends do it for me in the interest of remaining eligible for swimming. Novel concept. With that, of course, goes paying for my own education as well which would probably lead to higher class attendance, subject interest, material retention and subsequently GPA. Well, it looks like I have successfully mapped out the upgraded version of myself. I guess I've got some work to do! Even though I don't know who I am, I am intent on getting that figured out. Hope this gave you the time to assess the question, "Who are YOU?" Enjoy! :)
I ran into a fellow mom friend of mine that I had met at a Mommy's Group out here in Colorado. She and I became fast friends at the group and we bumped into each other after the fe-mini's dance class. Just to give you a little background for this story, in the beginning of our friendship we had one of those "small world" moments. We discussed where we were from--did the "Oh ya me too!" Then moved on to the "Where did you go to college?" which brought out her response of, "Oh ya? I had a really good friend who went there too." Which manifested into swimming speak and led to, "Oh really? She was an athlete there too!" and bam, 6 degrees of separation rears its head once again. Just when you think you can move to a new state and get totally lost in a bunch of people who will never know who you used to be you are shown just how foolish you are! Needless to say, I did a good bit of shit-disturbing, hell raising, boy chasing and just all around trouble making with this co-friend in college. We had lots of fun together and it was kind of cool that my new friend knew her. All this transpired oh about 3 years ago.
So fast forward to present day (if I haven't totally confused you already). We were doing the Mom catch-up..."How are the kids? The Hubby? How's life? Anything new?" when she tells me that she recently went back to California for a visit and spent some time with our co-friend. I responded, "Ohh how great! How is she doing?" Mom friend proceeded to say how well she was doing and how cute her little boy was etc. etc. Then she said, "Ya, she asked about you too. She said, 'So how is KatieKascht doing?'" Now being that my mom friend has only known me as a mom she was not familiar with my maiden name. Nor was she aware of the fact that when pronounced it sounds more like the name of a Johnnie Cash offspring but nonetheless she paused for a moment and asked our friend "Who's that?" and then finally got her bearings about herself as to who I was and resumed speak. Now all of this seems very trite, boring and unremarkable until we get to the place of her saying the name "KatieKascht" and my first gut response was: "Who is that?" as well! I was too embarrassed to admit this right then and there but this freaked me out! I heard the name, processed, couldn't draw it up. Processed again, nothing. Processed one more time...Ahhhh--ME! THAT is who she is talking about! Seriously? Should it take THIS long to get there? And should the first, natural response be that of confusion and non-familiarity? There must be cause for this...Have I eaten today? Check. How did I sleep last night? Well enough. Did I suffer a severe brain injury on the way over here? Not that I can recall...So, what the hell?
Am I so far removed from who I used to be that I have no conscious recollection of her? So different that it takes me a good 5 seconds to realize that I haven't ALWAYS been a mom of two kids and actually DID lead a life of opposition for quite some time? This lead me to do an inventory of sorts of pre-mom/post-mom personality traits and this is what I came up with:
Pre-Mama Post-Mama
1. Partied all the time Haven’t been to a party in almost a year
2. Drank constantly Was pregnant/breast feeding for 3 years
3. Slew of friends Can count them on one hand
4. Social butterfly Homely recluse
5. Loud & Obnoxious …this is still intact but solely for the kids'
benefit
6. Light Heavyweight @ 170lbs Featherweight @ 130lbs (odd!)
7. Read only when forced Read anything I get my hands on
(how backassed is THAT?)
8. Did laundry once a week Do laundry once a day
9. Washed dishes when all went missing Again, with the daily
10. “Sleeping” was a sport to me Sleeping: such a distant memory it hardly
hurts at all anymore
11. Lived on pancakes & peanut butter Eat from the food groups daily
12. Bedtime= at least Bedtime=
13. Waketime= Oddly, still the same
14. Naptime=always Naptime=You’re funny!
15. Fave pastime-Lounging by the ocean Fave Pastime-Pastime? What's this?
I’m confused.
16. Fave TV Show-Seinfeld Fave TV Show-TV is a waste of valuable
time
17. Fave Color-Baby Blue Fave Color-Sleep
18. IQ-130 IQ-105 (on a good day)
19. Cleaned when we had company Clean at any given opportunity
20. Knew EVERYTHING about kids Don’t know $h!t about kids
All this to say is, I am clearly not the person I used to be. But strangely I have abandoned her with blatant disregard. No funeral, no mourning, no bon voyage--just gone. Is this what all mom's go through? Is this a "symptom" or "side affect" of the condition that is becoming a parent? Or have I fallen prey to a classic pitfall of motherhood that no one ever tells you about? One of those dirty little secrets that people like to keep under wraps cuz no one told them just so they can snicker under their breath while they watch you go down in flames? Like the one about morning sickness. How the hell was I supposed to know that it could start at anytime and last ALL day and night? BITTER! Or is this one of those pieces of the puzzle that you don't get until after you have thrown the whole puzzle away because you just couldn't find it, only to find said piece under the couch one day and say "$h!t! This is the one I have been looking for all along...well, I threw the rest of it away. I guess this piece will go in the trash too." I feel like I have metaphorically "trashed" KatieKascht. She is a distant memory of my psyche known only in lore by those who claim to have been her cohorts. Without their existence she may not even live in the recesses. She is an enigma; a mirage so to speak. I guess my next question is, will she ever come back? Certainly not in the above pretenses, but in any form? I suppose this is a question for the ages. Only time will tell and I suppose the fun part about it all is that I can re-create Katie 4.0. Ditch the not-so-cute qualities and adapt some more admirable ones. Figure out what I really like as opposed to what I think I am supposed to like. Maybe I will go back to school and pick my own major this time versus letting my friends do it for me in the interest of remaining eligible for swimming. Novel concept. With that, of course, goes paying for my own education as well which would probably lead to higher class attendance, subject interest, material retention and subsequently GPA. Well, it looks like I have successfully mapped out the upgraded version of myself. I guess I've got some work to do! Even though I don't know who I am, I am intent on getting that figured out. Hope this gave you the time to assess the question, "Who are YOU?" Enjoy! :)
Monday, April 25, 2011
Moronic Mommy Moment #902
So last night before I ushered the big boy off to sleep I embarked on our nightly routine...milk, diaper, jammies, teeth, books, rocky, bed. When we got to "jammies" portion of the act I was greeted with major disapproval. He simply yelled "Nooooo! Hooooot!" Being that it is presently snowing, "hot" might have been a bit of an overstatement but I am his mother after all so this was not really met with any surprise. The kid does run rather hot but you would be hot too if you were constantly digesting yet another 700 calorie meal. I honestly think this kid could give Michael Phelps a run for his calorie-consuming money. I shudder to think of what grown man version of Boy Wonder will consume. He also moves non-stop and he IS from his father's family lineage so I am giving a bit more credit to the "hot" claim than others might. I asked "Are you SURE you want to go to bed with just a diaper?" he said "YES!"..."and NO clothes?" he barked "YESSS!" so I obliged. What really could go so wrong with this?
The fe-mini woke me promptly at 11:45 screaming of growing pains and her ever prominent need for medicine. Needless to say, being startled from a slumber makes it less than leisurely to get back to sleep so after tossing and turning for an hour I gave in to the urge and went out to the couch. Stayed there til almost 2am and crept back to bed. As I was dozing off I thought I heard whimpers but I couldn't be sure. I seem to hear them whether it be 2pm or 2am as my inner mommy monologue somehow has crying instilled on those "tapes." I proceeded to fall asleep. About 20 minutes later I hear the cries again but this time they are coupled with "Moooom! Where are you? Where is my mudder?" (Obviously we've been reading "Are You My Mother?" a bit too much these days) Being that he is having vivid and lucid conversation I decide these beckonings are worth looking into.
When I walked through his door I should have realized that what I stepped on was foreign but being that my brain was still half sleeping, like a dolphin at sea, it didn't really register. When I got close enough to pick him up in this pitch darkness my hands recognized that I was picking up a child sans pants. There was nothing. Needless to say that didn't speak for the remainder of the situation.
What I lifted from the crib can only be described as a urine-soaked newt with cold, clammy, reptile-like skin that almost felt like it had been submerged in a pond overnight. And he STUNK! My first response was OH NO! I reflected back to what I had stepped on 30 seconds earlier and realized it was his pee-free diaper. This only left one option...his whole evenings-worth of urine was what I was feeling (and smelling) at this present moment. Evidently he ripped that sucker off and threw it overboard in hopes of having a night of Fanny Freedom. Said freedom left him a bed literally dripping with wizzle. His pillow, all four blankets, the fleece crib sheet and all associated stuffed animals were drenched. I was awestruck.
After rescuing him from the confines in his attempt to Flee the Pee, I started baby-wiping him from bald head to tiny toe. Clearly this did not suit his fancy as he was already cold enough the way it was but I just couldn't conceive of putting him back in bed with tinkle stench and a bath was simply out of the question at 2am. Then I had to blindly feel about the bed to gather up any pee-soaked garments or accessories. I was beginning to think the kid just stood up and "whizzed out" all of his crib articles as though they were on fire. We did read his firetruck book before bed so perhaps he was bringing literature to life. I then clothed his chilly, damp little body and sat him in his rocker so I could get to work. The pillow went in the trash as I couldn't convince my mind that it would ever truly be clean with all of the covered stuffing. Some things are just better left to the garbage. The rest was swiftly encapsulated in the aforementioned pee-sheet and sent to the laundry. I kid you not when I say he saturated every last square inch of fabric in wee-reach.
So all in all it was a relatively cheap illustration of the fact that he is clearly not ready for potty training and obviously not capable of handling the temptation to drop trou at any given moment. And I am clearly in no position to be accepting any "Mother of the Year" trophies as I knew this was going to happen. Maybe not in full detail and with as much piddle but I knew. When will I learn to trust my maternal gut and know that some things are just NOT a good idea? Why must I allow an act to play out while my subconscious knows full-well what the grand finale will look like? These situations always leave me feeling like a dumb a$$ because my conscious mind told me not to. But I guess the part of me that wins out is the part that tells me "Just because you know how it is going to end doesn't mean you shouldn't give them the opportunity to experience it." This is entirely strange because that was not at ALL how I was raised. Someone told me not to do something, I didn't do...I might DIE! I was the kid who was so petrified of the: "This is your brain on drugs." ad campaign that snorting cocaine literally NEVER crossed my mind as an option as I was certain I would spontaneously combust. I also had the idea that if something could go wrong with an "experiment" it would go wrong with me. But for some reason I don't think Boy Wonder has this gene. He seems to be one of those "try and see" types. Yikes! I am already shaking my head as I have been warned that there is so much more to come in this arena. When I think of all of the stupid shit my brothers used to do and know the same of my Hubba it really shouldn't come as a surprise. I'm just hoping that I have the mental constitution to cope with it. And then I come to the place where I feel this is all by design. It starts with them treating their sleep place like a urinal so when they manage to do it after a night of partying it all makes logical sense. Gradual building as opposed to baptism by fire. I get it. And perhaps I am at the place where I feel like if I am somewhat controlling the experiment then it is a safer environment than if he were off willy nilly on his own. Either way I am certain that the M-cubed quotient will far surpass 902 and luckily I have the wherewith all to see it, laugh at it and expect that there is so much more to come!
The fe-mini woke me promptly at 11:45 screaming of growing pains and her ever prominent need for medicine. Needless to say, being startled from a slumber makes it less than leisurely to get back to sleep so after tossing and turning for an hour I gave in to the urge and went out to the couch. Stayed there til almost 2am and crept back to bed. As I was dozing off I thought I heard whimpers but I couldn't be sure. I seem to hear them whether it be 2pm or 2am as my inner mommy monologue somehow has crying instilled on those "tapes." I proceeded to fall asleep. About 20 minutes later I hear the cries again but this time they are coupled with "Moooom! Where are you? Where is my mudder?" (Obviously we've been reading "Are You My Mother?" a bit too much these days) Being that he is having vivid and lucid conversation I decide these beckonings are worth looking into.
When I walked through his door I should have realized that what I stepped on was foreign but being that my brain was still half sleeping, like a dolphin at sea, it didn't really register. When I got close enough to pick him up in this pitch darkness my hands recognized that I was picking up a child sans pants. There was nothing. Needless to say that didn't speak for the remainder of the situation.
What I lifted from the crib can only be described as a urine-soaked newt with cold, clammy, reptile-like skin that almost felt like it had been submerged in a pond overnight. And he STUNK! My first response was OH NO! I reflected back to what I had stepped on 30 seconds earlier and realized it was his pee-free diaper. This only left one option...his whole evenings-worth of urine was what I was feeling (and smelling) at this present moment. Evidently he ripped that sucker off and threw it overboard in hopes of having a night of Fanny Freedom. Said freedom left him a bed literally dripping with wizzle. His pillow, all four blankets, the fleece crib sheet and all associated stuffed animals were drenched. I was awestruck.
After rescuing him from the confines in his attempt to Flee the Pee, I started baby-wiping him from bald head to tiny toe. Clearly this did not suit his fancy as he was already cold enough the way it was but I just couldn't conceive of putting him back in bed with tinkle stench and a bath was simply out of the question at 2am. Then I had to blindly feel about the bed to gather up any pee-soaked garments or accessories. I was beginning to think the kid just stood up and "whizzed out" all of his crib articles as though they were on fire. We did read his firetruck book before bed so perhaps he was bringing literature to life. I then clothed his chilly, damp little body and sat him in his rocker so I could get to work. The pillow went in the trash as I couldn't convince my mind that it would ever truly be clean with all of the covered stuffing. Some things are just better left to the garbage. The rest was swiftly encapsulated in the aforementioned pee-sheet and sent to the laundry. I kid you not when I say he saturated every last square inch of fabric in wee-reach.
So all in all it was a relatively cheap illustration of the fact that he is clearly not ready for potty training and obviously not capable of handling the temptation to drop trou at any given moment. And I am clearly in no position to be accepting any "Mother of the Year" trophies as I knew this was going to happen. Maybe not in full detail and with as much piddle but I knew. When will I learn to trust my maternal gut and know that some things are just NOT a good idea? Why must I allow an act to play out while my subconscious knows full-well what the grand finale will look like? These situations always leave me feeling like a dumb a$$ because my conscious mind told me not to. But I guess the part of me that wins out is the part that tells me "Just because you know how it is going to end doesn't mean you shouldn't give them the opportunity to experience it." This is entirely strange because that was not at ALL how I was raised. Someone told me not to do something, I didn't do...I might DIE! I was the kid who was so petrified of the: "This is your brain on drugs." ad campaign that snorting cocaine literally NEVER crossed my mind as an option as I was certain I would spontaneously combust. I also had the idea that if something could go wrong with an "experiment" it would go wrong with me. But for some reason I don't think Boy Wonder has this gene. He seems to be one of those "try and see" types. Yikes! I am already shaking my head as I have been warned that there is so much more to come in this arena. When I think of all of the stupid shit my brothers used to do and know the same of my Hubba it really shouldn't come as a surprise. I'm just hoping that I have the mental constitution to cope with it. And then I come to the place where I feel this is all by design. It starts with them treating their sleep place like a urinal so when they manage to do it after a night of partying it all makes logical sense. Gradual building as opposed to baptism by fire. I get it. And perhaps I am at the place where I feel like if I am somewhat controlling the experiment then it is a safer environment than if he were off willy nilly on his own. Either way I am certain that the M-cubed quotient will far surpass 902 and luckily I have the wherewith all to see it, laugh at it and expect that there is so much more to come!
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