The Soloist

I spent the days of Thursday through Sunday of last week as a single parent and have to just give a huge WTF to those that do this on the regular! I cannot even fathom trying to rear these little tykes on my own nor would I entertain the idea of ever embarking on a "solo mission" from this point on. Huge high fives all the way around to anyone who has managed to do this job on their own and keep their sanity.

The 1st night I sat at the dinner table, watching my midgets eat their food and realized that NO ONE on this planet could ever find such an act as amazing, adorable and intoxicating as my husband would. NO ONE. Not grandma & grandpa, not auntie or uncle or cousin or best friend in the whole entire world. This act (and most other mundane and inconsequential acts) is one that can only truly be appreciated by the co-creator. It just took him leaving for a few days for me to realize this out loud. I can now see why it is so hard for couples with kids to split up. Who are they going to talk to about the silly shit that the kid says? Who are they going to tell that the kid projectile vomited all over the dog? Who are they going to tell that the child dropped trow in the middle of Home Depot to try out a commode? They can talk to their friend Erin but will he/she really care? No. And should "friend" care? No! That is not how this was designed.

On Saturday night after both were in bed, my gal decided to take up coming out of her room 350 times for various, frivolous reasons.  I had decided to treat myself to a dinner of a HUGE bowl of popcorn, a beer and a movie...The Soloist. Which in my opinion should have been titled "The SLOW-loist." Now maybe this movie review roots from the fact that I was being interrupted every 30 seconds by the miniature coming downstairs to ruin my romantic self-date, causing me to pause the damn film 12 times but I think I might be giving the movie too much credit. Truth be known I think The Little smelled the homemade popcorn and was trying to catch me with my hand in the bowl, so to speak. If she would have busted me with this fine delicacy and found that I had popped it after she was put to bed I think we would have had a Linda Blair moment. But at one point she came down and said she had to use the facilities for a lengthy journey. I knew she would be awhile. Every time she embarks, she asks me to sit in the hall "crisscross applesauce" and keep her company on her mission. The popcorn was getting cold and the beer was getting warm. "Dinner" was waiting for me and she was holding up the train. So I told her I would be back in a few minutes. Being that she was "stranded" she couldn't very well chase after me and I stood the chance of actually getting a few handfuls of my creation in me before it was no longer fit for consumption and the beer would have to be put in the freezer. So I resumed play for a few minutes, ate the popcorn like Lard A$$ ate pies in Stand By Me and guzzled enough to wash down the kernels before I went back upstairs.

When I got back to my seated position in the hall I was riddled with questions as though I was on the witness stand. "Where were you? What did you go get? What were you doing downstairs?" I think she was on to me. Normally I have no problem covering these bases. This night was different. I had contraband. For a moment I thought she was Desi Arnaz and I was just waiting for the "Luuuuucy!!!! You got some 'splaining to doooo!" I somehow dodged the bullet and managed to put her off long enough to where she realized I was Fort Knox and I wasn't going to break. The conversation ended with "Hey, I don't need to tell you every last thing that I do!" Suddenly I felt like a teenager in my parents house again, smarting off about my whereabouts. You ARE still my daughter, right? We haven't somehow oddly switched roles already, have we? Did I somehow hit the "time machine" button? SUPER trippy! Every so often she would ask me again and I would just blow it off. It was driving her nuts not to know what I was up to. I was given a small glimpse into the mind of this girl. She may very well be just as neurotic, if not more so, than I am! YIKES! She may be just like mom, having to know every last f-ing detail of everyday life. Then I thought perhaps I had been divulging too much of my comings and goings with her and maybe that needed to stop. My parents spoke in German if they didn't want us to hear shit around our house. They didn't share any of the goods with us. Maybe I just need to take up a new language! Rosetta Stone, here I come!

So once we got her all cleaned up and back in bed, I ran downstairs to down what was left of my meal. Not 5 minutes later I hear footsteps. I had to head her off at the pass so she wouldn't come downstairs to see my carpet party. We are now making way to the 4th trip up the stairs to do such and I looked up at her and said "Hey, Mommy needs some time alone too! Will you PLEASE just go back to bed so I can be alone?" Again, parents house, time machine...weird!!!!

That was the last I had heard from her. Got to bed at 10. Boy was up at 12:30, girl came standing bed-side at 3AM to scare the living shit out of me. There is just something about being home alone when you are not used to it and having a short stack standing next to you, waking you out of your somewhat lofty sleep. And how do you impress upon a 3 year old that when she wakes mommy in the middle of the night like that it removes 5 years from her life and causes an almost immediate trip to the laundry to clean the sheets that have been soiled? 

The next day was spent running errands and such. We took a trip to the local dollar joint to buy some pointless toys that would no doubt be breaking within the hour but this is about the only time I give them carte blanche to go crazy and pick whatever they want. (Big spender, I know!) As a side note, the fe-mini's birthday is less than a month away. Firstly, I made a HUGE mistake in telling her this over the weekend. She now asks me EVERY morning if it is her birthday today. Secondly, since she will be 4 and the "gum rule" around our house is that you have to be four years old to eat gum she is chomping at the bit for this adult privilege. She, in turn, thinks that because she is turning 4 and will be able to indulge that she should have her own personal gum ball machine! She also has requested 4 presents because, clearly, when you turn 4 you get 4 presents. I figure this is a fair transaction. But now I am fretting about where the hell I am going to find an inexpensive gum ball machine as I am sure something of this nature is considered "vintage," will cost me $150 and will be used exactly FOUR times! I'm not really looking forward to such. Cruising through the dollar store aisles, what do I find? A GUM BALL MACHINE! Granted it will probably only last the four turns that I have predicted but I will go buy a whole box of them at that price.

So now I am forced with the challenge of cleverly hiding what I am about to purchase. This is a lot harder than it sounds. All the while, fielding her questions of "Mom, what is that? What do you have in your hand? What are you buying? What did you just put in that shopping bag?" Duuuude! Enough! So she decides from the box that it isn't gum balls but balloons--awesome! Crisis diverted. Since I am buying something having to do with balloons she decides that we should pretend that it is my birthday and chooses a ginormous birthday party hat as her treat for the day. I didn't really think that she would take it to the extent of actually needing to pretend-have-a-party. We get home and put Boy Wonder down for a nap and she starts in on the pretend birthday party. She insists, "Ya mom, now that Chase is sleeping we can have your birthday party. You can go get the balloon thing you bought at the store and we can start. Go get it mom. Go get it!" $hit! "Ummm, well I can't exactly do that." "But why not?" and this starts what can only be described as a grander inquisition than of the previous evening's: "What the hell were you doing downstairs?" line of questioning. After I had come out with my most creative stuff to which she had rebuttals for each, I finally told her that it MIGHT be a surprise for her birthday and that was why I couldn't bring it down to play with. A moment of joy crossed her face in the knowledge that she would get a prize. She asked once more "Is tomorrow my birthday?" When I answered this question that joyful face turned to ultimate sadness and distress. She started crying uncontrollably. At this age, 3 weeks might as well be 3 years. She has no concept of time and really doesn't care--if it's later than tomorrow she is out of sorts. She began sobbing hysterically and buried her face in my lap crying, "I can't take it!!!! I can't wait that long for my birthday. It's just sooo hard! I don't want a surprise. I want to have it noooooow!" WOW! I was soo not expecting this litany of backlash. I guess we need to re-teach that whole Immediate Gratification chapter as clearly it hasn't stuck. And again, I see the mirror being held to my face as I am the first to absolutely lose it with surprises. I hate them. Good or bad, doesn't matter. They make me crazy...well, crazier than usual. I was the kid who unwrapped and re-wrapped Christmas presents weeks before because the suspense was literally eating me alive. Even as an adult I'd just rather not know that I am getting anything at all. Honestly, it is jostling emotions in my tummy right now just thinking about it. UGH! So this whole thing left me not only feeling like a turd for even telling her that her big day was on the horizon but also like a child for not having my own emotions in check regarding the same. Luckily being that my feelings on surprises mirror hers it did make it easier for me to empathize with the situation and somewhere in there I found the right words to soothe her. She found the courage to get through the day and has even managed to stop asking about the magic balloon machine. I know she hasn't forgotten about it, but if she is anything like me she has conjured a way to convince her brain that she never knew about it to begin with.

The moment came for Hubba to get home and I sat with the kids looking out the window from the couch positioned right below it. We were little birds waiting. When we saw his headlights pull in the driveway I think we all collectively might have peed a little. I was so thrilled to have my partner back in the mix. And they were beside themselves with excitement to see their daddy once again. As my gal says, we were a "complete family." This trip made me truly appreciate how special and beautiful (and unfortunately, somewhat rare) our situation is. I feel so lucky to be a part of such a wonderful, quirky little unit. I guess I just feel lucky to have love. As a kid, I always kinda thought I would but never in a million years did I think or imagine that it would be like this. The trip actually made me enjoy Valentine's Day and really and truly feel happy to show my "Valentine's" how much I loved them--not just go through the motions of the Hallmark Holiday doing cheesy crap because you are somehow obligated by society to do so. It was just the perfect opportunity to be able to show the love and feel it. Perhaps coincidental that the holiday came the following day, but either way I was happy to take the reigns and run. Yet another holiday that has been brought back to life for me because of the advent of my family. I love the fact that life is always showing us new things, new ways to look at things, new ways to appreciate things. I suppose THESE are the surprises I do like! :)

Boy vs. Girl

I've always been told that there is a very distinct difference between boys and girls but I always thought that was kind of a crock of shit. After my first angel hit the ground running I was pretty sure I had a system down. Sure she has her share of melt downs but all in all I like her a lot. So when this Y chromosome hit the bricks I figured it would be equally as effective to impart the same parenting tactics with him. Today was a prime example of why I was and am entirely wrong!

It's as though when I talk to him that he hears the words that I am saying, he ingests them as a normal human being but his actions tell me that something has unequivocally been lost in translation.

The Hubba is out of town at present and I just think these children can smell fear! It's like a finely tuned 6th sense. They can't see dead people but they sure as hell can see mom in a panic. I am trying to fake the front and act like it doesn't bother me that I have to play the role of a single parent for the next 3 days but I never have been much of an actress. This being said my patience is about on "E" even though this is just the beginning of my long weekend. My patience is on "E" most days so I have to clarify that it doesn't take much to get me there. Further proof that I was just not cut out for this whole mothering thing but whatever.

So I have to go to the store today...I don't mean "have to" as in this is an optional trip. I mean "have to" in the sense that I woke up this morning to make coffee (traditionally a "Rob Job") and found the coffee canister entirely defunct of anything remotely resembling coffee. I couldn't even make a pseudo-cup out of the vapors I found. This did NOT start the day on the right foot. So by the time I get the kids up and fed the withdrawal headache was already setting in. This does NOT bode well in the favor of the miniatures. Impatient mom with no coffee...I DO believe I have seen newspaper headlines that started with these very words! So I frantically drive to The Bucks to mainline the largest variety of mocha they could conjure and proceed to the grocery. And whilst we drive the female professes that she has to pee. I don't know why this sends me through the rafters but it does. I suppose partially because we have been engaging in what can only be considered "The Potty Wars" for the past few months where she is "holding it" for hours on end, leading to discomfort and the inevitable conversation about the possibility of infection. I am so tired of this conversation I actually feel like sleeping when I am having it. Literally TIRED of it.

So once we arrive at the store we rush to the bathroom. Oh my gosh, I now remember why public urination peeves me to no end...it's the bathrooms! Gross with a capital "G" and they expect us to let our kids pee in this locale? Of course they do, it is a place only the desperate will brave. So I take the appropriate measure to make the toilet as hospitable as possible all the while fielding questions about what the hell I am doing. She has never seen toilet seat covers and was kinda freaked by them. I kept telling her not to touch the seat so she is holding on to my shoulders while the Brute is running around the stall touching EVERY last morsel of real estate. I am trying to keep her hoisted so she can do her business and am kind of preoccupied, if you will. All the while I am telling the boy "No! Stop touching that! Don't touch that--it's GROSS! There are germs on that!" I was begging this kid to stop and he just kept looking at me like I was crazy. He has never had this kind of freedom in a bathroom because his sister has literally had stage fright about public peeing since forever. So I understand that he is fascinated by the tiny trash can attached to the stall with its shiny chrome sheen but this receptacle holds none other than sanitary napkins and most likely a dirty diaper or two and I just can't allow this. He doesn't have the 1st clue about sanitary napkins and can't for the life of him figure out why mom is so miffed by all of his exploration. So I am trying to figure out how to get the Moose to stop infecting himself with the plague while keeping my gal from falling into the Bowl of Doom. I only have two arms and they were both focused on baby girl buoyancy! I was holding her with one arm and holding him by the hood of his jacket with the other. That just caused him to freak and (hold my stomach for a moment) LAY DOWN on the soggy, disgusting floor. Needless to say I will be burning that outfit in a non-ceremonial bonfire in our backyard! But my gag-o-meter had finally hit its pinnacle when he slathered and caressed his hand on the back of the commode. I immediately abandoned my gal. Left her holding on to the handicapped bar to keep her afloat and proceeded to wash and hand sanitize the boy. Evidently the people at the store know how gross their bathrooms are or I believe they wouldn't offer both options. I was half tempted to run out to the Lysol aisle and douse him from head to toe but thought there could be some long term suffrage from such an act and figured these options would have to do.

I had also foolishly embarked on a new cart this trip. Ya know the ones that are the size of a boat and fit two pint-sized miniatures in the seated position? I had a ton of stuff to buy and didn't figure the gal wanted to be cramped up in the back of the cart with the surplus so I thought this was a smart, comfortable option for all. Boy was I wrong. The seat belts in those things are not meant for this boy. He outsmarted the apparatus about 5 minutes into our shop and therefore, spent the duration standing up and threatening to jump out. This obviously made me crazy to the point that I had easily said "Chase, SIT DOWN!" no less than 200 times. The girl has NEVER brought me this kind of grief. If I have to say something more than once it's kind of odd. So I tried the other seat with a bit better belt. Again, he wrangled his way out of that in no time at all. So I finally put him in the cart portion where he usually sits but since the area in this model of cart is sans belt there was nothing keeping him there. So the antics continued with me getting more and more irritated with each aisle. I proceeded to tell him that if he didn't listen and continued with this he would not be getting a treat. He called shenanigans. I retorted! When donut time came and his sister got one and he didn't you would have thought I was pulling his toenails out through his nostrils. I expected as much but I'm still always surprised at the dramatics he musters and it clearly & rightfully irks the other store-goers. I then tried to explain that his poor behavior throughout the store going experience was less than worthy of reward and he would be going home today with nothing! He cried a bit and finally whimpered "Ooookkkkk!"

So we make it back to the car by the grace of God and start heading home. At this time the fe-mini is indulging in her delight and turns to him and says "Here Chase! Would you like to share some of my donut?" Without blinking he reaches over and starts chomping as if to say "EAT THIS MOM! I got my treat anyway!" And all I could do was relish in the fact that I had the sweetest, most considerate little girl ever known. What an empathetic thing to do. She felt bad for her brother and wanted to share with him so he wouldn't be sad. She then proceeds to say "So, now that you have some bites of a treat maybe you'll stop acting like such a JERK!" The car goes silent. I start to shake with quiet convulsions--the kind that only come from the silent laughter you want no one to hear--church fart laughter. She continues to pepper him with the onslaught and tells him, "I should hope this treat will stop you from being such a jerk. Can't you see you are driving mommy CRAZY!?!" I shit you not, hand on the bible, this girl is going off on him and I had not one iota to do with any of it. Then she ramps up her cute, about to talk to a baby voice and softens the mood a bit, "You are driving her crazy! Do you know that? Do you? Do you? Do you?" almost coochie coochie coo-ish! I just couldn't believe my ears. Not only did she read him his rights but she was all Mary Poppins about it ("A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down") She wanted him to know he was being a turd but she also didn't want him to take it too hard. I swear she's more equipped to be a mom than I am! Yikes! Yet another page I will be taking from her book.

And this is what illustrated to me just how strikingly different we two are...boys & girls; men & women. But I was also shown how we compliment and play off of one another in such subtle ways, making this whole thing work. I'm so grateful for my children as they teach me every day just exactly how much I DON'T know about life!

Neurotic, party of one? Your table is ready!

Before I even start don't ask me how I got here. I have no idea. Well, I have some idea but just run with it. You're in for a long ride with this one. I run the risk here of offending some, looking like a psycho to others and coming across callous but like I always say, I am sharing this in hopes that I connect with a peep who has felt this same way just to say "You're not the only one!"...and then there is this great chance that I AM the only one. I'm going to go ahead and say that with as sleep deprived as I have been in the past few months these thoughts don't so much surprise me as make me aware of the fact that I am running low on fumes.

So I was up the other night with my kids again. The girl child could not, for some reason, fall asleep. At 12:30am (the 3rd time I had been awoken by her) I went into her room and she was hysterical. She was flailing around, flopping her body on the bed like a fish out of water and screaming like something was possessing her. Scariest part is she tells me she hasn't been to sleep yet, her body won't let her sleep and her brain hurts. She's not feverish so she means her BRAIN hurts. She said her body just wouldn't let her stop. I am at a loss as I have never been this kind of tired. When I am tired it's all you can do to keep me awake. This one is the opposite and I don't know how to help. So in the midst of her screaming and brain dysfunction I remind her to take deep breaths and lay down, blah, blah, blah. She looks me dead in the eye and says "I want medicine!"

In the past I have gone up to the same scene but she tells me that her legs hurt. I assume growing pains. So I would give Motrin and she would crash out. Evidently she is remembering the ease of slumber this concoction brings her and she wants it. Now this is where I get wacky. My gal wants a teaspoon of Motrin so she can go to sleep and I automatically fast forward 15 years and have her strung out in some drug house jonesin for her next hit. She is asking me for help sleeping and I am pegging her an addict. WOW! What the hell is wrong with me? Well, I am fairly certain I know what is wrong with me but that is beside the point. The fact that I am denying my child comfort because I don't want to "enable" her makes me just feel gross in my skin. But I honestly couldn't justify this in my mind. So we compromised with some topical magnesium (has been known to naturally work wonders) and then I laid down in bed with her until she went to sleep (literally only 10 minutes.) So it seems that this gamble paid off. I just snuggled in her bed, replaying the events and my train of thought with this whole process. I have to say the word "Eww" ran through my mind more than once in this short time.

So I softly exited her room and tiptoed back downstairs. I was no sooner re-clothing from my late-night visit to the facilities when I heard crying. At 1st I thought, "Shit! She was OUT!?" and then I listened a tad more closely (and with all my clothes on--which always helps with listening, ya know?) and realized it was the boy version. There are times you can just tell by the octave and the verbal content that this is the real deal and they aren't going to go back until you go in there. A few huffs later I threw on my robe...again...and headed up the stairs. So I walked in to his room and the 1st thing out of his mouth was "Change pants." Sweet! That's an easy fix. I LOVE that one! Once he was again, urine-free he bellows "Somepin ta eat." Now, I've been kicking this kid full of food ALL day so there is really no way he can be hungry even if it is 1am. I have a distinct feeling that he is just stalling because he doesn't want to go back to bed. But then the Krazy Katie enters the room and starts telling stories about how this one is going to be jonesing for food for the rest of his life and will be my problem eater. I think I need to stop watching TV because just the other day I had watched a show about a Half a Ton Teen. I seriously was jaw-agape throughout. I had to stop watching the show at the end of the kids gastric by-pass surgery where he literally breaks down bawling because the doctor won't let him go home. I could not believe this 16 year old kid was crying so hard because he had to stay in the hospital for a bit longer. At which point I was enlightened to the words "Addiction is a crazy thing!" I had not considered this as the case but this boy was in fact, addicted to food and he was crying because he wanted to get home to EAT! FREAKED me out. So obviously in my sensitive mental state of exhaustion I fast forwarded 15 years and the kid on TV was going to be my son and I'd be damned if I was going to be party to THAT!....WOW! Things have gone really awry here. I do feel compelled to add that as I was sitting with this kid for a few minutes my shoulder started to go numb, my wrist started to ache and I couldn't conceive that the not yet 2 year old that I was holding weighs as much as his sister who is 2 years his senior. He IS a beefcake so this is not coming out of left field entirely...only partially...

So as I am rocking the boy (clearly ignoring his plea for food after that internal monologue) I was holding my breath to see if he would ask for food again. I rocked and waited. He petted my hair. We rocked some more, all the while waiting. He suddenly bleats, "Mom!?" at which point I half gasp and pretend not to hear him. Then he says it again. I couldn't very well pretend to not be in the room, could I? Well, I tried but to no avail. I finally replied "Ya bud." just KNOWING what would come next only to have him whisper "Like your hair." Seriously, how the hell did I get so neurotic? Again, I know how I got there but the question is how to fix it. 

After successfully putting him to bed without another peep, I walked downstairs feeling quite a bit of guilt, shame and psychosis. Clearly I was not going to sleep anytime soon so I laid there and thought about the back to back disturbing scenes that had just played out in tonight's episode of Midnight Mamba, hoping to come up with some sort of solution on how to get myself out of this mental funk. I began to find resolutions and all I could come up with was unconditional love. Even if these two people I had conjured in my mad mind DO scarcely resemble my children as adults I will love them nonetheless. But in coming up with this term of "unconditional love" it really presented more questions than it answered.

All my life I have had the understanding of this term: affection with no limits or conditions; complete love. This was the love that I thought parents gave to their kids. I have always known this as the case. So I entered into this whole parenthood thing thinking this is what you were given in the delivery room...a baby complete with unconditional love. Sounds easy, right? Well here's my problem. No one ever told me that unconditional love was not easy. I thought since it was without conditions that it was signed, sealed and delivered--a no brainer and one of those "gimme's" in life. It's like the consolation prize of carrying and birthing a child. You go through the whole schtick and at the end you are graced with this unconditional love stuff for all of the pain that you just went through. HA! It's just not that easy. What a trip to realize this only now (I am a severely slow learner.)

So my next question is what to do with it. I know I HAVE unconditional love for my kids but from this vantage point its looking like kryptonite to Superman. I suppose some heavy doses of psychotherapy could be advantageous but I think there has to be a solution in here somewhere. I guess part of me felt a little lied to. Kinda like the deceptive feeling that panged me when I realized that the whole "Morning Sickness" thing was a crock of shit and I was actually free to feel like barfing ALL day and not just between the hours of 8 and noon. Boy did I want to call in to a complaint line for that one. But the problem with these life-realizations is that there is really no one to bitch to. I just felt like I was right back on that river of deceit  waiting for the next bomb to drop. Next thing I know I'll find out that I CAN'T be anything I want if I just set my mind to it, the world is actually flat and that we really do only use 10% of our brains.

Then I get to this place of "Separation of Church and State." I realize that I am starting to enmesh myself, once again, with my kids and their decisions. I feel a recurrent theme here and something that will probably rear its ugly head throughout my life. It brings me to that deep place of what I am doing as a parent and checking myself on an ever-recurrent level to see if I am being honest, guiding well, informing appropriately and allowing their own growth...not mine. And I think this is my answer. As long as I am doing the best I can with what I have I am being an honest parent. I think I will always question what I am doing and if it is good enough but that is just in my nature. I have to learn to release the need to identify every situation as a possible catastrophe and know that my kids are going to do their thing...with or without my input. Probably better to let them make their own mistakes instead of trying to guard them from them. 

A friend of mine posted this a few days ago and it has really resonated with me in this situation-

“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.” ~Oscar Wilde. According to this I'll be asking for forgiveness anyway :) until then I will sit as the not-so-silent but trying to be silent mom, praying that the "right" answers come to my kids a little easier than they did to me! 

An eye for an eye...

Here we go again...the shower! I swear, it's just amazing to me how much tomfoolery roots from this very location. I don't know why this is still surprising to me, it just is.

So today it's just me and The Moose. Princess sassy pants was consumed with watching Cars in her Tinkerbell "ensemble" and just couldn't conceive of it. Funny how she is torn between being a boy and a girl. I suppose I am still wrestling with that very concept so it only makes sense that she would as well. Just funny to see it proliferating so early on. And I digress...

Since the shower was a little under occupied in comparison to its normal capacity I decided to sit down and let the little man play. I also saw this as a good time to introduce him to my favorite bath time game of "Water Spicket." Actually it isn't just a bath time favorite...truly a game that I can't help but play in any body of water, be it shower, bath, hot tub, swimming pool, lake or ocean. Fill your mouth with an abundance of liquid and shoot at the nearest unsuspecting target. This game gained popularity with me in age-group swimming and carried on in fondness all the way through college water polo. If you've never swam competitively you must know that there is a bit of boredom associated with it (at least for a spaz like me) and in the boredom games must be played. I think the reason I enjoyed it so much was because it generally irritates the victim of deluge and I seem to find some semblance of joy in life simply annoying others. I also enjoy playing this game with Hubba Hubba though he finds it less than amusing. It grosses him out actually so what better reason to teach the miniature man these shenanigans? This way he can irritate my husband through me even when I'm not present. This is a true win-win in my eyes.

So I embark on my aquatic antics and proceed to spit water all over my son. His reaction is jovial so I continue. He looks at me as if to say "Hmm, how can I join in on the fun?" So he proceeds to try to fill his mouth with water but with little success. He keeps getting water in his eyes and face as he hasn't quite figured out how to breath AND ingest water AND hold it in his mouth all at the same time while getting pelted by the ceaselessness of the shower head. This is a complex concept so I just go on with my "show and tell." I continue to bombard him with my spicket and he suddenly starts looking at me with a look almost identical to that of his father...the "I'm gonna get you sucka!" look--the look of sweet revenge. Interestingly, it instills the very same fear and worry that his father's look instills in me because I know once this look is issued there will be significant action to follow. All bets are off because this look is a look of business--there is no consideration of love, compassion or attachment. It is officially "ON!" The fun part of this all is these boys are quite creative by nature and being that the midget is my man's offspring I can only expect the same level of creativity. I can see the little man's frustration climbing because with each attempt he is, again, unsuccessful in his fulfillment. He tries to catch some of the water in his hand and bring it to his mouth but this, he quickly finds, is NOT the way it is played and does not fill the oral cavity with the desired quantity of water for effective sprinkling. So he looks into my eyes with almost a toddler-esque "huff" and embarks on none other than The Golden Shower. He pees all over my leg with such a look of pride and satisfaction. He laughs. Then he starts up again as if to say "See, I get how to play the game. I just made up my own rules and upped the ante to make it interesting!" Dumbfounded (and quite constricted), I could do nothing but sit there and take it.

I guess after being a mom for almost 4 years now I figure I've been barfed on, crapped on, snotted on and tooted on--getting peed on in the shower is really the least of my concerns in the realm of disgusting. I was half tempted to correct his actions and impress upon him that urinating on others (however fun and good to release stress) is not a kind display but figured my words would fall on deaf ears. He had successfully rendered me speechless and exhibited his first clear understanding of "an eye for an eye!" This was something to celebrate, not discipline. Pee on, my sweet boy! If this is how you continue to handle life's little injustices I will continue to bellow, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

Raise your hand if you're SURE!

I spent almost the entirety of last week working my ass off to heal my children's eye goo. I ran around the house with a damp rag and eye drops, swarming them at every given opportunity. When I was able to pin one of them down and complete the mission, I would jump up (in victory, of course) run to the nearest sink, wash my hands vigorously and proceed to kill any remaining bacteria with hand sanitizer. If I touched ANYTHING near their faces, same drill. I washed sheets multiple times, pillowcases, every stitch of clothing that had been worn, touched or even looked at (because you know if you LOOK at something whilst cursed with pink eye, that object is now infected) Wash cloths, towels, rugs, stuffed animals, books, door knobs...you name it, I disinfected it.

By mid-week I was gloating! I was so proud that I was kicking this thing in its teeth and managing to remain pink eye free. At one point it even breezed though my mind (jokingly, of course and at the risk of being sacrilegious) that I was like Mother Teresa in a leper colony. That was the thought that probably did me in. The proverbial nail in the coffin, if you will...

The Hubba surprised me Friday morning with a note on the kitchen table telling me that he had previously arranged for our niece to come out that day and watch the kids while we had an early surprise Valentine's night together. A whole night alone with my husband complete with dinner and an overnight stay at the fancy St. Julien in Boulder. WOW! WHAT a surprise. All this to say is that this man is just too good to me and I have literally hit the "Spousal Lottery." Being that this was an ultra special night I wanted to look super fancy schmancy and went the whole nine yards--at this point in my life my definition of "the whole nine yards" is characterized by the fact that I actually put on make-up! Now since I rarely wear make-up anymore when I actually do it's quite a nuisance. It seems that my eyes have acclimated to NOT having mascara on them and when they actually do get graced with the goods strange things happen. Eyelashes retaliate and start falling out right and left...probably because I am so preoccupied with the shit on them that I am messing with my face and touching them profusely. They itch and irritate and are just generally a pain in the ass...the lengths we women go to in order to look good for our men. And when I do don the optic decorative I find that I spend the next 2 days trying to remove it. It doesn't come off nicely with one wash in the shower. I invariably am called to duty when I reach for the eye make up remover so I walk around looking like a raccoon until the next shower opportunity. And when this cleansing comes there is some vigorous scrubbing and high contact leading to further shedding of the lashes. It's a wonder I don't have bald lids after such madness.

And this is where things go awry. In my flurry of linen washing and disinfecting I happened to nicely wrap up a sheet that was on the little lady's bed. I tucked it away in the laundry room in the most unsuspecting of ways. Truthfully I should have put yellow caution tape around it and put it in a bio hazard bag but we were fresh out of those. So as I am finishing up the last of the laundry for the weekend I toss the sheet in the wash without a second thought. Shortly after a pesky lash made its way into my eyeball and needed to be retrieved. Without even thinking I jumped right in with my middle finger for acquisition and the rest is history. Within hours the symptoms set in. At first I was in a fair bit of denial. But about 2 hours before bed I made the confession to the Hubba. He gasped "WHAT!? Noooo!" and vaguely looked at me like a leper--like a leper that I had previously been impervious to--I was now "one of them." There was a physical distance growing between us. He didn't realize it but I sure did. He took at least one step back (even though he was clear on the other side of the room) He said "How do you know? Are you sure!?"... "Ummm, YA I am sure." I've pulled about as much snot out of my eye in the last 2 hours as I've pulled out of either kids nose in the past week. I'm surely sure!

So now it starts ALL over. The incessant washing, disinfecting, laundry, neurosis...my hands are already on the verge of bleeding from washing them so much in an effort NOT to get this crap and so it begins again. I now must try to ensure that I don't return said nastiness to my kids or pass it along to the hubby. Sheets, towels, clothing, oh my! It feels like an epidemic has struck and there is no end in sight. I have already started using the kids' eye drops (at the suggestion of my daughter) though I am not certain they are of maximum effectiveness for adults. And so the journey continues. Can I make it through another week? Will my epidermis survive? Will I need skin grafting when this whole endeavor is complete? Will this contamination make its way over to the other side of my face? Will I give my Hubba a Valentine of his own in the form of a bleeding red eye just in time for his business trip? Will the dog contract it like last time and keep the circle of love in full effect for yet another week? All these questions and more to be answered at a later date. But for now, with 100% certainty I can raise my hand cause I'm SURE! I'm positive. Woke up feeling like I was part of a horror film, eyes sewn shut and unable to see the light of day, sure that the body snatchers had taken what was within and used them for martini garnish. Luckily that was just my imagination getting the best of me and in actuality it was only the curse of the Pink Eye! Happy Monday & Happy Valentine's :0)

The Standoff

Suddenly "The Rock" has started to waffle. What was once a fantastical sleeping boy is now turning into a very consistent nightmare. Granted he has been ailing with the Pink Eye I don't see that as a reason to wake me up in the mid-night.

He was crowing last eve at 10PM...I had just fallen into that nice REM sleep when I was jostled by his wails of "Moooommmmmyyyy!" Being that he has been piddle-filled in the previous nights I figured this was just another diaper debacle. When I got into the room and asked him what was wrong he just sat there. No claim of bad dreams or being scared. No need for food or drink. So I opted for the snuggle. This usually does the trick. A little rocker time and he is soon enough asking for his "Nap." So I went through the motions, laid him back down, returned to my quarters only to have him screaming 30 seconds later. I thought to give him a minute and perhaps it would stop...it didn't. Fearing that he would wake both the Hubba and the Princess from their sleep comas I ran back upstairs to comfort.

I opened the door and whined "Whaaat!?" This time he claimed hunger. He said "Sompin to eat?" Knowing that this kid kicks down as much food in the course of a day as I do I figured he meant business. The doc said that this pink eye non-sense makes them lose their appetites. This has been true...during the day. He eats what I like to call a "Snot Lunch." Disgusting but true. I guess since he is horizontal at night the snot doesn't quite make it down to his stomach and he is no longer satiated by mucosa. Bleh! Needless to say I brought in the buffet for the second night in a row. I spoon-fed him a cup of yogurt, left him a cup of water, rubbed his back with my severely-hand-sanitizer-chaffed hands and told him it was time for sleep. I further explained that everyone in the house was sleeping and his screaming was waking them up. I proceeded with the fact that it was nighttime and he needed to get good rest and be nice and quiet. All to which he sobbed "OOOO KKKKK." But I've come to find that negotiating with a not-quite 2-year-old is like reasoning with a Russian spy. They hear the words, ingest the message, agree to the terms but once that door is shut all bets are off and the old shenanigans start right back up. The only way to stop said shenanigans is to go back in there! Well, I wasn't back in bed for 2 minutes and he was wailing again! GRRR!

This time I was REALLY going to stick it out. I was not going to lose this standoff. He was just testing me. He wasn't wet, wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty and wasn't hurt. WTH? Then the howling got louder. I started envisioning a night like the previous where one kid was crying so loud it woke the other and I was caught doing The Bedroom Boogie. In one door, out the other, lather, rinse and repeat just trying to appease, calm and get back to bloody sleep. So I held out for another couple minutes until the screams hit a new octave. For a third time, I ran up the stairs. This time all he said was "Nugggle" and really, how does one disregard this?

So I picked him up and did just that. We sat in the chair and started rocking, however uncomfortable. At almost 3 feet in length (about half my body measure) and 30+ pounds he doesn't exactly fit, head on my shoulder, like he used to. His legs are all cramped and kicking me in my ever-full nighttime bladder and we are both pretty miserable. It feels kinda like a clown car. Or like when you put on last season's jeans and they are just a bit too tight. You want them to fit. You think they should fit...and they should...but they don't. You feel defeated but keep trying anyway, certain that this is just a case of drier shrinkage...you do squats, bend over, contort your body in any way just to make those bastards fit--but they still don't. We did this dance for a few minutes and then he finally bellowed "Turn around?" which means he wants to sit on my lap as though I am Santa Claus. I acquiesce his request and flip him to face forward, trying to get comfortable cuz we're gonna be here for awhile. Contorting my head to one side, allowing him to lean up against my chin with the back of his head, we settle in. We rocked for no less than 30 minutes at which point I decided enough was enough. I told him that I was going to bed, put him down and walked away...it is now 12:08AM.

Now all this is fine and good. But being that I had been up the stairs 3 times to answer his calls I was now certain that there would be a 4th. Why wouldn't there be? So I lay awake in bed with what can only be described as fine-tuned, ultra keen mom hearing--clearly the Hubba possesses none of this as he has slept through the whole endeavor. But suddenly I morph into Superman and can hear things miles away. I hear things that aren't even there. The whistle of my husband's nose somehow becomes a cry. The dog's snoring is a reason to jump. I am certain that the siren that is shrieking 15 miles from my ear-shot is the boy calling for me. The train chuggin down the tracks-you know the drill. It's ridiculous how instantly every little noise in a 17 mile radius is another call to duty. And this is when I finally kiss my good night's sleep goodbye. Even if I do get back to sleep it won't be restful. I'd rather lay awake with my neurosis waiting for the next sob...which, as Murphy would have it, never comes. Luckily Princess Happy Pants is up at 5 stomping like a gorilla and slamming every door in the upstairs region. Why on earth would I get to sleep in?

So today I embark on the 3rd day stuck in the house. 1 part pink eye, 1 part cold as balls outside (at present 5 below), 2 parts unfit to be amongst the living. I'm saying pleasant wishes for a nap when the kid decides to sleep off his all-nighter, knowing full-well that this is just a pipe dream. But that's OK. Getting to claim super hero powers and holding the key to kiddo contentment far surpasses any 8 hours I've ever slumbered! Happy Groundhog Day people! It can only get better from here!