July 31, 2009

Poison Control

Stopped by the store on my way home from work this evening. Picked up some veggies, some steak for the grill, and some dishwasher detergent.

James likes to help me unpack groceries, and I didn't think much of the fact that he was playing with the groceries, and even the plastic dishwasher detergent container. I was stupidly under the misunderstanding that those types of containers were actually sealed. Ketchup, mustard, toothpaste ---anything you care to ingest or put in your mouth has a seal; the scary stuff does not. Just for the record.

Pretty soon thereafter, we notice that James has the container and is "painting" with the liquid detergent. Luckily, he was only painting on the carpet, and he didn't appear to have ingested any. I grabbed him and stuffed my entire nose in his mouth, smelling for the lemon scent. I smelled his right hand (nothing), and his left fingers appeared to be the only issues. We washed hands and mouth. I asked him if he drank any soap, and he said, "Icky." I guess not. I gave him some water and Goldfish.

Jason called Poison Control, because that is what I was told to do in all my parenting books: wash mouth out, make child chug water, call Poison Control. We reported the brand, noted that the main problematic ingredient was bleach, and they did a database search. Recommednation: make sure James was eating, drinking water, and if he started foaming at the mouth and vomiting, to call them back. Got it.

Well, two hours later, there is no foaming at the mouth, no vomiting, and only a routine post-dinner poopy diaper. I did notice, however, that his solid navy blue pants had taken on a tie-dyed look.

Apparently, James had also "painted" his pants. And the bleach in the detergent made a lovely hue.

Crisis averted. No sick child, and only a pair of pants painted. I prefer the painted pants over the pooped pants. Not too bad for a Friday. I'll take it.

July 28, 2009

Roxanne

Tonight, I am standing in the kitchen, listening to my husband put our son to bed over the monitor, while shoveling lava-like spaghetti sauce in my mouth. I hear the normal bedtime noises "Sing E-I-E-I-O! Bear! Monkey!" And then I hear a familiar song... by the bits and pieces:

"...to put on the red light..."

More mumbling. NO he's not, I think to myself. My husband is singing "Roxanne" to our son.

"...you don't have to sell your body to the night..."

I start laughing.

"...you don't have to wear that dress tonight."

Well, at least it's a classic.

July 26, 2009

Happy B, Monkey


Happy 21 month birthday, little man.
I love when you ask: "Where is Mommies" and talk feverishly about the Triceratops, the "dine-saur with tail, nose, mouf, eyes, ears, and 'corns.'"

I'm in awe of you. Yes, as you are nearing your "terrible twos," you are starting to make me crazy, but I still find you hilarious...and love you more than words.
 

July 23, 2009

Oasis


What happened to my backyard? Oh that's right, I have toys now. Not cool toys, like a patio with fire pit, or a giant grill get-up. But a cool toy like inflatable backyard oasis. Boo yow. You are so jealous.



I am in still in awe of that fact that less than two years ago... there were only two of us. Now, there are four?




I am also in awe of the human condition. Said human condition being lying, cheating, and deceit. I used to hang my hat on the fact I would have children because of this horrible world, and the harsh realities of it -"why bring a child into this world?" Well, that seems a little cynical and ridiculous, because obviously, kids seem to be THE reason to be in this blasted world.

I suppose I'm having a plain, ole hard time right now in a few ways, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I am sleep deprived while juggling work and children. It has nothing to do with my family, and the people I trust. Rather, I think when one prides herself in her family, coupled with the ability to "do it all" and (do it all pretty damn well)...and then suddenly "doing it all" seems like a bloody mistake. Where does one go from there?


For now, I do not over-analyze it. I will put my feet up, snuggle up to my hubby, and listen to the precious babbling of my son over the baby monitor. A friend told me today: the stuff that really matters isn't in the four walls of an office. Seems obvious, but sometimes hard to remember. Twenty years from now, will I really care that I managed to write a brief in record time? Somehow, I doubt it.


Well, I'm printing t-shirts if anyone is interested in this message.

Love to you,
M


PS - I think a weekend in the Atwood water park is just what the doctor ordered.

July 20, 2009

Daddy McStudMuffin

Two babies in two years...equals crazy daddy.
But he's hanging in there... the hero of my teeny-tiny world.



I love you. Daddy McStudMuffin.

Boogers


One of my co-workers asked me which car belonged to me - we discovered that we parked on the same level in the parking deck.

I responded, "Oh, the black Honda pilot. The one with two strollers, two carseats, and covered in dirt. You know, that one over there," and pointing, I said, "See? The one over there, with the back windows smeared with boogers?"
He responded, "Well, at least you don't let your kids put up their stickers."
No. No I don't. Although, for the life of me, I can't figure out how to prevent the booger factor...

July 14, 2009

Working Mother

One of my very best friends, Barbara (love you, B) sent me a Facebook post, asking me if I was interested in her back issues of "Working Mother Magazine." I laughed out loud, thinking she was being her typical, silly self, attemping to make me laugh.

I thought she was kidding. However, "Working Mother" is not only a magazine, but it apparently sells copies!? And is lucrative? What? Now you must understand my surprise.

The conundrum: how does a publisher sell magazines to an audience (a working mother) who has absolutely no time to read? Said publisher must not have paid much attention in business school.

Working mothers have no time to read a cereal box, a book for pleasure, let alone a magazine that tries to tell us how to "be everything to everyone with a smile, while simultaneously slenderizing our hips in just five minutes a day." Stupid Working Mother will be out of business in months.

Maybe not. Because here is the absolute evil genius behind Working Mother Magazine: not only are working mothers the busiest freaks of nature on the planet, but they also carry around the patented working-mother-guilt like Atlas...and thus, are always seeking to figure it all out, to be better to the kids, the husband, their sacred temple of a body, etc. etc. etc.

Hence, Working Mother Magazine will help *YOU* (working mother) figure it ALL out!
*YOU* can cook meals in six minutes a day!
*YOU* too can have a perfect body in only thirty-seconds a day!
*YOU* can relax with only a bath and a Ped-Egg!
*YOU* can make pipe cleaner crafts or cupcakes in your car, during your two hour commute!
*YOU* can spice up your sex life with only a toothbrush and a handful of Goldfish crackers!
*YOU*can do it ALL!

Hogwash.

I cannot wait to get my hands on all the back issues. Maybe it has the secrets to making this horrific circus of a working mother life become calm, vacation like, a day at the pool... I'm foaming at the mouth.

I think they have a new subsriber. D'oh.

July 13, 2009

Buried in Children - Part II


Typical Monday evening, pre-bath ritual. Setting: the doorway between the living room and our bedroom.

Stella is in the bouncer giggling, jumping like popcorn, and effectively wearing herself out for her 7-10 hours of straight sleep (have I mentioned how much I love her?).

Jason lays on the floor and attemps to read, while James leaps onto his back and rides him like a prize rodeo bull.

Usually, I am perched nearby, on the living room side of things, and James alternates between us like a ping pong bull rider and clown for Stella. "Jumping! Sissy! Jumping!"

Tonight, I took a break to capture this funny moment. Someday, I know I will miss this. And I wanted to always remember the feeling that this picture holds.

Dear Sweet Stella


Stella. She is the sweetest baby in the world.
She cracks up when I sing "La la la, Stella Girl" to the tune of "Elmo's world." And laughs at James, as he pummels her head with toys and tries to tie her hair like shoelaces. She is the perfect baby girl, and the perfect baby sister for James. I am so glad she is in our family.


And now, sweet baby Stella is an official "sitter." Just like that, she's growing up.

After a run on the treadmill tonight, I emerge to see Jason with Stella in the Baby Bjorn. We affectionately call her Jason's "mini-me" (as you can see why). But I think back, trying to wrangle James into the Bjorn, and he would have none of it. And here, Stella loves it.

Luckily for her (and the rest of us), it appears that she also has Jason's temperment. Whew, that was a close one. Two scorpios (me and James) under one roof is probably adequate.


I love you, Stella girl. You are THE sweetest thing in drooly bib and hat. I love you so so so. La la la la.

Fish.


Last weekend, we went to Bass Pro Shops to take James to see the moose and the fish. After a long assessment of the moose, he said "bye bye mooooose" and we headed over to the big tank to see the fish.

He stood on the edge and stared and stared. Several of the smaller fish slipped by, and James was unimpressed. However, when one of the big ones went by, and mighty close to the glass, James' eyes grew very large.


He looked at me, let out a big breath, and said, "Fish. Tickle."

July 9, 2009

Love You


Tonight, I had the rare occasion to put James down to bed. Jason usually does it, taking James upstairs to the bath, while I fly past with Stella. I scream "night, buddy," and head to Stella's room for the rocking. Jason had the grill going, so I "volunteered" to take James tonight. (Really, I was just starving. Other motives.)

My boy and I rocked a little, did a short round of "ABC's" and I put him in his crib, surrounded by Piglet, Doghead, Kitten and Doghead II. He had his paci strategically placed in the side of his mouth.

"Night, night buddy," I said heading towards the door.

"Night. Night," he said.

I smiled, and began to close the door. "Love you," I said.

He grinned at me, paci sideways. "Uv you."

And the tears, they flowed like rain. I've been waiting for "uv you" for months.
And today was the day.

He's becoming a boy, right before my eyes. Shortly, he'll be a teenager and hate me. I am soaking this all up.

Uv you too, buddy.

July 7, 2009

Toga

James stole a ratty pair of gym shorts (circa 1997) from our junk clothes drawer.



He apparently put the shorts over his head like a shirt, marched into the living room holding a solitary sock and looking like the cat who ate the canary.



"Shirt," he said. But, immediately, I realized that this "look" was much more akin to a toga.


"James! Nice toga, buddy."




He smiles proudly.


"To-ga. Toga. Nice."


Now, if he only was wearing his sister's pink sandals from earlier in the evening...