In transition

This is Aunt Teppy, my sister. Isn’t she pretty? She called me a couple of weeks ago because I am completely oblivious to local events, at times. Tim and I’s favorite comedian, Brian Regan, was going to be in town. She called to tell me that and, here’s the kicker, volunteered to babysit! Of course we took her up on it. Tim and I, on the rare occasion we get out, trade sitting services with other couples or pay obscene amounts to neighborhood teens.

We had a great time. We are so used to eating while tag teaming the boys that we both scarfed our dinner and were left with ample time to sit and stare at each other. without being ‘campers’. To the lady who sat behind us, “Learn to modulate your voice or at the very least learn to carry on an interesting conversation.” We are both compulsive eavesdroppers; probably because we’re both too boring to have our own conversation that doesn’t involve something coming out of our children. No one, in our vicinity had anything remotely interesting to talk about, so we left.

Brian Regan was playing at the Charleston Performing Arts Center. The show was great, he had a lot of material we hadn’t heard and he’s great live. As far as the venue I have one rave and one minor concern, both involve the restroom. I was highly impressed, after the show, going to the restroom wasn’t a huge ordeal. In fact, there were so many stalls it looked like a synchronized sport. I am not usually impressed by restroom facilities. Everything was very clean, it was nothing like a stadium where women are terrified of actually coming in contact with a surface. Well, everyone except my stepdaughter, who I once caught picking pennies up off the floor at a Charleston Riverdogs game. I had to completely sanitize her before we could let her back in the house.

On to my concern, I measure in at a hair under six feet tall. Last night, I wore heels and felt like an amazon surveying pygmies. Perhaps Charleston is known for its persons of small stature (midgets, dwarves, or various other little people). I’ve only seen a couple in the area, in my entire life. However, they must have a strong lobbying committee. I washed my hands and looked for the dryers or paper towel dispensers. I completely missed it in my first glance around the room because, and I kid you not, the dispenser was at knee level. Sure, it’s a great height, for my two year old; I really think someone had to have messed up the installation. However, according to Tim, it was the same in the men’s restroom, go figure.

Oh and to whoever designed the parking lot: I love you, I really love you. This was probably the best designed parking area I’ve been in. Seriously, we didn’t show up obscenely early and managed a great spot. We were out of the parking lot in less than two minutes, absolutely unheard of in my experience.

A Taco Smell run completed our kid free evening. We are obviously not partying people anymore, but that’s OK. I can appreciate an evening out, now, without paying for it the next day. If you get the chance to see Brian Regan, go for it, he’s so funny, but it’s an event you could take your mom to and not cringe with embarassment.

Yesterday I fixed all the hooks (10) for the shades in our Florida room. It makes such a huge difference, not having the cords strewn about to hold the shades up. I couldn’t peel the sticky hooks off (the previous owner used them), so I screwed a brass screw into the center of each piece. The parts the cords actually wrapped around had snapped off over the last two years.

I also washed all the windows. Maybe someday we’ll actually have furniture in there.

I have been out of the loop. Aidan’s sickness and my own mastitis has caused me to not pay attention to the news as of late. Last night, I was finally able to attend a small group meeting. (This is a way the church I attend creates involvement for both learning and volunteer work.) In an off topic discussion another member brought this up:
Poll reveals 40pc of Muslims want sharia law in UK. Being the nerd I am, it piqued my interest.

This morning I’ve been researching Sharia. Please note the article is flagged to have disputes with accuracy and neutrality. However, I just wanted a basic understanding of what Islamic Law encomapasses.

I do not trust polls; I think it is highly impropable to find an accurate representation of the general populace who are willing to participate in polls. I’ve been polled a couple of times, but until this past year I had never received a call and no one in my circle of friends has ever brought it up. My two year old is not a good sounding board for political discussion, so I’m actually appreciative of the outlet a poll provides. I believe a large portion of society, present company excluded, can’t be bothered with politics. I hear excuses about how dull it is. I just smile and nod while wanting to shake them and explain how politics is so rife with sex and corruption that it is far more interesting than any soap opera drivel. It has ramifications that will affect our lives and the lives of our kids. However, I know better than to attempt a conversion.

I guess my mindless blathering is an attempt at saying: the headline is disturbing, but I personally doubt the accuracy of the data. I find the idea of the implementation of Sharia law something out of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. It disturbs me on a deep level, but that is tempered with its unlikely occurence.

I belong to a mothers group that meets monthly. These meetings are to discuss various aspects of parenting. It’s also a great reason to head to the local wateringhole after the “meeting.” It’s one of the rare occasions I get out of the house alone. I haven’t taken advantage of this excuse since the Christmas party and recently received an e-mail from the leader.

Long story somewhat shorter, I just volunteered to put together a presentation on cooking. Anyone who really knows me will understand I’d rather put a fork in my eye than get up in front of a group and speak.

What did I just do?

Warning: This post contains descriptions of bodily fluids (and none of them are the ‘exciting ones.’)

As a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) my days are pretty routine and boring. Mostly I just keep the boys entertained and do all the things I’d like to pay someone else for, but am just too tightwad to ever really give that any thought. I spend a lot of my time on alert, waiting for Sir Thousand Hands to find a new way to try and off himself. Thankfully, as he gets older the monkey inside finds less destructive ways to be entertained.

Then there are days, like yesterday, where my day can go from relatively peaceful to craptastic (Thanks Ivy) in less than ten hellish minutes. The baby was fussy, not for any apparent reason, but if he wasn’t in my arms he had to be wiggling around on our bed, or else. I haven’t quite figured out what it is about your own infant’s screech of rage, but no other sound, in my experience, is quite as capable as climbing inside your spine and tightening every nerve in your body until it is just singing with tension. I swear, that sound could be marketed for use by hostage negotiators, it is an instant blinding headache. So, that being noted, we were on the bed, surrounded by a pillow barricade, that the wigglebutt really just laughs at.

Sometimes, all it takes to start an exhausting chain reaction of events is a simple, “Mama?! Go poop!” You see, STH is completely potty trained. Yes, I’m very proud of him. Anyhow, a case of diarrhea took him a little off guard, but together we still made it to the toilet before any major damage was done. I put Mark on the floor and the screech of rage began, as did the headache. I did the ever popular toilet swish of STH’s underwear in the other bathroom, scrubbed my hands, and put the baby back on the bed, where he began to channel a whirling dervish. STH is potty trained, but very impatient. I have yet to figure out how to make it absolutely clear that you finish before dismounting.

So, let’s set the scene shall we? Baby Mark is whirling around on the bed and my nerves are sizzling. I’m attempting to monitor STH’s progress by where he is in Hop on Pop. Mark makes a play for the edge and I pull him back to the middle. In the split second it takes to perform that manuever, STH calls out “All done, Mama!” and I hear his feet hit the floor. I run in and of course, he had not been completely done before he slid off the toilet booster thingy. I will sum it up with, “ICK.” STH assumes the position (down dog, for you yoga fanatics); it is not pretty. A quick glance ensures that Mark is still safe, in the middle of the bed.

Toilet paper isn’t going to be even close to effective, in this clean up. Of course, the wipes are in the other bathroom, because STH likes to vary his routine and I keep forgetting to stock up. Praying STH holds his pose, I begin to head to the other bathroom, when I hear the sound that every dog owner knows and fears.

“Vlu-urp. . . VLU-urp”

“Noooooo!” I scream as I head toward the sound and my sixty-six pound basset hound. “Not on the carpet!” He has come into the only carpeted room on this floor. I begin trying to push him off the carpet, in time. Vomiting dogs must be like sleeping children, the inertia seems to triple their body mass. Through serious gymnastics and peril at ignoring the two children, I do manage to get him to the deck before he erupts. As an aside to Wallace, why do you think you need to eat the weeds? I really am trying to clean up the yard, I don’t need your help, they are not a doggy buffet, and you are not a cow.

I dash back into my room, where Mark is making a play for the edge. STH is walking on all fours around the bathroom, dirty butt in the air. I make another play for the wipes. As my hands are certainly not even close to sanitary, Mark decides it’s time to not be content and to let me know, in no uncertain terms.

I try to reason with him as I clean up STH. “You woke up cranky, Mark, I fed you ten minutes ago. Yes, you did burp, and I changed you, just after that. I’ve played with you all day. It’s your own fault you’re crabby.” Meanwhile, STH, who has never seen Spiderman as anything other than a character on his underwear cries about how he pooped on Spiderman and Mark refuses to be comforted by my words and returns to the edge of the bed, contemplating his certain demise.

As quickly as possible, the bathroom is sanitized, STH is dressed in clean Spiderman underwear, and Mark is rescued from the edge of the bed. I console Mark and he erupts in tremendous yawns. The little traitor was ready for a nap. It seems his sole purpose in waking up from the previous one was to be a part of the madness. They are already conspiring against me, aren’t they?

In the evening, when my husband comes home, he’ll inevitably ask, “How was your day?”
“Fine. Yours?”

Wait until your child is out of the room. Then, decide a cookie would be the perfect treat. Quietly lift the lid of the jar. If they come screaming into the room, “MAMA! I’m coming! Cookie please!” their hearing is perfect!

I’d say the tubes have been a success.

Spring is here! It might not be everywhere, but it has certainly arrived, in my corner of the world. I’ve got the urge to skip; the trees are budding. My neighbor has gorgeous daffodils that tempt Sir Thousand Hands. I am learning how hard it is to teach a two year old that it is OK to pick the dandelions, but the neigbhor’s flowers are only for smelling.

STH has a book Worm Smells where the main character, worm, sniffs things and makes such astute comments as “Smells Nice!” That has become a household phrase. If you come in the house and supper is cooking, “Smells nice says worm!” If a nasty diaper is being changed, “Smells bad!”

We are going to try to make it to playgroup, today. I feel like such a yuppie saying that. However, it is so nice to get out of the house and tag team children, rather than being the only responsible one. I believe we are headed to the park. Hopefully, baby Mark cooperates and I can pull out my camera.

Thank God I don’t live in Minnesota, anymore.

I hate more than being trendy for the sake of being trendy. Could the powers that be PLEASE do away with the term “Baby Bump.” I hadn’t even had my coffee yet and my brain was accosted with “Britney Back on Bump Watch.”

Sometimes I wish I could put a filter on my Internet connection and radio that would eliminate all mention of Hollywood figures. There have been a few times I’ve looked up favorite actors to make sure I haven’t missed any movies. However, I really could not possibly give a rat’s ass as to what they do in their spare time. Their lives are not a reflection of my own. They can play idealist all day long; I’m just tired of hearing about it.

While I’m bitching, could we, general we, also stop overusing the word ‘issues.’ The fake psychobabble makes my ears bleed. You do not have ‘issues’ with cheese; cheese constipates you and no one cares.

is not golden when you have a two year old that wants to be read to and a baby who likes to be sung to.

I’ve lost my voice.

And yes, you mother hens you, I’m gargling, drinking lots of fluids, and trying hot tea with honey.

I mentioned a while ago that my two year old just wasn’t getting better. Yesterday, I think we fixed the problem, at least I hope we have.

My two year old, if he wasn’t the world’s most angry baby, he was certainly an honorable mention. It didn’t matter what we did, he just wasn’t happy. He began to calm down when we taught him some sign language, the most effective sign was “help.” (right hand grasps the left wrist) When he mastered this, it was like someone flipped a lightswitch and he began to mellow out. The poor kid just hated being trapped in a baby’s body and was frustrated. Once he could ask us to help him do the things he wanted he improved.

Over the past year, we had watched him blossom into an amazing kid. His personality changed and as his vocabulary exploded he was on top of the world. The tantrums practically disappeared. Over the past two months I watched this in reverse. I couldn’t understand what was happening to my son. His pronunciation became garbled and he began pitching fits, constantly. This was on top of being sick, so at first I chalked it up to illness. When he began to get better and the tantrums just increased, I became more worried.

I would ask acquaintences and would hear, “He speaks so well for a two year old.” Well, that may have been true, but he was speaking terribly compared to just a month or so ago. Thankfully, we have a great family doctor. He didn’t just chalk my concerns up to paranoia and referred us to an ENT. We saw the ENT within the week and were scheduled for tubes.

Aidan had the surgery, yesterday. He was absolutely miserable coming out of the anesthesia, but once he shook that his old self came back. The doctor told us that there was a large amount of fluid trapped in his ears and it was very thick and they’d had to suction it out; it probably would not have resolved on its own. His hearing had probably suffered greatly with the fluid. The doctor had said we should see immediate improvement. He wasn’t kidding.

My little man zoomed all over yesterday. He went with my husband on several errands and behaved better than he has in a long time. He came home and just played his little heart out. The whining disappeared. We had one tantrum while I was preparing dinner, but hey, he’s two! He attacked his dinner and slept through the night.

Look our world; Sir Thousand Hands is back.