This was originally published in February of 2007. For more Scrolling Saturdays, go here.
There are times I post stories that need no introduction. They stand alone in their reflections of children's innocence and humor.
And then there are the stories like today's. The kind that require a preface and double disclaimer.
Disclaimer 1: This is the reason I do not use our last name or my children's first names. Because I am horrified to claim this child as my own. Although I am sure each parent reading has an equally disgusting story.
Disclaimer 2: There is a distinct possibility that this child may not be mine at all. He was the only one not born at home, and we all know how sneaky those hospital staff are. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he was switched at birth.
When we returned from an exhausting day of sledding last night, I was sure the kids would throw themselves into bed and peacefully sleep away the night. Didn't happen. Overly tired and limbs aching from being dragged up the hill by their pregnant mommy, they were all wailing. I yanked off clothes, pulled on jammies and did some really quick teeth brushing. At some point I climbed into bed with baby Clam and that's when I became convinced I am rearing someone else's child.
The boys have bunk beds, so I was lying directly under Asker. After a few minutes, he must have forgotten that I was below him. All was quiet, when I heard him whispering.
"Dear Jesus, please help me not to die. I don't want to die. Please help me not to die from the poop germs."
Of course, being the ever-loving mom that I am, my first reaction was to start laughing. But I did so silently, being even more concerned with eavesdropping. I sneaked out of Clam's bed and peeked over the rail for a closer look and listen.
"Jesus, protect me from those poop germs. Help me not to die."
At this point, sympathetic sweet mom kicked in and I made my presence known (plus I knew a really good blog post was happening and I needed details).
"What's wrong, buddy? Why are you praying?"
"I can't tell you, mom. I'm going to get in trouble."
"It's OK, Asker, you can tell me. I want to make sure you're OK. I'm not going to discipline you."
"I'm not OK. I'm going to die!"
At this, my heart started breaking because he obviously believed his demise was imminent. So I climbed the ladder and snuggled up to him.
"Tell me what happened, honey"
"Well, I.....I....I was going to eat my boogie. I mean, I did eat my boogie, and my finger smelled like poop and now I'm going to die from the collie."
OK, can we just stop right there. There are so many disgusting, embarrassing, I-cannot-believe-my-child-just-said-that moments in that confession that I am still reeling. But, in that enigma of life, it is in weakness and vulnerability that we are most prone to tenderness. So, even though I was visibly trying not to laugh, I was overwhelmed with love for this stinky little boy.
"You mean, e-coli?"
"Yes, the poop germs."
"No, honey you're not going to die. Um, why does your finger smell like poop?"
You would have asked, too.
"Well, I was trying to wipe when I had all my snow clothes on, and I couldn't get it all."
"So, you didn't wash your hands and had a little poop smell on your finger from during the day? Well, don't worry, the e-coli are probably all dead from being out in the cold."
Completely pulled out of my butt, that explanation was.
"No, mom, I didn't get it all before, and my hiney was itching, so I just tried to wipe it on my blanket."
"ON YOUR BLANKET? Why didn't you go to the bathroom?"
"I was too tired... I'm going to die!!"
I spent the next few minutes comforting him with various explanations as to why he wasn't going to die. Finally, we prayed together that God would destroy the poop germs (Asker adding "with lasers") and he was able to go to sleep.
I looked at him with the absolute, pure love that comes when they are sleeping and realized what a special thing it is to have a child that is willing to share his most embarrassing moments with his mom. I don't think I would have told my mom had I done the same thing, even at that young age. I'm sure in a few years, his social skills will have developed and he will not even consider cluing me in. I looked at him for another moment, said a quick prayer of thanks, and rushed downstairs to tell Dave so we could laugh hysterically.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Scrolling Saturdays: Everyone Says He Is Just Like His Daddy (Read: Not Like Me)
Friday, December 28, 2007
I Got Your Two Ends At Once Beat
I have officially scarred Dave for life.
I was out for a few hours today with Superboy. On the way home, I got a terrible headache and it started to make me really nauseous. About 10 minutes from home the baby started screaming to be fed. Then I started getting some rumblings. Can you see where this is going?
I rushed in the door, put the car seat on the ground and ran to the bathroom. After puking out half my guts, I felt well enough to grab the baby and nurse him while I took care of the rumblings.
A minute later, I heard Dave walk in the door. Being a bit claustrophobic, I don't ever shut the door to the powder room. And just as he peeked in to ask me a question, the vomit hit again.
Yeah, I was pooping, nursing the baby and vomiting (over the baby on the rug) at the same time.
He was momentarily torn between helping and bolting. The latter won.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
And I Still Want More
I finally potty-trained Clam a few weeks before Superboy was born. It was nice to have a few weeks of no butt-changing. Then I started doing some calcalatin'. I had Asker in Nov. 2001. Before he was potty-trained, I had Toots. Before she was potty-trained, I had Clam. He was fully trained in July of 2007. That means I was changing butts for 68 straight months! And I thought being pregnant or nursing for 56 straight months was bad.
I have issues.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Ladies, I Have A Story
We ate out more often this summer than we have in the past 5 years combined. We had a No Restaurants rule for a while when Toots found it amusing to bang her head on every public floor she encountered. But Clam is such an easy little fella' and we were on vacation, and well, we blew our savings. But the fresh seafood was worth it....except for one time.
One evening a few weeks into our vacation, we met Dave at a local seafood restaurant for dinner. We both loaded up on fresh shellfish, but he also had the tuna. We were walking around the town square after dinner considering ice cream (considering which flavor, that is) when Dave felt a rumble. I directed him to the nearest restroom and sat down with the kids to wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally after about 20 minutes, I walked around the corner to where he had gone. I sat on the bench(pictured below), and proceeded to wait another 20 minutes. I noticed a man, who was obviously waiting for his wife, holding a baby. My amazing powers of deduction knew this to be true because of the proven fact that no man in history has ever held an infant for 45 minutes voluntarily. Anyway, after waiting a bit longer, Dave came running out, quickly said that he was going to get the truck and took off. A moment later, the man's wife and her friend came out of the bathroom talking at a rapid pace. I wasn't really paying attention to them; I was too focused on perfecting the exact verbal volley I was going to use when Dave reappeared. Then I caught what one of the women was saying....."and then he says, 'Ladies, I have a story.'"
In that moment, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was talking about my husband. I tried desperately to eavesdrop, but they turned the corner and I was left to wonder what on earth had happened to my love in the last hour.
When he pulled up, I helped him put the kids in the truck and casually mentioned that I overheard some ladies talking about him. He shook his head and said, "You don't know the half of it......."
His stomach was rumbling and rolling as he went into the men's room and he knew it was not going to be a quick pinch-and-run. But as he went to enter the only stall in the room, another man jumped in front of him and shut the door. Well, as Dave explained it, no man does his business in the time Dave had remaining before a full change of clothes was needed. So he did the only other thing he could do. He went into the Ladies' room. He knocked on the door, and hearing no answer, decided to risk it. When he saw that the two stalls had floor to ceiling doors, he was relieved. He knew if anyone came in, they wouldn't be able to see his size 13 shoes. He tried the first stall, but there was no toilet paper. So he rushed into the second one barely making it before the thunder rolled. He finished up, flushed and as he started towards the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of females entering.
Now, in hindsight, he could have just opened the door, said "hello"and ran out. But he did what most of us would have done. He sat back down to wait it out. But there was just one problem. He forgot that the other stall had no toilet paper. Perhaps a different breed of woman would have just gone. I've done the shake myself a few times when necessary. Or maybe these women really had to do number two. But, whatever the reason, they were not content to use a paperless toilet. They knocked on Dave's door and after getting no answer and trying the door (locked) started speculating.
"Someone must have locked the door accidentally."
"Maybe it's out of order."
"No, they would have posted a sign."
"Well, try it again. Maybe you need to push, not pull."
"It's locked. I can't push or pull it."
All said in the honeysuckle voices of South Carolina girls.
This went on for quite some time. They speculated about what to do as more women entered. Each time a new woman came in, the others would explain the situation in great detail. Well, after a while, Dave started feeling guilty. He couldn't let those poor girls suffer any longer. So he took a deep breath....and knocked.
"Ladies, I have a story.....
Monday, October 29, 2007
Summer Fun
Dave travels a lot. He is actually 1000 miles away as I write. He often asks me to come along, but as he is usually going to places like Minnesota in the winter, Alabama in the summer or New Jersey anytime of the year, I politely decline. But this summer, he had a 3 week job on Hilton Head Island, SC. Hmmmm, I thought, 3 weeks in the sun, no newborn or 1 yr old for the first summer in um, ever, and a house on the market that I cannot keep clean...This might work. So we tagged along.
It was actually the greatest vacation that I've ever had. Previous family vacations have always been so full of activities that the kids get overloaded and everyone gets miserable. But this time, because we knew we had 3 full weeks, we took it easy. While Dave worked, I would take the kids to the beach or the pool. We came back to the hotel (extended stay type with a kitchen) and had lunch and naps. Then we were re-energized for the evening with Daddy. It was the perfect, relaxing time that every woman needs during the third trimester of pregnancy.
But there were some moments. A few days into the trip, the kids and I were hanging out by the pool. Clam was sick and had diarrhea in his swim diaper. I only had my room key and a bottle of water with us, so we headed back to the room. My key did not work (the first of only a hundred times this would happen until I was politely told that keycards and cellphones are not compatible), so we headed, dripping and poopy, towards the front desk.
I politely informed the man on duty that I needed my card reactivated. He asked me my room number and, because he did not recognize me, my name. I told him, and he said my name was not on the registration. I gave him Dave's name. He said Dave was only listed as an occupant and was not the registered name. So I gave him Dave's company name and his direct supervisor's first name (all I knew). Strike three. He would not activate the card. He kept implying that I was trying to sneak into the room, unauthorized. I'm guessing because my pregnant belly, kids in tow disguise was not convincing enough. Now by this time, all 3 kids were whining; we were all shivering; Clam was really stinking; and I was about to blow. I kept my calm, however, and asked him if I could borrow his phone (mine was in the room). He asked if it was local and when I told him it was not he said, "Lady, I'm not going to let you make a long-distance call." That's when I walked outside. I was so close to losing it, but I just walked around for a minute trying to gather my thoughts. I knew Dave wouldn't be home for a few hours. The only thing within walking distance was a gas station and McDonalds, but I didn't have any money on me. I took a deep breath and went back to the front desk. I smiled politely and re-explained the situation to him. I asked him what he would recommend I do. He was the biggest jerk I have ever met. He told me, "Lady, it's not my problem." We went back and forth a few times, and I definitely was getting agitated, but I didn't go full force on him. So it shocked me when after pointing repeatedly to the sign stating No Unauthorized Persons will be Allowed in Rooms, he told me "Lady, if you raise your voice at me, I'm going to call the police." At that, I completely lost it. I told him, fine, call the police and I'm sure they'll personally open the door for me, etc... I actually managed not to curse in front of the kids. Then I burst into tears. I am not a crier, but I was pregnant and so frustrated (the kids were jabbering/whining/questioning the entire time). Thank God, Dave's co-worker happened to come back to the hotel to use the fax machine. He was walking down the hall during the last heated exhange and heard it all. He laid in on the man and provided whatever information was needed to get me back into the room. I have never been so happy to change a diaper in my life. I was absolutely livid for hours, as was Dave. We filed a complaint and so did several other guests who, unbeknownst to me, witnessed the scene. Dave and I discussed it and didn't really want to leave the hotel because the kids were established there. We had to make a conscious decision to continue to be kind to this man whom we were to see for the next 5 weeks. It ended up being a really great opportunity to show God's love and forgiveness to him, and to the kids. Mr. Butch ended up being one of the kids' favorite people there. He went out of his way to be kind to us once he realized we were doing the same. He brought water toys to the kids and shared stories with me about his own children. It was a nice end to a really horrible few hours.
We left the dog with MIL who drove us bonkers with her twaily (twice-daily) phone updates/complaints. So I decided to drive home, 10 days into the trip, and take the dog to be boarded. The trip down had taken about 8 hours, so I figured I could handle 8 hours driving by myself back home. Not even close. It took me 13 hours. 5 of which were just trying to get out of South Carolina. Being 7 months pregnant, at the time, I had to pee constantly. But I couldn't just stop and pee. I had to take each child out of his/her carseat and in with me. And I left during the day instead of at night, so they didn't really sleep at all. 13 hours of Kindermusik and I was ready to leave the truck to Asker and hitchhike home. The next morning, I discovered to my delight and glory that the deep freezer had been accidentally unplugged. The smell was horrifying. My super-sensitive pregnancy nostrils have never been so abused. I promptly plugged it back in and decided to leave the mess for the culprit to clean up. At that point, I wasn't sure if I would be returning as Clam was still sick. But Dave called and said he would probably be a few weeks longer than expected, so we packed up and left 2 days later. This time, I traveled by moonlight and Smashing Pumpkins and it was much, much faster (and saner).
We spent many hours at the beach, spent an unforgettable day at isolated Daufuskie Island (which is only accessible by ferry), caught a few sharks, watched fireworks, celebrated Toot's 4th birthday and had an amazing time of family bonding. It was definitely a summer to remember. But the greatest part of the trip may have been the moment when I realized that I had the best blog post unfolding right in front of me. More to come on that next time.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Everyone Says He Is Just Like His Daddy
There are times I post stories that need no introduction. They stand alone in their reflections of children's innocence and humor. And then there are the stories like today's. The kind that require a preface and double disclaimer. Disclaimer 1: This is the reason I do not use our last name or my children's first names. Because I am horrified to claim this child as my own. Although I am sure each parent reading has an equally disgusting story. Disclaimer 2: There is a distinct possibility that this child may not be mine at all. He was the only one not born at home, and we all know how sneaky those hospital staff are. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he was switched at birth.
When we returned from an exhausting day of sledding last night, I was sure the kids would throw themselves into bed and peacefully sleep away the night. Didn't happen. Overly tired and limbs aching from being dragged up the hill by their pregnant mommy, they were all wailing. I yanked off clothes, pulled on jammies and did some really quick teeth brushing. At some point I climbed into bed with baby C and that's when I became convinced I am rearing someone else's child.
The boys have bunk beds, so I was lying directly under A. After a few minutes, he must have forgotten that I was below him. All was quiet, when I heard him whispering.
"Dear Jesus, please help me not to die. I don't want to die. Please help me not to die from the poop germs."
Of course, being the ever-loving mom that I am, my first reaction was to start laughing. But I did so silently, being even more concerned with evesdropping. I sneaked out of C's bed and peeked over the rail for a closer look and listen.
"Jesus, protect me from those poop germs. Help me not to die."
At this point, sympathetic sweet mom kicked in and I made my presence known (plus I knew a really good blog post was happening and I needed details).
"What's wrong, buddy? Why are you praying?"
"I can't tell you, mom. I'm going to get in trouble."
"It's OK, A, you can tell me. I want to make sure you're OK. I'm not going to discipline you."
"I'm not OK. I'm going to die!"
At this, my heart started breaking because he obviously believed his demise was imminent. So I climbed the ladder and snuggled up to him.
"Tell me what happened, honey"
"Well, I.....I....I was going to eat my boogie. I mean, I did eat my boogie, and my finger smelled like poop and now I'm going to die from the collie."
OK, can we just stop right there. There are so many disgusting, embarrassing, I-cannot-believe-my-child-just-said-that moments in that confession that I am still reeling. But, in that enigma of life, it is in weakness and vulnerability that we are most prone to tenderness. So, even though I was visibly trying not to laugh, I was overwhelmed with love for this stinky little boy.
"You mean, e-coli?"
"Yes, the poop germs."
"No, honey you're not going to die. Um, why does your finger smell like poop?" You would have asked too.
"Well, I was trying to wipe when I had all my snow clothes on, and I couldn't get it all."
"So, you didn't wash your hands and had a little poop smell on your finger from during the day? Well, don't worry, the e-coli are probably all dead from being out in the cold." Completely pulled out of my butt, that explanation was.
"No, mom, I didn't get it all before, and my hiney was itching, so I just tried to wipe it on my blanket."
"ON YOUR BLANKET? Why didn't you go to the bathroom?"
"I was too tired. I'm going to die!!"
I spent the next few minutes comforting him with various explanations as to why he wasn't going to die. Finally, we prayed together that God would destroy the poop germs (A adding "with lasers") and he was able to go to sleep.
I looked at him with the absolute, pure love that only comes when they are sleeping and realized what a special thing it is to have a child that is willing to share his most embarrassing moments with his mom. I don't think I would have told my mom had I done the same thing, even at that young age. I'm sure in a few years, his social skills will have developed and he will not even consider cluing me in. I looked at him for another moment, said a quick prayer of thanks, and rushed downstairs to tell Dave so we could laugh hysterically.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Some Heavy Reading
Sorry my posts have been so sporadic. I have been a little occupied. Our kitchen is just about finished so I am no longer the Queen of Microwave Cooking. As for the rest of my time? Well, I basically have been spending all day in front of the toilet waiting for the little man to finish......
Thursday, January 04, 2007
A Bad Case of VD
We had a few unwelcome visitors in our house the last 24 hours. Vomit and diarrhea decided to grace us. It started around 3:30 am. A woke up complaining of stomach pains. Having very limited mothering skills after midnight, I never considered a virus and told him to come on in to the family bed. A half an hour later we were awakened to barf all over the new bed and pillows. Normally, Dave doesn't awaken for anything child related, but I guess he could tell someone precious to him was in distress. He instantly was out of bed, barely glancing at A, rushing to the linen closet to change the sheets on his new mistress.
The rest of the night was a blur of throw-up towels, back rubs and hot showers. I finally fell asleep around 6am, only to be awakened by my own rumblings. They need to have an emergency farm where you can send your kids when sick (you, not them). I love taking care of my kids when they are sick (and not nearly as mouthy), and I even like nursing my husband when he moans for hours on end during a terrible injury (splinters can be really painful). But when I am sick, I want to be left alone. I don't like kids looking over my shoulder while I am heaving up my stomach lining. So I pushed them out of the bathroom and hoped their plaintive cries would wake the sleeping giant in our bed. Dave was up late laying tile (thanks to the Bad Man, I'm getting a whole new house!), so I put the kids in front of the TV and went to bed. Bad Mom.
The problem is, I am an incredibly loud puker. I don't try to be, I just have a very powerful diaphragm (stop giggling and look it up), and it gets full usage during barf sessions. I didn't realize just how loud it was until baby C started mimicking me.
C- "Aaaaheeee"
Me- "You need to go potty? Good boy, let's go."
C- " Atch ee" (I have yet to birth a child that sees the necessity of first consonants.)
He skips the 10 minute ritual of getting a step stool, lifting both lid and seat, putting back down the seat and finally sitting down. Instead, he lifts the lid, puts his head all the way in the toilet and starts saying, "UUHHH, UUHHH, UHHH"
It would have been funny, except just watching him made me spew again.
Thankfully, it seemed to be a 12 hour bug. I have kept down half a glass of water, half a pretzel and some applesauce for a big 50 minutes now. I guess I should go unchain the kids from the couch.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Spread Em
I can see about four square feet of my living room floor (that's almost 50%), and I hate cleaning, so here I sit. I finally got around to adding the Feedburner chicklet , so if you want to subscribe, have at it. Now, to the butt cheeks story.
My kids are so weird (the older two). They don't wipe when they poop. I mean, they're supposed to. Or actually, I'm supposed to. But they just go and then get up, and it's so gross. We have tried every method to get them to wipe, or at least flush. First, we decided to go the way of natural consequences (ie: sore hineys). The problem is, they are clean poopers. So after several weeks of not pushing them (and frequent baths), we gave up on that.
Dave takes the brunt of the situation. Although I hold my kids and snuggle all day, their butts are rarely near my nose. Dave, however, is constantly wrestling and tickling the kids. Come evening time and a few bowel movements each, they're pretty ripe.
It reminds me of a cat we used to have. Actually, we still have him but he no longer has us. That's another story. Anyway, our sweet little kitten, Debussy, came home a she. The pet store owner told Dave she was a she. For several weeks, all was fine with her. Than she started stinking. Every time she would march past us with that tail up in the air, I was reaching for the air spray. I tried to teach her to wipe after she pooped, but apparently that is an unteachable skill. When she started spraying, we realized she was a he and took him to the vet where he promptly became an it. I had expected him to stop spraying, post-snippage, but he also stopped stinking of cat doodoo. Obviously, the vet had taught him to wipe.
I would really like to have grandchildren one day, so we are taking a different approach with the kids. Today, Dave found a floater. He called in the two culprits.
Daddy- "Who pooped last?"
Kids in unison- "Not I!"
Daddy- "There is poop in the toilet and no toilet paper. Somebody pooped, didn't wipe and didn't flush. "
-numerous back-and-forths regarding which children could have done so and which child (blamed by the other two) could not have.-
Daddy- "Pull down your undies and bend over."
Kids comply
Daddy- "Spread your cheeks." (he was in the Marine Corps, what can I say?)
A- promptly grabs his mouth and pulls it apart.
We just rolled. It was comforting to know that the term "butt cheeks" is not used frequently in our house. He had no clue until I told him Daddy didn't mean his regular cheeks.
So, now we're back to square one. I think the best thing for them may be a good bout of diarrhea. A few sore hineys will teach them a lesson. I'm thinking a nice laxitive-laced dinner tomorrow may do the trick. Either that, or a trip to the vet.
