Tattoos and Drool

Butter side down

Murphy’s Law tends to play a big part in parenting. You know what I’m talking about. How every time you attempt to sneak silently out of the baby’s room after an impossible bout of sleep fighting, every bone in your body will choose that exact moment to crack audibly. Or how your kid wants grilled cheese and ONLY grilled cheese damnit, and you open the fridge door to find you’re out of American singles.

And of course, the Big One. How, any time your child gets sick, it will be a Friday, right around, ohh.. the EXACT time your doctor’s office closes. EVERY TIME.

This time, I thought I could outsmart that law. The baby had been cranky on Wednesday and Thursday, refusing to nurse, trouble sleeping, blah blah. I’ll take her in on Friday if she’s not better, I think. So Friday rolls around, and who wakes up with a mile wide grin and is perfectly content all morning? My baby dooooooes!

Ohhhhh no. I’m not falling for that. Because if I don’t take her, she’ll start getting screamy right around 7 tonight and next thing I know I’ll have a nifty little Prompt Med bill in my hands. So I took her in. Ears checked, nose checked, mouth checked, lungs checked. Who’s just fine? Yeah. My baby is. Bye bye twenty-five dollar copay.

Okay, so now a quick back story. Beckett has ear tubes. He had a ridiculous amount of ear infections as a baby so we had them put in in November of last year. No problems since then. Sometimes he’ll have the occasional gnarly drainage, but that’s it. So when I notice some crusties on his ear about a week ago, I figure it’s just like every other time.

On Thursday, the kid stunk. Like, a totally funky stink that only a boy could emit. Almost a “Did you stick your hand down your pants and then give yourself a shoulder rub?” stink. So I make the husband scrub him down good in the tub that night, and he’s smellin’ fresh again. Until the next day. Friday. Around 7 o’clock. Just a few hours after we had BEEN AT THE DOCTOR FOR THE OTHER KID. He’s stinking again, and where do we finally figure out the stench is coming from? Um, yeah. His ear. REEKS. It smells like rotting flesh in a two-hundred degree closet. Not many things make me gag, but that? Instant vomit threats.

So then who was up four or five times on Friday night crying in pain? My kid was. Ugh.

Then of course it’s Saturday, and I contemplate dragging him to the Prompt Med and likely exposing us both to the swine flu air swirling around all the hacking people in the waiting room. Add to that a hundred-dollar ER copay and you’ve got a party! Thankfully a friend recommend that we instead take him to the Minute Clinic at CVS. OMG. SAVIOR. We were there for about an hour total, even when factoring in the 200-year-old lady in front of us who had no business whatsoever attempting to fill out an electronic form. (”Karen? What’s this say? My address? Don’t they have those plain paper forms?”)

So the visit was quick and mostly painless and now we’re on a 5-day course of antibiotics for his rancid ear ear infection.

Which is a whole new Law in itself, because you know what happens when you try to get your kid to swallow a perfectly measured teaspoon of the pink stuff.

Sometimes you forget they’re people

“I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I wanna watch Dragon Tales. I’m hungry. I wanna go to the park. But Mooooom! HE! No HE!! I’m hungry. I, I, I, I I I I…”

That there? The sounds of my house. Day in and day out I hear the same couple dozen words in various combinations. Almost every sentence contains the word “hungry” or “HE!” So my routine is generally: Feed kids. Water kids. Pull Kid 1 off of Kid 2. Rock Kid 3. Put Kid 2 in Time Out for kicking Kid 1 in the face repeatedly. Feed kids. Tell kids they’ve had enough to eat before 9am. Console Kid 2 and put ice on his bite wound. Feed kids. Wrangle kids for diaper changes. More time outs. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes though, if I take a few seconds to listen just a little more closely, I’ll hear something different.

I was sitting on the couch nursing the baby, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Beckett, the two-year-old, wielding two hard plastic dinosaurs. He positioned one in a drawer from the play kitchen, and crawled the other up the first one’s back as he chanted, “Sube! Sube! Sube!” He then narrated an entire conversation, something to do with, “Get in mah mouf! No, you CAN’T! Oh no, I falling!” as one dinosaur slammed into the other in a fierce battle.

He continued the dino demolition as I stifled my laughter and remembered back a couple weeks ago, when we were on vacation and I was able to overhear a conversation between the two boys as I laid in bed. There was a bathroom right next to the room I was sleeping in, and Sawyer had come down to use it and Beckett had followed.

“Hey Sawyer!”

“Hi, Beckett. I’m going potty.”

“Okay Sawyer, that’s foiiiine.” (Apparently I gave birth to an Aussie?)

“Sawyer, are you having good time at Grandma’s house?” (very slow and enunciated, as typical for the two-year-old)

“Yes, Beckett. Now, I have to go potty.”

“Okay, that’s foiiiine.”

“Beckett, there is poop on my butt.”

“Oh YEAH, Sawyer, there is poop on your butt!”

“Haha. NICE.”

Yes, sometimes if you listen, you’re reminded that they’re not just mindless food receptacles. They’re people, and they like to talk about poop just as much as the rest of us.

Customer service is not dead

Let me first set the scene for you. Monday, I needed to go to the bank. I had approximately fourteen checks as well as a stack of cash that needed to be deposited before I gave in to temptation and bought ten Route 44 Diet Dr Peppers from Sonic with it. Anyone who has three or more children knows that leaving the house with them should be an Olympic sport. I thought it was hard when I had one baby. No. NO. That is cake, trust me. With three, there’s the outfit choosing and the diaper wrestling and the cup filling and the potty reminders and the bag packing and three sets of carseat straps and the shoe finding OH MY GOD THE SHOE FINDING. I cannot comprehend why the little people shoes in our house always seem to disappear, but they do, and when I can’t find them I come thisclose to losing my MIND. It’s like I expend enough energy to change, dress and pack three children and the one thing holding me up is the shoes? THE SHOES? Come on now.

So I’m packing a bag, putting on my pants and buckling the baby in her carseat all at the same time and finally, YES! We are ready! Or not. I can’t find two stupid pairs of those ugly as sin Crocs my boys are obsessed with. Sawyer finds a pair, slaps them on the wrong feet (every time! Why is this? Shouldn’t they at least average 50/50 on getting it right?) and runs to the car. But I can’t find another pair, and Beckett is LOSING IT. He has to have Crocs like his brother and he has to have them right then or he will explode and I can’t find them. So he’s screaming and writhing on the floor over the stupid shoes and I’m beyond frustrated because IT’S ALWAYS THE DAMN SHOES and I go to grab my iPhone to stick it in the diaper bag when It Happens.

I grabbed at the phone a little too angrily and vigorously and it slipped from my fingers onto the kitchen floor with a loud smack. I grumbled and grabbed it off the floor, pushing the home button to make sure it was okay. I’ve dropped it plenty of times before and it was always fine, but this time? When I’m already going mental over the shoes? Nothing happened. Black screen staring me in the face. Oh, the battery is just dead I think and plug it into the charger. Still nothing. Attempt a hard restore. Nothing. At this point Beckett is still having Freakout of the Century and I had to tackle him into his carseat, so I stuffed the phone and charger in my bag to deal with when I got back, still thinking it must just be dead or something. Har har har.

So we go to the bank and I send my eleventy one items up the chute, and as I’m waiting I notice the tellers looking through the window a little strangely at me. What, bitches? Never seen a frazzled woman with three kids who has decided to wear her pajamas to the bank? MYOB. I get my receipt and we drive off, and as I turn the corner, Sawyer goes, “Whoa, Mommy! Too fast!” I glance at him in the rear view mirror and smile as he hangs over the seat in front of him and bounces around laughing.

Um, wait. WHAT?

OMG, internet. In my frustration with the shoes (UGH THE SHOES) and the phone and the child who had to flail his arms and legs like octopus tentacles while I was buckling him in, I forgot to go to the other side of the car and strap Sawyer in. All the things that could happen right that second to send him hurtling through the windshield instantly flashed through my mind. And a little of OMG, I might blog this, and the internet will think I’m a horrible mother but I’ll probably just blog it anyway as I pulled the car over to strap him down.

Okay. So there was that whole saga, and that’s how the phone got dropped and why I was already a hot mess by the time I got home to mess with it some more. I thought I’d try syncing it with my computer to at least save the data, thinking maybe the screen was just out. iTunes made me wait and wait and then finally just spit out an error message about not having a SIM card. Except, it DID have a SIM card. I pulled the card out and stuck it back in a few times, but it wasn’t registering. Tried throwing it on the floor again (because maybe it would unbreak it? I don’t friggin’ know) but nothing worked. And at this point, all I can see are dollar signs. Lots and lots of dollar signs and a husband cutting up my credit cards and taking my name off the bank account because this is the third phone I’ve had in the past 18 months.

Hooookay, so now I get to make an appointment at the Apple Store an hour away. Which eventually turns into Shelby having to take the day off work to stay home with the boys, because I have a midwife appointment as well and we can’t get in touch with my brother to come watch them. And you know, the vision of them spinning tornado style through the nice displays of shiny new Macbooks and widescreen monitors? Would pretty much prefer for that not to become a reality.

So (I wonder how many times I can start a paragraph with so?) yesterday after our appointment, the baby and I met with a Genius who, after attempting to “fix” the phone with a can of compressed air and a bristly brush (which I could have jut done myself at home), basically told me I had killed my phone. Bye bye iPhone, rest in peace, OH but we can replace it with the exact same model for the bargain price of $199! Yeah, probably not. No Apple Care plan to save me since I’d bought the phone used from a friend, so my next option was to beg and plead with AT&T to have a little mercy on me for just this once and let me upgrade early.

As it turns out, no begging OR pleading was necessary. In fact, the good folks at AT&T were – dare I say – helpful. That’s definitely a first. I went into the store, told the girl who greeted me my predicament and she escorted me straight to a manager to see what he could do for me. This guy, George, was a lifesaver. He pulled up my account, saw that one of the lines on our account (Shelby’s) was up for upgrade in October, and with a “That’s close enough!” he had another employee at his side who he gave instructions to override the date and “make sure the customer was 100% satisfied today, wink wink.” As it turned out, satisfying me included selling me a brand new iPhone 3G for half the price the Apple Store offered. In less than 20 minutes, I was leaving the store with my new phone nestled into a pink and purple case with the Apple Care angels watching over it. This one has to last me awhile.

So, big love to AT&T for now. Until they screw up my bill again.

Home is where your Wii is

The most depressing part about vacation, and the part that makes you wonder what could have possessed you to subject yourself to such an inhumane form of torture, is the drive home. Even though the kids were angels (GASP! SHOCK!) Shelby and I were about ready to toss out some banana peels and red shells Mario Kart style by hour seven.

Which brings me to a subject I must address. Two-lane highways. We’ve all driven on them, yes? We all know what the left lane is for, yes? Faster traffic and passing, yes? Most commonly, going slightly above the speed limit, yes? WELL NO, NO APPARENTLY EVERYONE DOES NOT KNOW THAT. And apparently everyone does not also know that if you take a quick glance in your rear view mirror and notice that there is a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind you FIFTY FRICKING MILES LONG, maybe you should get your ass back over in the right lane. There had to have been fiery hot daggers visibly shooting from my eyeballs because I was NOT. HAPPY. For at least an hour we drove behind morons like this, constantly having to slam on our breaks because they were tailgating each other going SIXTY-FIVE IN A SEVENTY. IN THE LEFT LANE. AND YES THE ALL CAPS ARE NECESSARY BECAUSE THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS.

Ahem.

Oh, and Chicago drivers? Eff you. Plz to not be slamming on your breaks at 75 miles per hour just because you see a cop clocking people. Guess what, brainiac, he’s probably already clocked you long before you pass him. So lets not be taunting death by bringing my front bumper within millimeters of your tailpipe, mmkay?

Road rage? Moi?

Other than the torturous trip home, our third Wisconsin vacation was fabulous. Surprisingly relaxing, or as relaxing as it can be without leaving the kids locked in a closet at home with a box of Twinkies. All three were appropriately fawned over and spoiled, and we all survived no TV for a whole week. Beckett learned to climb out of his crib, Sawyer only took a sleep-walking adventure that involved using the carpet as a urinal once, and Avonlea SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT once. Yes, my poor boobs were feeling that one.

My mom hosted a Tupperware party for me and even though I felt like a blubbering idiot through half of my demonstration, the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, my mom got free stuff and I made some decent commission. I got to eat delicious cheese curds not once but twice, as well as a burger called the Horseshoe that sounded and looked lots better than it actually tasted. Shelby and the boys spent copious amounts of time outside, digging in the dirt, fishing, and doing general dirty gross boy activities. And we all had to hold back the giggles and snorts every time a waitress said “Theere ya gooo!” Sarah Palin style. And the weather. OMG the weather. was. GORGEOUS. Still working on whittling Shelby down enough to convince him we need to move.

I’m kicking myself now because my camera stayed packed away in the diaper bag until the last day and that is so unlike me. So I have little to no photo evidence of the trip, sadly. However, the boys tripped my dad’s wildlife cameras a couple different times, which made for some pretty priceless photography:

As fun as it was and as much as I miss my family again already, we’re glad to be home. Sawyer especially, because he missed the Wii so much that I think he might hug it and kiss it and ask to take it to bed with him tonight. He likes to play in the Mii plaza and create new Miis. He played my sister’s but wasn’t allowed to touch her Miis and it drove him insane. He’s already told me he plans to make a new Mommy Mii with a “crazy mouth.” This is to go along with the one he already made of me that is sporting a fu manchu and squinty eyes. That is, if he and Beckett don’t kill each other before nap time.

Ah, home sweet home.

Over the hump

So, did anyone notice anything special about the picture I posted? Anyone? Bueller?

Look a little closer and you’ll see that my baby girl’s scrumptious cheeks are RASH FREE! Thank you, Aveeno baby wash and Hydrocortisone cream. No more angry red hives or crusty ears. Now I can move on to worrying about other things, like that annoying flat spot she’s developing from having a right side preference, or that her poop may possibly not be the right shade of honey Dijon yellow. Lets hope I learn to stop obsessing over everything by the time she’s twelve.

My emotional state has improved tenfold in the past week or so. Thanks, in part, to a massive blow out in which I aired all my thoughts and fears to DH and he thankfully didn’t declare me loony toons and run for the hills. And also thanks to a baby who sleeps amazingly well so I haven’t had to deal with any sleep deprivation thus far.

I used to think that a newborn being a good sleeper was a myth and anyone who said they had one was lying through their teeth (although I still secretly hated them and wanted to land a swift punch right in their well-rested eye). A quick read through my archives will have you understanding the sleep hell I dealt with when Beckett was a baby. But Avonlea is different. I now know that easy babies DO exist. I also know I had every reason to hate those bitches because it is A-FLIPPING-MAZING. You’re free to hate me, too. But I was about due for an easy one this time around, if you ask me. DH is loving it too, because it means he doesn’t have to walk a stroller around the block at three in the morning every. single. day. Thanks for that, Beckett. Yes, the man is a saint.

I should probably stop talking about it now, because my superstitious subconscious won’t stop whispering that it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass in a couple months. That’d be my luck.

We have a busy weekend ahead, filled with cleaning and packing and my first Tupperware party tomorrow. (Which, by the way, if you’re just dying to get your hands on some air-tight-sealed goodness, jump over to my website!) Avonlea has an appointment with our chiropractor tomorrow afternoon to deal with this pesky side preference. Sunday will be devoted to packing, making lists, checking off those lists and then checking again to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, as well as cat-proofing the house so they can’t destroy anything while we’re gone. And then we’re leaving bright and early Monday morning for the 8-hour trip to the land of cheese curds and no cell phone service, aka Wisconsin.

Eight hours.

With three kids.

I have a feeling the DVD player in the Pilot will become my new best friend, so much so that I may want to name my next child after it, much like babies end up being named Bob or Gary thanks to a good anesthesiologist. Samsung Melban has a nice ring to it.