Tag Archives: George

Studies Show that Excessive Viewing of My Little Pony Videos Can Cause Brain Bleeds in Overindulgent Parents

Remember when people used to joke about getting stoned and watching the Teletubbies? Well, I’ve never actually seen the Teletubbies since they were a bit before my time – but I think that people who are drunk should check out some My Little Pony episodes.

Because anyone who attempts this while sober may lose their mind and require immediate hospitalization. And heavy doses of anti-hallucinogenic drugs.

My Little Pony screenings should really be included in accepted U.S. torture techniques. I would take five days of sensory deprivation over five hours of the ponies. (Okay – so that’s not really true, but you get my point.)

You may not be familiar with My Little Pony due to a lack of daughters or the great fortune of giving birth to them prior to this particularly odious phenomenon. If that is the case, I would ask you to imagine everything that has ever been annoying about girls. Then add a purple and pink color scheme, cloying lesson-based story arcs, squealing, giggling, slumber parties, dance contests, fashion shows, make overs and a dash of glitter. All with tinkling chimes for every scene change. Oh yeah – and ponies.

I was first introduced to My Little Pony movies when my daughter, Eleanor received one of the ponies for Christmas last year (not from me) and it came with a little “Meet the Ponies” DVD. It’s been almost a year, and we only JUST started watching this thing.

You see, unfortunately for Eleanor, our house is outfitted for boys. She’s simply outnumbered – Thomas Trains and Matchbox Cars prevail.

Sure we have plenty of the gender neutral Disney and Nick Jr. DVDs – but if we ever err on the side of “boy” or “girl” toys, Barbie eats G.I. Joe’s dust.

Until the ponies… Eleanore LOVES those damn ponies.

The first time she watched a My Little Pony episode, it was late at night and she was up with some kind of ailment (I think it was the night she burned one of her hands). In attempt to distract her from her discomfort, Chris looked for something girly for her to watch – something that she typically misses out on in this house of boys.

So he turned on My Little Pony. And she didn’t blink for the entire 45 minutes. She was rapt. It was like the mother ship was calling her home.

And now we live in fear of those dreaded words: “I want ponies.” Because she’s brainwashed her twin brother into thinking that he likes it too. George asks for ponies almost as much as Eleanor does. As you can imagine this thrills Chris to no end.

But back to getting drunk and watching My Little Pony… I have to admit – it is kind of hilarious.

The very first one I ever saw had me in total hysterics (and I wasn’t even drunk). That particular episode opened with a pony rock concert. Complete with screaming groupies and a hunky front man. It was quite possibly the most bizarre thing I’ve ever encountered. I couldn’t stop laughing. Eleanor was very serious about her pony enjoyment and gave me sidelong looks of disdain.

Lucky you! I found the clip:

Really my biggest question here is “who set up the mics?” The absence of opposable thumbs presents far too much suspension of disbelief for my liking…

Then the other day, we caught this little gem. A pony love story with bad advice from both the girl ponies and the boy ponies (very Summer Lovin’ in spirit):

But if you can’t stomach the undiluted syrupy sweetness, here is a version that anyone can enjoy:

Hey – even Pink likes ponies…

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?*

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As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:

If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling.

But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

EPILOGUE: It is now a year after I originally wrote that. And yes – the ceiling has of yet to be repainted. It’s like I don’t even see this stuff anymore…

*ANOTHER re post – but I do kind of love this one since it really gets to the heart of what it’s like to live in my house… And I’ve updated the pictures since back then I didn’t realize that you could select larger images OR add more than five per post (my ingenue period). Happy Halloween week!

My Children and Gross and Annoying – The Final Chapter

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I felt I needed to do one more of these since Part II focused almost entirely on “gross.” And my children are far too annoying not to give them equal time in that arena.

So let’s just jump right in shall we?

Oliver? Shreds paper. I mean, like all the time. And not only is this strange, but it’s also messy. As if my house isn’t a disaster as it is…

It all started with him realizing that he could use tissue paper to make snow for one of his little Thomas Train scenes. Then he found he could also use it to simulate soap suds for “the wash down.” And THEN he cut out the middle man altogether and started shredding it just for the sake of creating little piles.

The saving grace is that he only does this with tissue-like paper. Paper towels are about as thick as he’s willing to go. So at least 50% of the paper we own is safe from his machinations.

Now, I know that this is all tied in with his sensory issues and it’s somehow soothing for him, but having to keep anything tissue-related out of reach is ANNOYING. Seriously – it’s like living with a gerbil.

Also? He will trail me around the house asking me for the same thing over-and-over-and-over-and-over… Like:

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk please.

Me: Okay – just a minute honey.

Oliver: Mommy – I want some milk.

Me: Okay – just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Me: Just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk. I want some milk. I want somemilk. I wantsomemilk. Iwantsomemilk. IwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilk.

Oh my god (insert Chandler Bing’s signature tone here) someone make it stop.

This one probably doesn’t have anything to do with his Spectrum issues. Instead, I think it’s a direct result of my inability to maintain focus for more than 30 seconds. You see, it’s a very common occurrence for one of my children to ask me for something, and then for me to say “you bet!” and walk purposefully out of the room…only to get sidetracked by something else and never be heard from again. So this is probably his way of making sure I follow through. Proving that I have only myself to blame.

Still very annoying though.

Then there are the twins.

For a long time I found it seizure inducing when they would scream the same thing in stereo. But now I get the pleasure of listening to them argue. And make simultaneous yet opposing demands.

If one of them wants the lights on, the other wants them off. If one of them wants butter on their rice, the other wants it plain (and god help the woman who doesn’t make it crystal clear that their servings were prepared separately as ordered). If one of them wants to watch The Wonder Pets on TV, the other one wants to watch Diego.

Don’t get me wrong, they play wonderfully together and they are the best of friends. But they’re learning how to assert themselves just like any other three year olds. So it’s inevitable that they’d seek out opportunities to clash.

The best is when they do this in the car. Because you know, I can’t escape. It usually has to do with keeping the windows up or down. And compromising with one up/one down doesn’t work since from what I understand, wind can reach you from either side.

So I hear “I want-a window DOWN!” and I put the windows down. Then I hear “NO! I want-a window UP!” and I put them back up. Then “NO! Down!” – and they go down. Then “[howl] NOOOOO! UP!” – and they go up. And this continues until I decide that it’s kind of funny to mess with them and start rolling the windows up and down as fast as I can.

This would be when they join forces and either hate me or think I’m the funniest mom ever. On a good day it’s the latter.

Another precious little habit of theirs is to turn a short bedtime story into an hour-long activity by demanding to take turns reciting their version of the text on EVERY PAGE. And if I try to turn the page without each of them having their full moment in the spotlight, they make “the noise.”

I put “the noise” in quotes, because that’s what I’ve starting to call it, saying “don’t you MAKE that noise or I will put this book away.” A tactic that is only partly effective since they generally switch to writhing around on the floor howling “NO!” in an attempt to squeeze my brain until it literally explodes.

It’s very hard to capture “the noise” in writing, but I guess you could call it whining. Phonetically, it would be something like “Eh! Eh! Eh!” Which doesn’t sound that bad as I reread it…but believe me after five storybook pages of that, you will start scanning the room for sharp objects to drive into your eardrums.

And if they’re really on their game, they will battle each other for the last word. Each making “the noise” after the other takes their turn – making it impossible for me to turn the page until I finally lose it and say “that’s it! Lights out!” That’s usually when they drop to the ground and pull out another signature move that I like to call “sizzling bacon.” That one looks a lot like demonic possession (I mean – from what I’ve seen on TV), but the exorcism is far more simple. It just requires assurances that we WILL in fact continue the story if they just stopstopstopfortheloveofgodpleasestop.

So yeah – that’s kind of annoying.

This has gotten rather long, and any other parents reading this know that I could go on forever. So I’ll end with a new favorite.

Eleanor has decided that she is only a part time three year old. The rest of the time, she is thirteen. This manifests in her angsty practice of being frequently wounded by something innocuous that we do or say. She will immediately leave the room and then settle in a spot nearby where we are sure to hear her whimpering tears.

At first I thought this was hilarious. It brought back so many memories of sitting alone in my self inflicted misery, just waiting for someone to happen upon me and realize how wronged I have been by such a cruel world…

But then I remember that she’s only three, and isn’t slated to become an angsty teenager for another 10 years. So does that mean that we will get more of the same until 2019 when she officially takes office as the resident teenage girl? Or is she just starting to hone her skills ensuring her black belt in emotional blackmail by age nine?

I’m afraid to speculate. Hopefully, I’ll be too busy cleaning up shredded tissue paper to notice.

Make Mine a Double: Part II

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*Did you get to see Nie Nie on Oprah yesterday? If you weren’t at home and weren’t able to DVR it – here is a short clip. As if her writing wasn’t inspiring enough…

Continuing my birthday tribute to George and Eleanor who turn three tomorrow, here is part two of their birth story (a re-post from last year). Last we left off my water broke while I was getting my hair did, and I had to borrow a cell phone to call my doctor. For the full version of Part I, go HERE.

We last left off the evening of October 9, 2006, with me driving to the hospital with amniotic fluid soaking through my pants and into my car’s upholstery. How’s that for an opener? Didn’t catch the “Part I” post? Maybe you should read that first.

Back to the story. I was very lucky in that I didn’t start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me – but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately since I was definitely going to have a c-section (George, “baby A,” was breech). And Chris had to drop our 18 month old, Oliver off with friends before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay – I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually – it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, “oh – your doctor just called. She’s very worried about you.” I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who “checked me out” said, “oh yes – I can feel that head.” Now – this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. “Kate,” she said, “it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point.” But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check – just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George’s butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage. Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No – it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, “what other bag?” I said, “um, the one sitting right next to this one?” Nope – didn’t ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn’t register anything more than, “water broken…blah blah blah…hospital…blah blah blah…Oliver…blah blah blah…bag.” Oh well – at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase… Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I’d see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off – is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don’t know why this would surprise me since I’m familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn’t picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking… What did they think this was, Gray’s Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No – I wasn’t overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn’t my favorite part – but it was over quickly enough. Let’s leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn’t feel them. This made me ca-razy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn’t feel it – but I knew they were doing it – eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn’t help. Finally I couldn’t stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, “listen – I just need to tell someone…I’m REALLY SCARED.” She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn’t see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn’t want to “see anything.” Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur – but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming – and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby – if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn’t get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix – but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. Born at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn’t have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn’t actually faint, but he almost did. Now that’s an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn’t too keen on what he saw during the “regular” birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me and said, “I’m not ready.”

Stop making faces Chris – that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not – but it’s really funny.

So that’s it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental the miracle of birth – I’m VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Make Mine a Double: Part I

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So there I go announcing that I’ll be a fiction writing machine, cranking out stories every Friday – only to realize that this Friday is George and Eleanor’s third birthday!

But I think I can get away with skipping the heartfelt tribute. It’s not like they can read (thank god I didn’t buy that infomercial product that teaches your kids to read by the time they are 8 months old – close call!)

No – I don’t think they’ll notice. And I doubt my readers won’t mind one less “three years ago today a little angel entered this world and my heart” post. Does that sound cynical? Sorry – I just spent an hour talking George down from the “I want to sleep in YOUR bed” ledge. We have GOT to stop that madness… No – I love my twins to pieces, but I’ll sit that hokey pokey out this year.

Instead, I’m reposting their birth story. Which was kind of epic and full of thrills (spoiler: my water broke in public). Part I today and Part II tomorrow.

Since the twins won’t be tuning in to The Big Piece of Cake on Friday, I will attempt another little story. So check back to see how that goes.

And now…Part I of “Make Mine a Double”:

Exactly two [now three] years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though (shut up – I mean then, not now!). I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I looked like I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese (I know that there were characters on his phone screen instead of letters/numbers). Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital. As I drove off into the twilight, I wondered what my story’s cast of characters would make of my cameo appearance in what seemed to be just another ordinary day at the salon. Would they reminisce about me in months to come? Would they wonder what happened to me and wish me well? I didn’t know – but I didn’t have time to think about it. My real journey was only just beginning…

Cool ending huh? Like something from a really bad romance novel. Yeah – I just kinda went with it.

What’s that? Yes – I said “ending.” Have you noticed how LONG this post is? It’s definitely a “to be continued.” I’ll finish up tomorrow. And here are a couple of spoilers: I realize that when you have surgery you have to be naked, and Chris almost faints. In that order. But the two are not related. Till tomorrow then…

My Children and Gross and Annoying – Part II

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I hadn’t originally planned to do a part II for this, but since I wrote the first post, I’ve noticed about five billion things that I should have included.

Then Jill from Scary Mommy continued my train of thought by writing about how gross her kids are. So I decided that I needed a second installment featuring more of those special moments that I’ve shared with my children.

Let’s start with gross. I didn’t mention eating habits in the last post (aside from the booger eating of course), and that is kind of a big one in my house.

I’ve mentioned before that my oldest, four year old Oliver has a lot of sensory issues. For him this translates into extreme messiness. He can’t just eat a quesadilla – he has to peel it apart, extract the cheese and mush it around a bit for good measure. And if he’s had enough to eat, the left over food is perfect to use as a prop in one of his many Thomas the Tank Engine tableaux. Mushed up cheese can be pretty much anything featured in a train crash, from a mountain to a pile of…well, mushy cheese (hey – it could happen).

And he doesn’t even have to try to make a mess. A perfect example is the way he eats peanut butter. Given his druthers, Oliver would just eat it straight out of the jar. But since that’s not happening on my watch (though it often does when I’m looking the other way), it is usually spread on a rice cake.

The very first thing he does is lick as much peanut butter off of the rice cake as possible. And once he makes a thorough job of that (which can take an ungodly amount of time), he’ll finish off the remaining rice cake. Then he’s ready to eat all of the left over dregs on his siblings’ plates (he REALLY likes peanut butter).

And there are always dregs because almost three year old George, who mimics the peanut butter licking portion of Oliver’s procedure will never actually eat the rice cake. For George the rice cake is strictly a vehicle for moving peanut butter into his mouth.

By the end of snack time both Oliver and George are covered in peanut butter from forehead to chin. And Oliver tends to have it all over his stomach and thighs as well since he hasn’t quite caught on to this napkin trend that’s been sweeping the nation.

George’s twin Eleanor isn’t quite as messy of an eater as her brothers are – possibly because she enjoys food so much that she doesn’t like a speck of it to miss her mouth – but she really outshines them on “the back end” so to speak.

I’ve already mentioned Eleanor’s love of potty humor. Oliver and George could care less about the fart noises that send their sister into paroxysms of giggles (they’re probably too busy rubbing peanut butter all over themselves to notice). But that’s okay, because Eleanor is gross enough for all three of them. And the other day she took it to a whole new level.

I was enjoying a peaceful moment at the computer while Oliver played on the floor at my feet and George watched Noggin in the basement. Unfortunately, Eleanor was not on board with the whole quiet play thing. Instead she leaped about asking me questions, singing unintelligible songs and whining about her non-existent boo-boos.

While she looked pretty adorable spinning around in nothing but a diaper (yes – I have almost three year old twins who still aren’t potty trained – what of it?), I hoped that semi-ignoring her and suggesting she go find favorite toys might encourage her to entertain herself for a while.

Finally, in a last desperate attempt to get my attention, she proclaimed that she wanted to be “nudie” like Oliver (my children are naked about 70% of the time they are at home regardless of season, room temperature or the presence of non-family members in the house). And in one sweeping gesture she ripped her diaper off, brandished it over her head and sent about fifty poo balls of varying sizes flying in all different directions.

I think I screamed. I know Oliver laughed. And I believe that Eleanor was just as shocked by the turn of events as the rest of us.

It was at that moment that George came meandering around the corner (also in nothing but a diaper), and ignoring the poo balls that I was now frantically trying to pick up before anyone stepped on one, announced that he wanted some milk.

Since I was too busy crawling around yelling, “DON’T touch anything!” he took matters into his own hands and yanked the half full gallon bottle out by himself, sloshing milk all over the floor.

Sometimes you just have to laugh.

But annoyance set in about an hour later when I could still smell poop. And it took me several more reconnaissance missions to locate the hidden stray next to the refrigerator.

THEN a while later, I realized that in spite of copious amounts of Fabreez sprayed into all corners of the room, it STILL smelled like poop. With “linen and sky” top notes perhaps…but poop nonetheless.

I was able to forget my irritation briefly during another moment of quiet computer time (what a surprise…all my children seemed to have disappeared…) I even forgot about the smell. That is until George wandered upstairs to visit (hey – HE wasn’t the one who flung poop all over the kitchen).

He looked at me and said, “poopie!”

I said, “yes, I know – that was a big mess.”

Then he repeated, “no – poopie!”

I acknowledged that, “yes – it does still smell like poopie.”

Finally he pointed and said, “NO – POOPIE.”

It was then that I looked behind the computer and saw the hidden stink bomb left over from the first explosion. Ah – the one that got away…

I would have closed my eyes and taken a few deep calming breaths, but couldn’t since the room literally smelled like ass.

Luckily, that really was the last of it, and the stink is entirely gone. But it’s just another nudge to my mental cocoon of denial that we really need to start potty training boot camp asap. Which opens the door to a entirely new world of “gross”…

Since I have barely touched upon “annoying”, I’ll save that for another time. Look for Part III sometime next week!

When in Doubt – Wear Pajamas

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This is my son Oliver.

He has been Superman for Halloween two years in a row. And no – it’s not because he loves superheroes. It’s because he would NEVER abide any kind of “costume” that involved head gear, make up, heat trapping fabrics or accessories that must be held or clipped on. Basically – he wouldn’t wear costumes. Of any kind.

So I tricked him.

Target sells pajamas that look like superhero outfits. Superman was the only one that didn’t necessarily look like jammies though (the detachable red cape that he only noticed and ripped off 50% of the time was a nice touch). So Superman it was!

That was my solution. It was a win-win for all. I had a cute little costumed toddler/preschooler and he got to be comfortable.

It was such a success that we even suited up George (18 months younger than Oliver) in the same pjs last year.

Not sure what we’ll do this Halloween… Now that he’s four, Oliver likes costumes, and comfort may not be as much of an issue.

He’s pretty big – so I could possibly dress him up as the Incredible Hulk.

I wonder if he’d let me paint him green. Probably not. But maybe if I let him paint himself….

This post is part of Better in Bulk’s Give Me Your Best Shot! Friday. Lolli is another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

Oh Right – I Was Going to Write About Our Summer Vacations…

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Honestly, I kind of forgot about this.

I kind of forget about a lot of things of course… But this is such an easy one! Post a few pictures, complain about whining in the car, embarrass future adult age children with online stories about nose picking… Yet – I did forget.

For the exact same reason that people don’t write in the beautiful journals they purchase: there never seems to be time when they’re thinking about it, and they’re never thinking about it when there’s time.

Blogging for me isn’t online journaling. I don’t chronicle every day and I don’t record even 25% of the important things in my life. Partly because I can’t imagine that each and every one would be interesting to someone reading my blog and partly because I don’t have a computer keyboard permanently attached to my fingertips (remember – I forget stuff). That would be cool though, right? I mean a detachable one of course. Someone invent that please.

But back to my point. I probably had a ton of ideas for funny, touching and insightful posts regarding the two family vacations we took this summer – but they’ve left my short term memory for the moment. I hope they’ll check in from time to time, but for now it seems that we lost touch indefinitely.

So thank god for cameras!

Here are some highlights:

Rehoboth Beach, DE – July 2009

And then George (the deceptively angelic looking little guy on the right in the last picture) knocked the camera out of my hands and broke it. It’s come back to life a few times – but I can’t download anything. Sigh.

Road Trip to Long Boat Key, FL – August 2009

(using the camera option on our video camera – kind of grainy, but sometimes it looks like that was what I was going for…)

I was going to include some video clips too, but I hear Oliver’s school bus coming around the corner… Maybe another time! That is – if I remember…

This post was part of Tribute Tuesday at Mayhem & Moxie. Another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

My Children Are Gross and Annoying

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You think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

You think I’m awful?

Okay – maybe I am. But I’m just stating facts. As adorable as they may be, my children have their flaws, and the toddler/preschool years have been a real treat.

Let’s start with “gross.”

Oliver picks his nose. And he eats it. I probably shouldn’t admit this because there is nothing funny about it. No justification through laughter and commiseration. It’s just gross and embarrassing and I LIVE for the day when I can tell him how he used to torture me with this revolting (and seemingly unbreakable) habit. Later in life, I will in turn, torture him with the knowledge that he was a nose picker (and eater) as a long past due punishment. Probably in front of his high school girlfriend.

Also, he’s obsessed with dirt.

Meaning that he can’t walk past a patch of dirt and NOT shuffle through it. He likes the big dust clouds that result since they are reminiscent of the steam clouds he sees in his bajillion Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs. He calls this “down tracks” (as in trains going down the tracks). I get it. I know what he’s going for. But to the rest of the world? It just looks like a giant four year old in a cloud of dust. We’ve started calling him Pig-Pen. Which sounds much cuter than it actually is.

But the real gross out factor of this love affair with dirt is that ANY form of dirt or dirt-like substance will do. Rolling around in sand at the beach? Acceptable. Shoving your hand into public ashtrays on the street? Disgusting. “Oliver! No dirt!” has become my signature bellow around the neighborhood.

Then there’s George.

And George? Pees. Everywhere. On the carpet, on the stairs, on the basement couch (by the way – you should TOTALLY come over to watch movies one night…sit down, make yourself comfortable…), on the bathroom floor IN FRONT OF the toilet… It’s like having a puppy. Except I can’t whack him on the nose with a newspaper when he does it.

There is no potty training-related excuse for this behavior because he LOVES going potty. Especially flushing. While Oliver gained 10 lbs eating mini marshmallows as he sat on the potty, George has needed no incentive beyond flushing. And he’ll keep going if I let him. We’ve had to enforce a strict one flush rule in our house for fear of George running up the water bill – or just breaking all of the toilets. Which is entirely possible since he will go from potty to potty if I don’t watch him. It’s a “round the world” of potties if you will. Maybe he’s marking his territory? That would explain all of the peeing on the floor…

While I wouldn’t say that Eleanor is gross, her delight in anything gas-related would put a twelve year old boy to shame. I’ve already written about this – but it doesn’t seem to be a phase that she’ll outgrow anytime soon. She also loves to simulate the noises, and has become quite good at it.

I’m trying to get her to replace her squeals of laughter with a simple “excuse me” when she does “furt” (her pronunciation), but she’s not picking it up. Here is a recent conversation we had:

Eleanor: Mommy! I FURTED!

Me: Well what do you say when you fart?

Eleanor: I say PPTHTTTT!

Me: Let me clarify that…What do you say AFTER you fart?

She only came up with “excuse me” when I gave her the answer.

Oh – and if you think it’s crass that I actually let her use the word “fart” instead of “toot” or “pass gas” or some other more ladylike variation…we’re so beyond that at this point…I don’t even try.

Eleanor is probably more annoying than she is gross though. So I’ll start with her on that topic.

Eleanor has to be the center of attention at all times. And she’s a quick study. So I have to think long and hard about what might constitute positive reinforcement.

She used to be such a tough little cookie and would barely pause to brush the bloody gravel off her knees after a fall while playing outside with her brothers. So OF COURSE I would fuss over her when she did cry. That always meant that she must be really hurt.

I’m not entirely sure when this changed, but at some point my little Camille figured out that a few tears would be her golden ticket to spotlight city. So now she’s always hurt.

I should really count the number of times that she says “I hurt my neck” on a given day. I’m not sure why that’s her injury of choice, but the fact that she usually points to her stomach or her elbow when she says it, doesn’t provide any clues. And she can squeeze out some real tears too. She’s got skillz, that one… But you know – it’s really annoying.

My mother recently noticed that every time she talks to Eleanor on the phone, she gets an update on all of her granddaughter’s boo boos.

Good god, but it’s like she’s an old woman! If you ask her how she’s doing, you’ll hear all about her ailments “well…I’m coming down with a head cold and my sciatica has been acting up…but I’m getting by…” Sheesh!

But her twin brother, George has an even more annoying method for getting attention: he screams.

And when I say, he screams, I don’t mean he cries or yells or even bellows. I mean, he makes noises that would rival the shrieks of any Von Helsing vampire bride. He can shatter glass with his screams.

As an “intense” child, George seems to find a multitude of triggers for his screams. It could be something as obvious as a sibling snatching a toy from him to more unusual transgressions, such as my insistence that he wear pants when out on the front lawn.

Either way – his screams are unsettling. And cause sharp pains in your ears. Hopefully, he’ll grow out of this. Or cultivate a successful future career as an opera singer.

And last but not least, there is Oliver. The dirt flinging is pretty annoying – but he’s got so much more to offer than just that!

I’d have to say that he is most annoying when he’s feeling particularly boisterous. Sensory issues play a huge role in his special needs and this boy really likes physical contact. He doesn’t just sit next to you…he sits on you. And if you think you’ll just teach him a lesson by sitting on top of him for a change, you should save yourself the effort. He’ll love it.

I can’t bend over to pick up toys without bracing myself for the inevitable impact of his assault. He’s not a violent child. He just feels the need to lunge at the people he loves.

I’ve decided that I’d make a fantastic line backer now (minor league of course since I’m only 5′ 6″ and not exactly beefy). I can shift my center of gravity on a dime. I now have a sixth sense for detecting a sneak attack, and I rarely lose my footing. I went to Fordham University, so my sparse knowledge of football history includes Vince Lombardi. And I think I’d make a very respectable eighth block of granite.

But for all of their annoying qualities, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I can only imagine how sick they are of my constant nagging:

“Don’t touch that!“

“Get out of the street!“

“Come back here!“

“Don’t hit!“

“Don’t eat that!“

“Don’t throw dirt!“

“Not around the neck!“

I suspect that a lot of eye rolling goes on behind my back. “God – she’s so shrill.“

So we all have our quirks. But I’m not nearly as gross as they are. Unless of course you count the mass quantities of junk food I put away each day. Though I don’t consider that gross as much as just flat out survival.

Polarn O. Pyret: A Giveaway and Some Boring Home Movies of My Kids

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This morning, I got a little slap on the hand from BlogHer for hosting a giveaway above a certain price point on a page displaying their ads (seems I’m not so good at reading the fine print on contracts). So I had to take a break from my blogging black out week to move that post HERE.

I’ll be taking entry comments both here and on the new post, so no need to comment a second time if you’ve already done so. Sorry for the confusion.

Okay – back to my vacation!