Tag Archives: George

Don Taunch

This is not a name (Don Taunch), it’s a sentence. It’s something that I say to George all the time.

Actually – I don’t say “don taunch,” I say “don’t touch.” “Don taunch,” is just George’s pronunciation of the sentiment.

He has an odd little accent, that one… Another example would be how he says “it’s very hot.” It sounds like, “as berra haut.” He kind of reminds me of Frank (pronounced, “Frahnk” of course) from Father of the Bride.

“Don taunch” was a bit of a theme on Saturday.

At about 8 a.m. that morning, I was making eggs for Eleanor (the only Hood child who will eat more than three food items). I let the twins watch and they had little chairs pulled up so they could see. As soon as the eggs were done, Eleanor was at the table waiting to be served. But George stayed to watch me plate the eggs and put the pan in the sink. Or so I thought…

Apparently, he stuck around for other reasons. The minute I was more than two feet away from him putting the pan in the sink, he reached over to touch the burner.

I know – bad mommy – why was I letting him stand at the stove? The truth is, we let them do this all the time since our galley kitchen is about ten feet long (I’m not kidding) and the stove and the sink are separated by two feet of counter space (the ONLY counter space I might add…so the next time one of you wants to complain about how outdated your full sized kitchen is, you can just visualize me telling you to “suck it” – I’m sorry, I know that’s not nice – but I have my moments too).

ANYWAY – George burned his hand. Three first degree blisters to be exact. Here is a visual:

They are on the index finger, the ring finger and the palm directly under the index finger.

Poor little guy. I immediately had him at the sink with cold water running over his hand. Apart from the initial scream of shock and fear, he was pretty stoic about the whole thing, and I wasn’t even sure that he was all that injured. But then I saw the three blisters appear and decided that I should probably have a doctor check it out.

As it goes with most household injuries, this one happened on a weekend and the pediatrician’s office was closed. So I decided to take him to a nearby emergency care center. Overkill? Sure. Ridiculously expensive? Yes. But it was the only off hours care center that opened before 10 a.m.

Chris was out of town for work, but I knew I could leave Oliver and Eleanor with our wonderful neighbors (this is one of the biggest perks of townhouse living – it’s like living with family).

I also knew that Oliver would have a psychotic break if I left him behind.

So Eleanor stayed home while the boys and I set out for what I knew would probably be hours of sitting in chairs before a doctor could look at George’s hand say, “ouch, that must have hurt,” and then slap on a little cream.

And that’s pretty much what happened. Here is a pictoral (for once I had a camera – apparently the stars only align to make this happen when I’m three days past due for a hair wash OR in the ER):

Who ISN’T more brave when they have their blankie wrapped around their shoulders?

Oliver took the presence of the bed quite literally.

“Don taunch!”

Time passes quickly when you are playing with trains (not so much when you are watching people play with trains…)

Oh George…will your hair ever look normal again?

Just enough room for two.

All we need is a TV…and maybe some snacks.

Yeah – Oliver really liked that bed.

Look at that bandage! All for three little blisters… Don’t even ask me about the purple toothbrush. My kids are always clutching bizarre things like this.

Epilogue:

George played outside for hours without getting his bandage dirty. He’s a fussy little guy.

I took all three kids to Target later to pick up bandaids and Tylenol since we had NONE left in the house. I am one of the most ill prepared mothers you will ever meet. It isn’t at all unusual to see me rifling through the dirty laundry for a semi-clean pair of pants for one of my children on any given Monday morning.

The twins fell asleep in the car on the way home which meant that they actually took a nap (something that no longer happens since we got rid of their cribs).

Oliver and I used this nap time to run around on the front lawn in Kung Fu Panda underwear and try to elicit some interest in sidewalk chalk (that would be Oliver in the underwear and me making unsuccessful attempts at “normal” playtime activities).

I removed George’s bandage after dinner since it was a little damp, and we tried out some bandaids. He selected the Diego ones, and we had to sing the theme song for EACH bandaid application (“DiEEEEgo…DiEEEEgo…GO Diego GO!“) This also included the five bandaids that had nothing to do with his burns.

George pulled off the bandaids within five minutes and I gave him a long talk about being careful with the blisters. “DON TAUNCH!”

Just a Boy and His Robot

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When I wrote about George last week, I had a list of things I wanted to include. Then of course when I sat down to write, I couldn’t remember everything. Probably just as well since my posts are far too long as it is… But I forgot one story that is just too important to drop.

You see, we have recently added another family member to the three ring circus we call The Reston Zoo.

Meet R2:

Chris’ grandfather sent this to the kids for Christmas, and in typical Hood family style, it took us about four months to actually put batteries in it. And we only did it because we found George and Oliver pushing the toy around and “pretending” that it was a working robot. Seriously, Chris and I (but mostly Chris) take lazy to a whole new level.

But once we did give life to R2, we couldn’t believe we let him sit dormant for so many months. To quote Chris, “R2 is awesome.”

This robot makes all of the same whirring and chirping noises that you will remember from the Star Wars movies. AND he responds to voice commands. If you say “hey R2,” his “head” will swivel in your direction and he’ll “beep, whir, chirp.” If you say “C3P0,” he will shake his head and “chirp, whir, beep.” If you say, “R2 – go on patrol,” he will roll into the next room and keep going until he finds a person (he’s a heat seeking robot).

He doesn’t roll into walls. Instead he senses them and keeps turning until he finds a clear path.

In general, after spending an hour or two with R2 chirping and whirring around the house, you kind of start to feel like he’s…well, R2D2. A cognizant presence. Another family member.

One weekend, I walked into the playroom to find George and Oliver sharing their afternoon snack with the R2. Oliver had put him on a chair at the kids’ table and they were conducting a full conversation mixed with toddler chatter and robot beeps.

Since R2 is sound activated, he has random reactions to various sets of sound combinations. As a result, too much noise, namely the kids all simultaneously whining, screaming and talkingtalkingtalking, can send him into a tailspin.

One evening, all three of them were in rare form – probably fighting over something bizarre like a string of Mardi Gras beads or a handful of plastic straws. And the shrieks and complaints had the R2 in fits:

Kids: Scream, smack, howl

R2: Whir, chirp, beep-beep

Kate: Stop it – I want to see some nice sharing.

Kids: Shriek, push, sob

R2: Beep-beep-beep-beep, whir

Kate: I mean it – If you don’t stop fighting, I’m taking it away.

Kids: Shriek, smack, whine-whine-whine-whine

R2: Beeep-eep-eep, Whirrrrrrrrr-chirp

Kate: Okay that’s it – everyone is getting a time out!

Kids: ScreamCryScremCryScreamCry

R2: ChirpWhirChirpWhirChirpWhirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..

Kate: Stopit…Stopit…Stopit… YOU’RE UPSETTING R2!

True story. I actually said that. And I meant it. And the kids must have appreciated the gravity of the situation, as they immediately piped down and looked at poor R2.

George loves R2 the most though.

He’s always the one to seek R2 out. He even makes up voice commands that don’t actually exist. I have no idea where he heard this, but one of his favorite things to yell at R2 is “activate!” But when he yells it, it sounds like “adivate!” Needless to say, R2 doesn’t recognize this command but he does respond with some gratifying whirring and chirping noises. George has figured out the “patrol” command, so he also likes to yell “R2 – Troll!“

He also confounds the robot with this weird “woo-hoo’ing” thing he’s been doing lately. This would be less of a “wah-hoo” and more of a “yoo-hoo.” Seriously – it’s like having a little old lady in the house with us. But when George calls “woo-hoo!” in his supersonically pitched falsetto, R2 doesn’t come running as he is expected to. Apparently, there is no voice command for “woo-hoo.”

Sadly, R2 is starting to slow down. He sits and whirs for long stretches of time and his patrols are rather short lived these days… We suspect that it’s time to change the batteries again. Who knows how long it will take to get around to it… My guess is that R2 will be back to marionette movements orchestrated by the boys before we juice him up again. But by then, we will really have to as by then, we will most likely be semi-insane from listening to George’s futile attempts to “adivate” R2. “Woo-hoo!“

Our Middle Child, Unusual Accommodations and Dirty Penguins

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It has been called to my attention that my “middle child,” George has been getting very little air time here at The Big Piece of Cake. A least, in comparison to his brother and sister.

Four year old, Oliver is my special boy with special needs, as well as my oldest – so he’s automatically Mr. Spotlight. Eleanor, at age two, is a dramatic girl with an excessive love of all things classified “ballerina” (including tee shirts and jeans that I’ve somehow managed to convince her are “ballerina shirts” and “ballerina jeans”). So she also claims star status on a frequent basis.

One would assume that my middle child fades by comparison. Yet this is far from the truth. George, who is actually the middle child by only one minute (he and Eleanor are twins) is no stranger to the spotlight. And I’m not referring to my posts about his bald head and his pasty white legs. When we are out in public, George gets noticed.

People really gravitate to George. He has the sweetest little face with the proverbial big brown eyes, as well as a smile that could melt even Satan’s icy heart. Well okay, that’s probably going too far – but Satan would be enchanted with him and would probably want to adopt him as a demi-demon. Note to self: throw out the Ouiji board pronto. Of course I’m just kidding about that last part! We don’t own a Ouiji board.

George is my snuggley kid. He always wants to be picked up and hugged, and he clings to me like a little monkey. Luckily, he’s always been tiny so it’s not too taxing. I’m used to much bigger loads. George is a feather in comparison to his older brother. who was always on the gargantuan side. Even now, Oliver easily doubles George’s weight, though their age difference is only 18 months.

I have a million “awww!” inducing stories about my George – but really, who wants to read that? Okay – grandmas aside, I mean. A sweet anecdote every once in a while is fine, but let’s face it, that gets old pretty fast. Besides, where would I start? I mean, he’s a walking adorableness factory.

And you know what? I’m actually very pleased that he gets the most votes for “cutest Hood child” because he started life as one of the weirdest looking babies I’ve ever seen. He was fine at birth when he was all swollen, giving him the illusion of pinchable cheeks. But he very quickly began to look like what one my friends astutely described as “something from The Lord of the Rings.” My mother in law called him “The Woodland Creature.” I called him “The Changling.” And we’re the givers of unconditional love! So you know he had to be a little “unusual” as far as newborn babies go. Want proof?

But then he started looking like this:

He’s the one on the left.

And this:

And – Ohmygodhe’ssocute – this:

And even when he did look like a changling – he was soooo sweet. You couldn’t help but fall in love with him. Okay – I’m back on the precipice of eye roll-worthy “aren’t my kids cute” blather… So here are a few recent George antics.

First – his mad climbing skillz have proved to be the catalyst for taking down the cribs in the twins’ room. One day, he just stopped sleeping in his crib. He would either come into our room and climb into bed with us, or if he couldn’t get out of his own room (is it bad parenting to lock your kids in?), he’d just sleep on the floor. We finally got to a point where I’d just make up a bed for him on the floor next to Eleanor’s crib. And he was thrilled. But then Eleanor wanted to sleep on the floor too. So after a few nights of making up pallets for them, I decided to stop the madness and dismantled the cribs.

We haven’t decided what to do with them yet (toddler beds or big beds), so their crib mattresses are just sitting on the floor. Not that George actually sleeps on his. He still prefers to create a nest in odd areas of the room. My favorite is when he wedges himself up against the door so I can’t open it. I have to force my way in if I hear Eleanor crying for me. And he sleeps through that! What a weirdo.

He’s also taken to snacking on ice. Seriously – he will stand by the refrigerator and ask for it. If I say, “no George, you’ve had enough ice – no more,” he will wail like I snatched a chocolate bunny out of his hands. There isn’t too much to say about this other than the fact that I never expected to be having fights with my child about overeating ice.

Then there is his pronunciation of certain words. Every parent has a moment when their child says something that sounds dirty or rather age inappropriate. I recently wrote about my two year old daughter saying something that sounded like “Mommy! What the fuck?” Well George has a whole repertoire of these gems.

My two favorites are “penguins” and “Percy.” Percy is a character in Thomas the Tank Engine stories. He’s one of the best known characters – one of the “leads” if you will – so when my boys play with trains, the names Thomas, James, Emily and Percy come up fairly often. But George doesn’t say “Percy” – he says “pussy.” I think this must be common – but that doesn’t make it any less startling.

The other one is truly bizarre. First of all, I wouldn’t think that we would have so many opportunities for the kids to see penguins in our house. Sure a DVD is playing 24/7 – but most don’t involve penguins… Somehow George manages to find reasons to yell “Penguins!” on a daily basis. But again, it doesn’t sound like he’s saying “penguins.” If I had to spell it phonetically, it would be “PEHN-is.” So we’ve gotten used to George yelling “penis” a lot.

You would think we’d get used to it…

You would be wrong.

Oh how I love my George… I can’t get enough of him. Really, I can’t get enough of any of them (except for maybe at 2 a.m. when I can’t get enough of uninterrupted sleep). They’re all so wonderfully sweet and odd and completely themselves. They have such distinct personalities. And while I wish so many things for them, it’s this sense of self, this unique brand of “me” that all children possess for most of their early years that so often makes its way to the top of the list.

We’re all different. We’re all individuals. But we’re not all so completely confident and guileless in this knowledge as we were when we were two. Or four. Or seven. I really don’t know when this fades, but it’s such a wonder to see and such an inspiration for the parents who have spent most of their lives whittling away at those odd edges and corners – all so we can fit in the round holes that fill our daily grind.

So I hope that my George keeps his quirks and odd edges. That he continues to charm the pants off of the grumpiest of curmudgeons (that old softie Satan included). That he remains oblivious to the concept of “fitting in” as long as possible. Of course I eventually want him to “fit in” – but I’d like him to do it on his own terms.

This most charming middle child of mine will never fall through the cracks in our family.

And if for any reason he ever did – all he has to do is yell “penguins!” or “Percy!” At the very least, I’ll try to shut him up with a piece of ice.

Just Call Me Fegan

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This is the first Spring that I’ve had the pleasure of watching my children literally burst out of their clothes. And I’m not talking about their tendency to run around naked (that’s a whole other post).

I mean that they all have holes in the knees of their pants. And on top of that, the rags I continue to call clothes aren’t even fitting that well anymore. Inches of wrist show at shirt cuffs and inseams are more appropriate for a flood than a sunny Spring day (the term “high waters” would be an understatement).

These days, when I look at my children, I’m reminded of Fegan’s scruffy band of pickpockets in Oliver!

I’m serious. It’s come to the point where I’m actually sending Oliver to preschool with holey pants since that’s all he has left. Eleanor’s high waters expose her mismatched socks, and George… Well with that new bald head of his, George looks like he was deloused the old fashioned way.

Any traces of color vibrancy their clothes may have had are gone. Those hideously pink outfits of Eleanor’s and the boys’ standard issue red, green and navy have now taken on a decidedly grey cast. Luckily this blends well with the grime that they bring in with them every time I let them go outside. Ever fascinated by the charcoal grill on our back deck, they can’t be left alone for a minute without getting into the ash. Carcinogens aside – the filth of this sends me into a rage (at times like these – I take my poor parenting skills to a whole new level). Street urchins indeed!

Gone are the days that I have bags of clothes to donate to friends or sell at consignment sales. I’m hoping we can make it through one more month before the bare threads become skeletal. Bottom line – my kids are sorry looking bunch of ragamuffins.

So I feel like Fegan, watching them run wild in their rags, charming all around with their guileless smiles and sticky fingers. Maybe a kindly rich stranger will find Oliver wandering around outside in his underwear while I’m inside changing a diaper…

In the meantime, I’m counting the days until warm weather takes over and chilly mornings become a thing of the past. Then I can put them all in in shiny new shorts, brightly colored tee shirts and shoes that don’t have swiss cheese soles.

That is until late September when my ragamuffins return. Then I’ll have to be on the lookout for those rich strangers. Especially the ones looking to adopt a haggard, working mom in her late 30s. Who Will Buy ME This Wonderful Morning? Just kidding of course (sort of).

Womily Touch Jewelry: Great New Gift Idea – Plus Some Bonus Nudity

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A while ago, a good friend of mine forwarded me a Daily Candy Philadelphia e-mail spotlighting her cousin’s super cool “touch” jewelry. Womily Touch Jewelry is basically fingerprints cast in silver or gold and then made into necklaces, earrings and cuff links. I thought I’d give Chris some silver cuff links for his birthday.

Since I tend to get my best ideas at the eleventh hour, I wasn’t able to have the cuff links made in time for his birthday. Instead, I gave him the kit so we could all do it together.

The original plan was to have each of the twins put a fingerprint on one of the two cuff links. There was some talk of how Oliver would be represented, and a gold pinkie ring was discussed…but in the end, we decided that Oliver had top billing on plenty of other occasions. This could be something for just the twins (plus – gold pinkie rings are a bit pricey for us in this economy).

We were all set to break out the kit last weekend, but in reading the directions, we realized that we were missing an important ingredient: baby oil. Now, one would think that a woman with three very young children would have some left over baby oil lying around. But I never used baby oil for anything. And we had to wonder – what ARE you supposed to use baby oil for – and are people really using it? It’s always stocked at the grocery store and pharmacy…so one would think so… But as it turned out, NO ONE in our baby-infested neighborhood had any baby oil on hand. Makes you wonder…

We decided to put it off until we could get to the store. In the meantime, Chris and Eleanor ate some stir fry.

By the way, Eleanor was still in the ballet costume that she had been wearing ALL DAY. Just in case you are wondering why she’s in a bathing suit – it’s actually a leotard.

SO first lesson learned in the Touch Jewelry making experience: own or buy baby oil.

We finally got our act together the following evening after the kids did their version of “eating dinner.” I swept crumbs off the table and moved as much playroom debris as possible out of the area where I’d be taking pictures (I don’t mind telling you that we live in chaos – but it’s another thing to flaunt it on film).

I’m not sure why I thought that I’d have a different photography experience than I usually do – but I didn’t. Everyone moved when I wanted them to stay still and faced in the wrong direction. They arranged limbs so that it was impossible to see the product and insisted on closing their eyes for 90% of the pictures I took. I think it’s safe to say that while I think my children are movie star beautiful, I have no hopes for their future in the modeling industry.

In fact – George refused to participate at all. He was too busy ripping off his pants and chasing Oliver around. I don’t care how that may sound – it’s what happened.

The directions were pretty simple and the kit just involved two brass “tools” (which looked somewhat like little caps), two thin discs of wax and two plastic eggs.

We put a couple of drops of the baby oil in the bottom of each tool.

Then we softened the wax under warm water for a couple of minutes.

I should say at this point that during these tasks we were expending about 95% of our energy on trying to keep the kids from playing with the baby oil and “tools” and overturning the table in the mad rush to see what was going on, as well as putting underwear back on Oliver who had just finished up on the potty. So TRULY the procedure was as easy as it gets.

Once the wax was softened we inserted it in the tools and had Eleanor make an imprint in each. We did try to grab George – but he was having none of it.

We let the wax cool for a few minutes, removed it from the tools, placed each one in an egg and then packed everything up to ship to Womily. All so simple and easy! I’m not particularly crafty – so this is my kind of project. There was only one problem:

Eleanor REALLY wanted to play with those plastic eggs, and had a bit of a hissy fit when we packed them away.

It will take several weeks to get the cuff links back, but when we do, I’ll post pictures. Until then, I will leave you with this:

Okay – so this is the nudity I referred to in my title. Sometimes I resort to false advertising to get attention. What of it?

Anyway – back to my semi-nude son… You know it’s Spring when the Hood kids start running around outside in their underwear. We’re a pretty classy group… But at least George put on some shoes. And look at those skinny white legs! I may need to break out the self tanner for that poor pasty little guy…

Becoming a Real Mom: Trial by Vomit

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So I guess I promised a 1,000+ word dissertation on puke? I’d say that I must have been drunk – but it looks like I posted that at 2:15 p.m.

I’m kidding of course! I’ve been super excited to write my gargantuan post about puke. I’ve just been really busy with work and mothering and promoting my talented friend Christine.

I also haven’t had much time to think about what I’m going to say about puke… So this should be interesting (or really boring – depends on what direction the wine is blowing – does that even make sense?)

Okay – back to the beginning… Eleanor was sick earlier in the week. Some kind of stomach flu to be specific. And there was a moment when she was puking in my hand that I realized just how far I had come in terms of a vomit comfort zone.

You see, there was a time when I NEVER, ever threw up. Ever. I couldn’t. I would lie in bed sweating through the nausea and praying for death to come quickly, but I couldn’t bring myself to just lean over the toilet and heave. I just couldn’t. I had a mental block. Sometime after age nine, a switch was flipped and I literally “couldn’t” puke.

Then I was in college and 21 years old. You are going to find this very hard to believe, but I only puked once in college. Red shots were involved, but otherwise there was nothing of note to report. Seriously – I was home for the night and my roommate held my hair back for me. Snore.

Then I turned 25. And even that was kind of quiet in that I realized what was coming early enough during the birthday celebration to head home before things got ugly in public. I didn’t quite make it into the house, but at least I didn’t soil the cab. Just the street. Which was gleefully pointed out to me by my roommates until it finally rained. Thank god for April showers…

Then I was 30. I was married and not a party animal, and visiting my friend in New Jersey. In fact it was such a low key night that we were just meeting a few of her friends out in Hoboken for Friday night happy hour. The plan was to then have dinner at a good Mexican place and go home early since Saturday would be the night out in the city (for anyone not familiar with this term, “the city” means Manhattan). I’ve written about this once before, but the short version is that I didn’t eat much, but had a few very strong margaritas that made me VERY sick. In Hoboken. In fact, all over Hoboken. And to quote the famously succinct Forrest Gump, “that’s all I have to say about that.”

Then a year later I went to China and got food poisoning (it’s part of the experience – there are whole chapters on this in the guide books). The first non-alcohol related puke since my childhood – yeah!

And finally…THEN, I was pregnant and got a stomach flu in my eighth month. My car never smelled the same again…

So that concludes my illustrious history as an infrequent puker.

Why would I feel the need to provide that history? Well – aside from that fact that I can’t write any story without at least 10 paragraphs of background information…I do think it creates a context for my limited experience with vomit.

I don’t know about any other mothers out there, but when I decided to procreate, I did not sign on for vomit. I was a seasoned babysitter, so I expected exploding diapers. I knew that there would be an ungodly amount of diapers – and that was fine. I signed on for that. I was also familiar with spit up. It’s stinky and annoying, but not too bad. And it stops as soon as the baby can sit up. I signed on for that.

But I did not consider the possibility of real puke.

Real puke is something that you never get used to. It’s not like poopie diapers. Poopie diapers are a given. You change them several times a day and very quickly become desensitized to the stench. Case in point: After about one and a half years of having three babies/toddlers in diapers, my three year old became potty trained. Since we had fewer diapers to dump, I stopped keeping the diaper pail in our play room and moved it outside. My adorably candid, four year old neighbor Jonas informed me of the improvement by saying, “Hey Kate! Your house doesn’t stink anymore!”

Awesome.

So no – I’m not exactly squeamish when it comes to my children’s bodily functions. But puking is a different story.

If something doesn’t happen on a daily basis, then it’s not familiar. And if it’s not familiar, then you don’t just “get used to it.” Therefore no one (except maybe a pregnant woman) gets used to puke.

My first experience with baby puke was during those fabulous teething months, when Oliver insisted on jamming everything in his mouth and gagging himself. In fact, it seemed like he tried to gag himself on purpose. We never did figure out the reasoning behind this bulimic behavior. But I didn’t particularly care about reasons when I had him on the changing table after his bath and he decided to stick his finger down his throat. All I have to say is thank god for the hooded baby towel. But trying to clean vomited peas and carrots out of my child’s ears over the sink was an experience I could have done without.

Since then I’ve encountered pretty much every child vomit-related situation. I’ve stood in the bathroom in the middle of the night holding a crying toddler as he or she puked all over me – over and over and over again. I’ve had to sit in rush hour traffic for 30 minutes while yelling back to a sobbing, vomit covered child that we’d be home “very soon.” I’ve watched three children throwing up simultaneously while I stood frozen for several seconds, wondering where to start first.

In any given situation, vomit is generally unexpected and unwelcome. And unlike diapers and spit up, no one actually grows out of it.

But I will say that in the past few years, I have become a very quick thinking and level headed strategist when it comes to puking children.

And the other weekend when we were out to lunch and Eleanor started making gagging noises. I instinctively held my hand under her chin to catch as much of the vomit as possible.

Then I dumped it onto her plate.

Then I asked a waiter for paper napkins and started cleaning her up.

Then I told Chris to take George with him to buy her a new outfit (we were in a mall).

Then I discreetly stripped her and covered her with Chris’ jacket.

Then I joked with our waiter and cleaned the table and the chair the the floor under the chair with a rag.

Then I told Oliver and Eleanor how good and patient they were being while we waited for Daddy.

Then I finished my soup.

Then I kept my exasperation in check when my flustered husband showed up with a summer outfit (it was chilly march) involving a onesie of all things…

Then I kept all three kids together outside of the restaurant while we waited for Chris to pay the check.

Then I spent the next hour in the kids’ play area with them even though I knew that my right hand still smelled like puke (never did get a chance to wash up).

And in the end – that’s when I finally felt like a real mom. Not when I gave birth or gave my baby his first bath (technically I didn’t – my Aunt Jan did while I sat on a bag of frozen peas) or started to get used to the sleepless nights. Because all of that was anticipated and expected (except for the frozen peas).

For me, becoming a real mom meant doing the unfamiliar and unexpected things. Facing the unknown and learning to take it in stride. Child vomit was my unknown territory – my Wild West – my own personal moon landing. “Puke: The final frontier.”

This all may sound rather silly and inconsequential, but if you think about it, vomit is terrifying. It’s a sign of weakness, illness, helplessness. And as parents, we live in fear of our children experiencing any of those traits. It doesn’t matter if a baby has a minor flu bug or decided to stick a Lincoln Log down his throat – throw up is throw up. And the primal reaction of is fear.

Parents live in fear on a daily basis. Fear of both the known and the unknown. And puking represents the unknown – that which is beyond our control. But at the end of the day, parents are responsible for taking charge of any given situation and exerting control wherever they can. I can’t make my child not puke, but I can hold out my hand to help.

So for me, that is when I stopped feeling like the teenage babysitter and instead started to claim my seat at the grownup table. I can take control of a situation. I can face the unknown with cool consideration. And dammit, I can pick up my child’s vomit and toss it onto a plate without batting an eye.

I think I’m ready for my silver star. I’m sheriff of this here family and all interlopers will have to answer to me. I’ll run vomit out of town on a rail. And if it comes to a showdown at high noon, best keep in mind that I’m the fastest draw in the West. That is when it comes to catching puke in my hand.

The One Where I Kill My Husband

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Okay – so I seem to have a lot to say for someone who is supposed to be avoiding the Internet… But that will go into full effect tomorrow when I get to work. In the meantime, I HAVE to post a few pictures.

My youngest son, George has been needing a haircut for a while. I gave him one myself a few weeks ago and it was pretty sad looking. So today we decided to let the professionals fix my mistakes. And Chris was in charge of taking George since he was in need of a haircut himself.

This is what my baby looked like pre-haircut:

This is what he looks like now:

FYI: He’s not break dancing in this one. He’s falling off a bike.

Chris is a dead man.

Home Alone: Day Four

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Day Four…and so far, no one has been voted off the island. Actually – the kids have been really good. I mean for them. So if you think that acting like something out of a Stephen King novel only 50% of the time is “really good,” then we are practically sharing a brain.

This morning George woke up at 4:30 with what I think was a nightmare, so I brought him to bed with me. It’s a guilty pleasure, having one of my tiny toddlers to cuddle in bed. Two of them is another story of course, but Eleanor didn’t follow him (for once). The big downside is that when the toddler in bed with you wakes up, there is no pretending that you can’t hear them. The direct eye contact makes that rather tricky to pull off. George opened his eyes at 6:45 and let me doze for about 15 more minutes though – so I can’t complain.

I just hope that he doesn’t start making this a habit. He is already driving me crazy with his insistence upon me holding him all the time. In fact, George’s attachment to me has now reached a level that begs the question, “is it normal for a two year old to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom?” I would guess, “no.” But hey – it’s his future on the psychiatric couch, not mine.

Eleanor and Oliver woke up shortly after we did, and before I knew it two hours had transpired. How is it possible that time can pass so quickly when you are literally doing nothing? This was great since I had plans to bring them back to the At Play Cafe at 10 a.m. and hoped to make it back home in time to watch the 11:30 swearing in ceremony.

In the meantime, I could watch the events on the large flat screen TV while my kids played. In fact, I would have been happy enough to just stay there through the presidential address. But I had no illusions about everyone lasting that long. Eleanor was already acting like she needed a nap.

The kids found a soulmate in a two year old boy named Max who seems destined to break several spines on the football field. He was little – but he was unstoppable. While they wrestled with Max, I caught up with my neighborhood friend, Tricia (also known as Reston Mom). A good time was had by all.

Soon enough Eleanor made it clear that she was done with the At Play Cafe, and I realized that it was already 11:30! So typical that I would spend a great moment in history engrossed in c-section comparison stories… But when I looked at the TV, I saw that we still had some time. Five minutes, two tantrums, one coatless child and a rousing game of musical stroller seats later, we arrived at our car. I had Eleanor under one arm, screaming something about wanting to walk and George was busily trying to unbuckle his seat belt. Only Oliver was content to be still – and happily contributed his 55+ lbs to my one handed double stroller pushing. I’m SO ready to retake that grade school presidential physical fitness test…

The minute we arrived home, I threw something in front of them that resembled lunch and then flew down to the basement in time to see the swearing in. Seriously – it was timed perfectly. I even got to hear the very beginning of Obama’s speech without interruption. Unfortunately George and Eleanor came down to look for me and I spent the rest of the speech with my ear against the television as they fired unintelligible questions at me. I think I caught about 60% of the speech. I’ll have to read it online later tonight to fill in the gaps.

I gave up at that point and switched the channel back to Noggin. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit smug about seeing ANY of the inauguration. Sad really…

Like I said, Eleanor was really tired and went down for her nap without protest. George? Not so much. But at least he didn’t try to escape. Oliver and I took advantage of the quiet (aside from George’s blood curdling screams, that is) to watch Mary Poppins for the 50th time this week. I also thought this would be a great time to whip up some cupcakes.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I have very little interest in cooking. At some point I did, but since my free time has now decreased by about 99.9%, I’ve decided that I’d rather spend it outside of my hideous, tiny galley kitchen. Baking is another story though. I’m perfectly content with box cake mixes, and what’s a few minutes of mixing compared to the fun of eating two dozen cupcakes as a snack? Oliver concurred.

Now, I don’t generally keep much junk food in the house, and my kids don’t actually eat a lot of dessert beyond store bought cookies now and then. But I do tend to fall back on doling out the treats when left to my own devices. In fact, I have a long history of overfeeding small children when I’m at a loss for anything else to do. I tend to think, “hmm – what do I feel like doing right now?” The answer usually involves ice cream.

Once when I was in my early twenties, I took care of my five year old cousin, Emmett for a week while his parents were in Europe. Emmett was one of those kids who was a little on the chubby side. This all changed when he hit puberty and grew 24 inches. But when he was five, he was pretty stout. I’m sure that I got some directions about limiting his fat and caloric intake, but after a day or two of playing with action figures, I lost my mind. I won’t get into the particulars of our many visits to pizza and ice cream parlors – but it would be safe to say that by the time his parents returned, Emmett had gained 5 lbs.

I’m not sure if my kids will gain any weight this week. But I’m fairly certain I will.

Aside from eating too much, I’ve also seriously let myself go appearance-wise. Today is the first time since Chris left that I’ve even washed my hair. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Since the winter air is so incredibly dry, one would never know that I should have been a complete grease ball by now.

While I’ve enjoyed a week of fabulous hair days, my poor daughter has not fared quite as well. I’ve written before about her fine blond hair and how it has taken two years to even look like she has actual hair on her head. And in spite of it being so obviously there now, static electricity has taken it’s toll on her wisps. Her hair is now perpetually plastered to the sides of her face. The look is similar to Taylor Momson’s awful new hairstyle (that would be Jenny from Gossip Girl’s Joan Jett ‘do).

The boys’ hair isn’t as affected by the dry weather – but they are both long overdue for a trim. Right now their hair is so long that with a little styling mousse they could give Uncle Jesse from Full House a run for his money. Now that I think of it…THAT could be a fun activity (for me). My children should thank their lucky stars that I go back to work tomorrow.

Oh – so many other things to report today… From a disastrous outing to pick up pizzas for dinner to the discovery that Oliver is running a raging fever (great timing since he’s having testing done tomorrow…) But I’m not writing a diary here – and honestly, the past three days of “chronicling” have worn me out. I’m not great with blow by blow accounts. I’m far too long winded for that.

So this will be the final installment “Home Alone.” Even though it’s looking likely that I WON’T be going to work tomorrow (since daycare has that ridiculous “no fevers” rule), I’m considering today the finale of my long weekend with the kids. Chris gets back Saturday night, and while I’ll be SO glad to see him, I’ve kind of enjoyed this trial by fire. I’ve actually learned some things about my parenting (and coping) skills: It’s always best to remain calm, a little patience goes a long way, and when in doubt, indulge in an early happy hour (either wine or cupcakes – pick your poison).

Home Alone: Day Three

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This morning, while unremarkable, seemed to fly by at record speed. My office was closed today with the understanding that everyone would work from home. So I planned to work on some projects while the children watched too much TV and pushed each other down the stairs. I’m kidding of course – at least about the stairs – but I really did need to stay plugged in and couldn’t take a full vacation day. I decided that if it looked like I wouldn’t get anything done, I’d just have to officially take the day off, but sneak in work when I could.

Miraculously – the children were happy to just play with each other, and spent a good hour “marching” around the first floor in a parade that seemed to have something to do with the Sister Suffragette song from Mary Poppins. And string. I’m still not sure what the string had to do with anything.

I had planned to take them out to lunch so they’d have at least one activity outside of the house. But it was snowing and I didn’t know what that would mean for the roads.

Nothing, apparently – but the upshot of all of this independent indoor playtime was that I didn’t get to tire them out as I had planned. And when nap time for the twins rolled around, they were none too thrilled.

I tried reading them books (our usual wind down activity), but no one wanted to sit still. So I gave up and just put them in their cribs with the expectation that they’d do some screaming before they actually fell asleep. This isn’t so unusual, but of course, they picked today to learn that they have the ability to escape.

George has known how to climb out of his crib for a while now. I discovered this one night when I rolled over in bed to find him standing there looking at me. But it didn’t happen again, and I hoped that he would be like Oliver and lose interest in the activity almost immediately (seriously, it was great – even though Oliver knew how to climb out, he NEVER did).

Today was the day though… And not only did George climb out of his bed, he showed Eleanor how to do it as well. Within a few minutes of settling down with Oliver, the Little Einsteins and my computer, the twins wandered into the room. As if it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding – one we would never speak of again.

Nice try! I tossed them right back in and said “too bad, so sad – go to sleep.” I didn’t actually say that, but my tone was very clear.

As soon as I arrived back downstairs, I heard the unmistakable sound of two little pairs of feet hitting the floor. I went upstairs, met them at their door as they were exiting, and calmly escorted them back to bed (which is code for threw their little asses back in the clinker).

I’ve been through this with Oliver on vacation before (he had no compunction with escaping from the pack n’ play) and knew that they would continue to defy me. So I decided that I would allow it as long as they played quietly in their room. I couldn’t make them sleep – but I could make them have quiet time.

After listening to the pitter patter of little feet for about 15 minutes, I decided my plan sucked and that I’d better go put them back into their cribs. They really do need naps and I didn’t want to face an evening alone with them if they were going to be sleep deprived monsters.

I arrived to find them happily pulling apart the blinds. Eleanor, whom we tend to think of as the brains in the operation could tell I was serious about what George obviously considered “all this nap malarkey,” and submitted willingly to the inevitable. George on the other hand was outraged that I would put him back into the cage that he had already rejected twice. He even threw a leg over the railing and screamed the equivalent of toddler obscenities at me. We then engaged in a silent face off – his rage vs. my parental authority – for a minute or two. This could have gone on indefinitely if I didn’t hear Oliver sound the alarm downstairs: “UH OH -PEE PEE!“

I should probably explain that even though Oliver is fast approaching age four, and has been potty trained since last summer, he still wants me to help him pull down his pants. For the most part, I attribute this to habit. But it should also be noted that he is not particularly slim through the hips and if hard pressed for time, may have trouble getting his pants down before it’s too late. And he does tend to put things off until the last minute, so it’s understood in my house that when Oliver yells “uh oh – pee pee!” that means “run, do not walk – this is not a drill – I repeat this is not a drill! “

I narrowed my eyes, repositioned George inside the crib railing and firmly admonished him to stay put. I flew down the stairs and arrived in the powder room to find that I was too late. Said pee pee was entirely outside of the toilet.

Oliver is generally very good about not having accidents, so we don’t give him a hard time about it. I responded to his defeated “uh oh – pee pee” with my usual pat on the head and promise that “we’ll fix it, it’s okay.“

Once Oliver and the powder room were put to rights, I took a quick peek up the stairs to make sure I didn’t see toddlers dismantling the linen closet. No sign of activity – but I did hear a fair bit of wailing. One voice only, and high pitched enough for me to easily identify as George. Thankfully, it was muffled, indicating a face firmly (and irately) pressed into the crib mattress. So he seemed to be resigned to his fate.

Ultimately, they did sleep. But George was up again in 45 minutes, crying for me. At least Eleanor had a normal nap. Regardless – everyone went to bed an hour early tonight. Since they have no concept of telling time yet, I can usually trick them into this on the days they stay at home.

A few random things about today:

George has been talking about skoppa ball for a while, and I just realized that he’s saying “basketball.”

Eleanor has decided that she’s from Minnesota and now says “oh ya!” whenever an affirmative is required.

Oliver only wore pants for a cumulative ten minutes today.

“Renesmee” is the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard in my life (you have to be at least halfway through the fourth Twilight book to understand this).

I opened a wine bottle at 5:30 p.m.

Home Alone: Day Two

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Did I say that I had hubris? Strike that. I have mad parenting SKILLZ. Or at least I really lowered the bar regarding my expectations for this weekend. Of course, it’s only the second day… But I have to say – this really isn’t that bad. SO much easier than last year when Oliver was two and the twins were one.

Now they all play together and I can actually leave them unsupervised for short periods of time while I get things done around the house. Whether I should be leaving them unsupervised or not is a completely different story – but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And this girl has to do some cleaning.

We started the day around 7:00 a.m. when Eleanor wouldn’t stop yelling “Mommy where are you?” for five minutes straight. When she takes a breather or two I choose to pretend I can’t hear her – but with that solid block I knew that she meant business. Please don’t think I’m a neglectful parent. I’m just encouraging her to problem solve and learn to get out of her crib without my help. It’s more of a teaching tool – this neglect. And a rather short sighted one since I don’t particularly want them to know how to escape their cages.

George doesn’t demand my attention the minute he wakes up, but he does require that I hold him in my arms at all times. You see, George and I are madly in love. We cannot be separated. Such a breach would only result in earth shattering screams that rupture all canine eardrums within a mile radius of our house. Of course that is a slight exaggeration (very slight) so I do have my hands-free moments throughout the day.

Sometimes I try to remember if Oliver was like this too. He is also quite pathological in his need for my attention. But I suspect that my enormous stomach (full of the twins) when he was a year old helped to reduce the amount time he spent attached to my body. Which is a good thing since he was twice as heavy as George when he was two (George just barely clears 25 lbs. – he’s such a pee wee!) Oliver didn’t require as much babying as George does, but he was prone to impromptu leaping into my arms from counter tops or the top of the staircase. Who am I kidding? He still does that. Those boys would hang on me all day if they didn’t take breaks to climb on furniture and torture their sister.

I don’t have a lot to report on our morning at home. Too much TV was watched (by them), too much diet coke was consumed (by me), too much rough housing around sharp corners took place (obviously them)… I was able to clean the kitchen and make some headway in the fourth Twilight book, so I felt it was a win-win.

We did not go to the At Play Cafe as I had planned since I saw that they open at noon on Sundays. We needed a morning outing, so I had to come up with another destination that offered shelter from the winter wind, a pleasant atmosphere, and bright shiny objects to keep us entertained. So off to Target we went!

One challenge I faced was how to transport them around the store. When Chris is with me, we put the twins in their stroller and Oliver sits in the shopping cart seat. But pushing both a double stroller and the cart would be impossible. And I couldn’t just forgo the cart and have Oliver walk with me. I would have no way of making him stay with me or walk in the direction I preferred (this whole “will of their own” thing leaves a lot to be desired). So here was my solution:

Luckily we didn’t have to buy anything in bulk. Just a few odds and ends – some staples like Little Einstein DVDs and some Play Doh. This ate up a good hour of time – which was my main concern. As the Einsteins like to say, “Mission completion!”

The only part of our outing that caused me a little bit of a headache was the drama of Eleanor trying to decide which car seat she would take. At one time, we had an assigned seating arrangement, but lately, Eleanor has decided that she wants options. Luckily – George could give a crap which seat is his, but I could do without the fun of getting her buckled into one only to find that she has buyer’s remorse and simply MUST move to the other one. Particularly when it’s freezing outside and we’re all anxious to get the car started so we can crank up the heat. Girls.

After some lunch and about 372 laps around the house, the twins were willing to take their nap and Oliver and I spent some quality time watching TV. Actually – I did a little reading. Damn those Twilight books and their inexplicable power to take precedence over more important activities like child rearing.

Oliver did get a little bored at one point and put on his coat, claiming that it was time to go out for pizza. Thankfully, I was able to distract him with another activity after explaining that we had just eaten lunch, that the twins were sleeping upstairs and that it was far too cold to go outside in nothing but Kung Fu Panda underwear and a coat.

The evening brought more of the same, and this little report is a bit longer than I had intended. So I’ll just leave you with a couple of pictures I took at bath time.

Be sure to check back tomorrow for further tedious details of our day!