Tag Archives: World’s Best Mom

George’s Hair: Kickin’ It Old School

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So a quick update on George’s hair. You may remember that Chris ruined it a couple of months ago.

It’s growing… But it looks very strange.

I think he looks like an 80s rocker.

Spiky on top. Fringy in the back.

The other day on the commute home, we were listening to an 80s rock block: Paradise City, You Make All My Dreams Come True, and then Some Guys Have All the Luck.

I looked back at George and thought, “that’s it! You are SO on your way to being Rod Stewart.

Some Guys Have All the Luck…

He’s got at ways to go before he achieves Rod’s signature look though… His transitional ‘do is probably closer to what these guys sported in their debut album days:

Of course, this isn’t so bad when you consider some of the alternatives.

On top of his 80s rocker hair, he’s skinny and pale. Remember this shot?

Chris made the rather unkind observation that he looked like a heroin addict with his shaved head, ghastly pallor and general boniness.

Great – so my baby looks like one of those lily-white losers from Trainspotting?

But I must say – the similarity between those two shaved heads is pretty dead on. And George does have this habit of sticking his whole head in the toilet when he flushes (you know – to get the best view).

It’s been a while since I’ve seen the movie, but I’m fairly sure that Ewen didn’t yell, “bye poopies!” in that famous scene. And George’s hair isn’t that short anymore… Oh well, I didn’t say it was an exact likeness.

I’ve Got Disco in My Soul

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You wouldn’t know it to look at me of course.

When people look at me they see this:

and this:

But when we’re little, we absorb so much. All of that influences who we become – at least to some degree. And regardless of what the outside reflects, on the inside I run 98 ° Disco (Fahrenheit or Celsius depends on the day).

On the inside, I look like this:

and this:

Because when I was little, I went to Auntie’s house.

Auntie (which is phonetically pronounced “Ahntie”) ran a daycare service in her New Rochelle, NY house. My brother, Matthew and I at age two and four, were just two kids in what felt like a nation of children who stayed with Auntie while their parents worked.

As with all childhood memories, the images I conjure up are BIG: a massive dining room table where we’d all eat our Campbell’s Soup for lunch (hiding Lima beans in our pockets), the long flight of stairs up to her front door, the expanse of plastic slip covered sofa where we were not allowed to play…

The other kids at Auntie’s were mainly from the neighborhood, while Matthew and I lived in another town. They were boisterous and fearless where we were quiet and cautious. But we blended in. Soon enough, we laughed just as loud and played just as hard.

As the only white girl at Auntie’s, I was exotic for the first and only time in my plain jane life. My hair fell flat where theirs could be sculpted into shapes. My nose turned pink after time in the sun. And my hazel eyes would sometimes look green while theirs stayed the deepest of browns.

On the outside I couldn’t be more different. But not on the inside. My new friends marveled over my otherness but only for the novelty. Little girls are far too landlocked by their constant quest for common ground to be distracted for long. All little girls giggle in harmony, speak the language of fairy tales and whisper universal secrets that only fade with puberty.

My brother’s bright chestnut head was the only distinguishing feature in the blur of boys tearing through the house, as boys are even less concerned with external appearance. While the girls initially wanted to stroke my head and pinch my cheeks, the boys barely paused to pull Matthew into their hectic orbit. Pushing him to keep up or get out of the way. There wasn’t time for scrutiny.

But what I remember most about Auntie’s house was the music.

Auntie had teenagers who filled the house with more than just their presence. Arriving home after 3:00, they played their music loudly. Music from 1976 that commanded you to hustle, boogie and shake, shake, shake. Floors and walls pulsed with the sound of drums, bass and horn sections. Every movement of the teenagers kept time with these rhythms and they pulled us all in their wake.

During school hours when the teenagers weren’t there, the little kids would still hustle and boogie. We would sing the songs and choreograph dances. The boys would lose interest quickly, but the girls worked diligently to perfect routines.

I would bring these home and was frequently asked to perform Boogie Fever for visiting friends and relatives. I didn’t like or understand their gales of laughter. There was dignity in my disco.

As memorable as our time at Auntie’s was, it wasn’t very long. Just a year or two. Just long enough for a little disco to grab hold and not let go. And I would carry that always. First as a secret shame in the 80s – then as a triumphant comeback years later.

I rarely listen to the radio anymore. Instead I spend my commute reading via recorded books. There is so little time at home, making this the only way that I can feed my cravings for stories. But the kids are getting older now – no longer babies, but small children who like to dance and giggle as they try to sing along with their favorite songs.

I find that I frequently turn off my stories and listen to theirs (or at least Eleanor’s). Their exclamations over the world whizzing past now require a response. They need me to be actively engaged in their wonder.

So instead I turn on the radio. Now that it’s warm, I put the windows down. I yell at the kids to keep their hands inside, but secretly want to push my own palm against the press of air. I sing along with the songs I know – and even the ones I don’t know. And feel wave after wave of sense memories from high school when driving with the windows down and music blasting was a given.

Then the opening notes of something familiar distract me. I feel very young inside, far younger than I did in my previous reverie. If I close my eyes I can hear the sound of girlish giggling and possibly even feel the ghost of a small hand running through my hair (unless of course, that’s Oliver who just escaped from his seat belt).

But I don’t close my eyes (because you know, I’m driving) and I know that the giggles are coming from my own children who apparently like Donna Summer too. I turn up the volume. On the Radio transports me to a time when I had so few worries and responsibilities (other than covert disposal of the hated Lima beans). And I think that maybe I’ll do this more often, not just for me, but for the three little people in the back seat.

They are absorbing the world around them in the same way I did, and they need more music in their day. Particularly in the car when they have nothing to do but look and listen. They need a rythm to tap with their feet, a melody to lift up their hearts, and possibly a strings section for effect. They need more than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…they need Donna Summer and Stevie Wonder and Barry White. They need music with impossible high notes and finger snapping backup vocalists. They need a soundtrack. One you can dance to.

Because I think they’ve got a little disco in their souls too.

Don Taunch

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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).

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.

Sound Byte: "What the….?!?"

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It seems like I have a lot funny Eleanor stories lately… Probably because she’s such a little talker now. I typically don’t chronicle every precious anecdote – but one from this weekend really made me laugh.

Warning: There is bad language involved – but it can’t be helped since it’s kind of integral to the story.

On Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kids’ table setting up an elaborate craft project for us to all do together (translation: I was sitting at the kids’ table with my laptop reading blogs and absentmindedly talking to them about the DVD that was playing).

Eleanor – who isn’t into dolls but IS into “ballminas” (ballerinas) came over to me with a little Polly Pocket doll that someone gave her for Christmas. We have very few of these little girly items and I find it interesting that she’s the ONLY one who shows any interest in them (nurture over nature indeed! ha!).

Eleanor: Mommy? What the fuck?

Me: What?!?

Eleanor: What the fuck?

Me: I’m sorry – I must not be hearing this right…what did you say?

Eleanor: What. The. Fuck.

Me: Try again – but slowly. What are you asking me?

Eleanor: Wha….The….Fog?

Me: What the “frog?”

Eleanor: Yeah! Wha the fog?

Me: OH – you want to know where the frog is…because she’s a ballerina…which to you, is the same as “princess”….and princesses kiss frogs!!

Eleanor: [blank stare]

Me: No – it’s funny – because I thought you said… Well – never mind. One day I’ll tell you about this and you’ll think it’s really funny.

Eleanor: What the fuck?

Theoretically Speaking, "They" are Awfully Judgey

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They say that you shouldn’t let your children watch too much television, and should instead engage them in educational games to cultivate creativity and intellect.

They say that you should always be consistent with discipline, as it will instill an understanding of consequences.

They say that you should make sure your little ones go to bed as early as possible so that they can get a full 12 hours of sleep. (So necessary for brain development, you know!)

They say that you should feed your children well balanced meals with plenty of fruits and vegetables. (Duh! Brain development.)

They say that you should start teaching your children to dress themselves when they turn two. It’s okay if they don’t master it immediately – it’s all about learning.

They say that you shouldn’t bribe children with treats because it ultimately rewards bad behavior.

and

They say that when it comes to the frustrations of parenting, laughter is the best medicine.

This is all great in theory, but…

They are forgetting the fact that very few children are able to amuse themselves independently with educational games. So if a parent needs a block of time to get something done without interruption, then television is the PERFECT solution. Nothing silences a room full of kids like an hour of Yo Gabba Gabba.

They assume that there is time to commit to consistency. For most parents, this is in fact false. If your oldest son refuses to listen to you when you tell him to get off the table, then yes, you should give him a time out. But if he will not stay in time out without direct supervision, then you must stand next to him. Your younger children will then take this opportunity to climb up on the table too. When you leave the time out area to reprimand the other children, the first one will leave his position in time out. And of course climb back up on the table – because you know, everyone else is doing it. This could result in rotating children in and out of time out for long stretches of time, and SOMEONE has to make dinner.

They must not arrive home from work and daycare pick up after 6:00 p.m. Children have internal timers and will know that only one hour has elapsed if you hustle them into the bedtime routine before 7:30. It is a scientific fact (that I just made up to justify my children’s circadian rhythms) that children need at least 30 minutes of playtime before and after dinner. Otherwise, they can’t even consider going to bed. And if they’re hard wired to be night owls, then it is impossible for them to go to sleep before 8:30 or 9:00. If twelve hours of sleep are required for adequate brain development in toddlers, then we will not be raising future rocket scientists.

They obviously don’t have children who refuse to eat anything but variations of cheese on bread. Such children will not comply with rules regarding good nutrition. They are far more patient than parents when it comes to the choice of eating their green beans or leaving the table to play. They would rather sit at the table until dawn than eat something they deign to be “yucky.”

They must not have children who would be naked at all times if clothing wasn’t forced upon them. It’s flat out logic that a child who knows how to dress himself will realize that he also has the ability to get undressed at any time. Actually, this is inevitable, but keeping them in the dark about how to put pants on by themselves could buy a little time before they learn that they can take them off. It’s never about learning – it’s always about keeping people in pants.

They forget that the fastest way to improve behavior is to offer bribes. It’s a short term solution, but when your three year old is having a tantrum in the middle of a crowded restaurant, you’re not really thinking long term. And seriously – when you’ve been listening to three kids screaming for 30 straight minutes, I dare you to NOT offer them candy.

and

They never tried Prozac.

So What Have I NOT Told You About Myself By Now?

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Several of my friends on Facebook tagged me for “Twenty Five Things About Me” (and possibly a blog friend or two – but I can’t remember…) Anyway – I feel compelled to do this. So here it is:

Twenty Five Things About Me

1. I have never colored my hair. Not once. Not even highlights. I made the conscious decision to wait until I got older and “had to.” My grandmother once said to me, “dear – I hope you won’t color your hair…I DO think that gray hair can be awfully attractive.” I concurred with her opinion as I was expected to, but in my heart, I knew that I will never go gray. I’ll go RED!

2. I pick favorites among my children. But it changes every 30 seconds – so I figure it evens out in the end.

3. I was the only girl in my high school class who didn’t wear boxers under her uniform skirt. I thought they made me look fat. Sadly this caused a very embarrassing incident for me in The Quad one day when a big gust of Spring air gave all of nearby construction workers a view of my not fat thighs.

4. I dream of having a career that I love. But I only started thinking about this in the past few years. Prior to that I was fairly apathetic about the connection of my job to my sense of identity. Sometimes I wonder if this is a sign of a midlife crisis.

5. I have already confessed to an obsession with recorded books. I listen to plenty of current fiction, but one of my favorite authors for listening is Jane Austen. Even though I have actually read all of her books and know the stories well, I find something very soothing about hearing them read in a clipped English accent. Is it me or do days of nothing but needlepoint and gossip by a roaring fire sound really appealing sometimes?

6. I wish I knew how to do needlepoint or embroidery. I would create fabulous throw pillows and whip up Anthropologie-quality tops out of plain vintage shirts and embroidery thread. I should have learned these skills when I had the time…

7. I like being by myself and tend to treat a night on my own like a personal slumber party. After I put the kids to bed and clean up, I’m all about raiding the refrigerator for junk food, giving myself a pedicure and watching “girl movies.” Of course, my husband doesn’t travel that often – so I might have a different attitude if these personal slumber parties were more frequent.

8. I can’t stand gum. I find it revolting. The way it looks just hanging out in someone’s mouth, the sound of it snapping and even the smell of it. ESPECIALLY the smell of it if it’s fruit flavored or even worse, bubble gum. The smell of bubble gum flavored anything makes me want to pass out. Not to make light of actual torture, which is not funny and a terrible reality from which I am lucky to be sheltered…but seriously, I think you’d have to pull out a few of my molars with pliers before I’d allow you to put a piece of bubble gum in my mouth.

9. I have an incredibly high suspension of disbelief threshold when it comes to books, movies and television story lines, but I do tend to obsess over everyday details that I find a little too unbelievable. For example, I can enjoy pretty much anything from Harry Potter to Lost; but I just can’t get past how the Cosbys had all those kids and a TV in their living room, but their couch always looked so clean.

10. I’m terrified of sharks. A condition that has grown worse as I’ve gotten older. All of those news reports about shark attacks in Florida a few years back didn’t help.

11. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of business documents.

12. My wedding cake was the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life: chocolate cake with fondant icing and a buttercream and marzipan filling. I knew that I wouldn’t get a chance to have any at the reception, so I asked my planner to make sure that there was a large piece waiting for me in my room at the end of the night. This was quite possibly one of the brilliant ideas I’ve ever had in my life.

13. My writing style tends to be a little verbose. So “25 Things About Me” can be loosely translated into “Twenty Minutes of Your Life That You Will Never Get Back.” Therefore I will be breaking this into two posts. Check back tomorrow more for 12 more things about me!