Field Trip Day

My devilish darling son Sam has never been on a field trip before. Why, you ask? Well, last year on his first field trip attempt, he got into a skirmish before school even started and was sent home for the day. It was his rock bottom for the first grade. This year, when Lucy got to go on that same first grade field trip, he was livid. It kind of set off a domino effect of bad behavior which lasted several weeks, culminating in more than one trip to the principal's office, lots of punishments, and talking about things with initials and such.  I've been super anxious about this, and specifically about today: second grade field trip day. Honestly, we both have been stressing about it. So much so that his father called before school this morning (which he does pretty much NEVER) to pep talk him and give him a double dose of daily parental positive vibes.

I'm happy to report that IT WORKED! Sam attended his field trip to the symphony, and his teacher reported that he was awesome, although he confessed to once pretending to pick his nose to make some boys around him chuckle. The symphony wasn't something he was particularly excited about, so I was a little more concerned that he would act out if he got bored, but he didn't! Plus, he's had a run of really great days at school. Last week I was literally sobbing and being totally dismal about his future, but today? Well, his dad's positivity talk must have rubbed off on me. 

#@!&$

Ah, my children...

Somehow these lovely little angels have turned into foul-mouthed little beasts.

That 'somehow' is 100% bull shit. I know exactly how it happened. Care to hear all about my poor parenting? Read along!

The house selling has been more than a little stressful for me, which you probably already know. Unfortunately for me (and my kids), one of the first things out of the window during times of stress is my ability to censor myself. Until one month and one day ago, I was thinking that I had gotten really, really good at curtailing my profanities around the kiddies. I was using some delightful expressions, like Mother Hen and Holy Macaroni in place of my usual swear words, and honestly, I found it amusing.

And then the house went on the market, and I had to use all of my extra brain power to remember to blow out the cinnamon candles and turn on all of the lights. That's when my ability to come up with new and creative non-offensive expletives died. All of a sudden, I found myself uttering full on swear words in front of my children. Occasionally even at my children. So the other day, when Lucy asked me to zip her fucking coat, I wasn't too surprised. I was mortified and totally ashamed of myself, but not surprised.

And then Sam uttered 'god damn' during a heated game of Thomas Uno with our lovely and incredibly Catholic baby sitter.

And then two days later he appropriately and subtlety dropped a 'mother fucker' into conversation during a game of Mario Brothers. Again while our sweet and totally pure baby sitter was here.

At first I contemplated sealing up my mouth with duct tape, but then how would I consume all of the wine I would need to make me feel better about this whole mess? I spoke with the kids about how what I said was wrong and bad, and I apologized. Then I explained that they should never use those bad words mommy said.

Now I just have to hope that they listened. The last thing I need is to have my kids taking the lord's name in vain on Easter Sunday. At least this little darling isn't old enough to talk yet.

Remeber that Time I Had to Forcibly Remove Sam from Swim Class? That Was Fun.

Oh, today was a fun one.

Ever since we got home on Saturday both kids have been like little Jekyll and Hyde's. One moment sweet and loving, the next instant making curse the day they were born. My mother-in-law came for a visit on Sunday afternoon, which, while fun, only added to the chaos for the kiddos. All morning Sam was on good behavior, so I should have known I was in for it. But the cock-eyed optimist in me was hoping the trend of goodness would continue.

WRONG!

As soon as we got outside to leave for swimming he took off through the yard, attempting to slip through the small space in the fence that leads to the neighbor's yard. You know, the space that I, or any other adult, could never fit through but that a 2 year old could slip through with ease. Yeah, that one. Luckily I caught him in the nick of time. He's really been into running away from us lately, and god help me I'm going to end up giving him a separated shoulder. I usually just barely manage to grab him by one arm just before he darts into traffic, slips through fence holes, falls down the steps, etc. So I grab him up and we pack into the car.

As soon as we got into the pool I calmed down. He was so excited that the water wasn't freezing (like at the beach) that he kept laughing and telling me that the water was hot! Yay! But when our regular teacher didn't show up and the fill in was instructing from the deck, things got ugly.

He started by grabbing my hair, clumped into a bun on top of my head so as to keep it dry, and yanked it as hard as he could to get me to put my face into the water. All the while he's screaming 'Mommy do! Mommy do!' None of the other kids, naturally, are trying to drown their mothers, so they are all giving me the stink eye over the yelling.

Later in the class the kids get little toys to throw and swim to. Usually Sam is really good during this portion of class because there is this one particular toy he adores. It's a cup that is shaped like a monkey head (a very realistic monkey head, I might add) that has a handle and a spout at the mouth. He calls it the whoo-whoo bucket, and if given the choice he prefers a yellow one. For a few minutes he was pleasant and cooperative. However, when it was time to put the whoo-whoo bucket away, things got ugly. Specifically, he took the whoo-whoo bucket and used it to smack me in the face as hard as he could. Almost instantly I could feel my lip starting to swell. I pulled him in close, explained that he gave mommy a big boo-boo, and that if he had one more incident of bad behavior we were leaving class early.

Well, that's what I meant to say. What I actually said probably wasn't that, um, nice.

Not even two minutes later all of us mommies were putting the kids on the deck for their jumping exercises when Sam spied the lap lane dividers. Occasionally someone will want to swim laps during our class time and the lifeguards will pull the lap dividers into the pool, and Sam is just fascinated by this. As soon as he saw them, he started moving towards them, all the while watching my face. I used my 'nice but threatening' voice to call him back over, but he was already too far gone. 'Mommy, NO!' he exclaimed, and when he turned to run he ended up pushing the little girl next to us into the pool. Thank god her mother was right there to catch her. And that the woman who teaches the class right before ours was still there, because she grabbed up Sam before he could hurt anyone else or himself. The water is almost five feet deep where we were, and it's is almost a foot below the deck so I was having trouble climbing out. She offered to hand him back to me down in the pool, but I just shook my head, climbed out and headed us off to the showers.

Unfortunately the bad behavior didn't end there. There were several tantrums thrown, and at one point he slammed our locker door while my head was inside, giving me a nice bump to add to my fat lip. I had intended to squeeze a small workout in after swimming class, but he was being too rotten for the babysitters too, so we headed home.

During the entirety of our ten minute drive he kept repeating 'Sorry Mommy. Mommy, sorry.' I could tell from his voice and his face that he meant it, too. It was breaking my heart just a little. As soon as we got home I put him in his bed even though it was almost two hours before his regular nap time. He was asleep in less than two minutes.

Two hours later he is still asleep.

Two hours later and my swollen lip has gone down.

Two hours later and I am keeping my fingers crossed that I get my sweet Sammy back after this nap. And maybe that I can get in a workout sometime this afternoon.

Guess What We're Doing Tomorrow

Let the good times roll. As long as there is paint on that roll, that is.

I'm keeping things short today so I can get out there and de-lurk! 'Cause today is:

Comment, bitches!

Redefining Inappropriate

We've had an interesting, boundary defining day here at the casa de queso.

Sam has been very interested in watching me breastfeed Lucy. He'll point at her mouth and then at my boob and make his little question face. So far, I think I've handled it pretty well. But I started pumping this week. And that? Is harder to explain to a 19 month old. He sits and watches me so intently. When he sees the milk, he seems to understand that it's not the same as his milk, but it's still weird. Today he got his hands on my (clean) pump. He then immediately lifted his shirt and tried to pump some milk of his own. Of course I laughed, which only encouraged him. So for the next half an hour we had to giggle at Sam as he attempted to milk himself.

Then there's this:


Nothing says 'Mommy loves you' like frozen breast milk nestled between two bottles of vodka.

I saved the most disturbing for last, so mentally prepare yourselves.

Sam interest in the potty and all bathroom related things has skyrocketed lately. He loves loves loves to be in the room when you're performing your dirty sinful business. Flushing has become his new Little Gym. Hand washing is one of the most exciting parts of his day. So this morning he joined me as I peed. I reached for some toilet paper, and Sam reached out for some as well. Since we've been telling him that he can only flush when there is paper in the bowl, I figured that he just wanted to toss it in to have a good reason to push the lever. So imagine my shock and horror when he offered some assistance with the wiping. As in, my baby boy tried to clean my cooter.

I am a horrible parent.

La Vie En Marron

Sam has a stomach bug which has given him a nasty fever and converted his tiny bum into a foul geyser of putrid feces. Beyond the negative implications for me, his poor ass is, literally, chapped. He has never had a day of diaper rash in his life, and now the entirety of both of his cheeks are red and swollen, hot to the touch and seriously tender. His poor little digestive system woke him up several times last night. Naturally, he would wake up just after I would put Lucy back down. So I got a sum total of 1 hour and 40 minutes of sleep last night, in roughly 20 minute segments.

I knew the universe was truly against me, though, late this morning as I was changing the little lady. She was in the little changing table thingie that attaches to the top of the pack-n-play, so she was slightly elevated. I took off her wet diaper, and just as I lifted her legs to slip the clean one under her, she shot a projectile stream of yellow liquid baby poo flying trough the air. About half of it landed in my hair, and the other half landed on my bed.

And? Since Sam has been shitting through 12 diapers a day, we're out of laundry detergent.

Someone get me a drink.

Bitch Stole My Ball!

Yesterday afternoon, since the temperature was only in the nineties, we took Sam to the pool. We had been away from quite some time due to weather related pregnancy concerns, which is a fancy way of saying it was too damn hot and I was too damn pregnant. (I still am. Just in case I confused you by using the past tense.)

Anyhoodle, I always take one pool toy with us on these outings. One is all I really have the energy to keep track of. Our last name is written across every pool toy in huge black letters because there are a lot of kids around, and while I don't mind sharing while at the pool, I like to ensure that we go home with everything we brought with us. Today we took Sam's ball, which of all the toys is the most clearly labeled. The only thing on the fucker is our name in giant permanent marker. After tossing the ball with Aunt Allison for a while, Sam lost interest and began playing in the fountain. A little girl, perhaps a few months younger than Sammy, saw the ball and started playing with it. I didn't say anything because, as I said, sharing is A-ok in my book. There weren't many people there today (school is back in session!) so I knew it's be easy to keep track of while we played.

I guess her mother interpreted my silence to mean that we hated the ball and never wanted to see it again, because just a few minutes later I see her tucking Sam's ball under her beach chair and then covering the chair with her towel, rendering the ball invisible. There is nothing super special or fancy about the ball, and I believe it cost me $2.99, so I was a little surprised that this mother was even taking the trouble to steal it. Most of the woman at my local YMCA could afford to buy their kids balls that cost $299.

Luckily, at the same moment Sam started calling out for his ball and throwing his little arms up in the air in his 'where did it go?' gesture. I told Aunt Allison I would be right back, and I walked over to the woman and her daughter. When politely asked for our ball back, she blinked hard and then uncovered it and handed it over. She muttered some excuse, with more than a little attitude, about not knowing that it belonged to anyone. I informed her that that is exactly why I write our name on our things. Then I held the ball up with our huge, impossible to ignore name pointed right at her face, held it there for a few seconds and walked away.

I could have made a bigger deal out of this. I could have chastised her for setting such a poor example for her daughter. I could have yelled or caller her names. What do you think? Did I handle this well?

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Question: Any of you having trouble viewing my page lately? I've gotten a few emails from peeps expressing concern that my page doesn't load properly on their computers. Let me know so I can try and fix things! Thanks!

P.S. Today is my due date!

The Wait Continues

Ah baby, why won't you come out? I was really hoping that because I want to watch my show tonight you would decide to come out and foil my plans. But, no. I was at the doctor's office this morning and while I am a teensy-weensy bit dilated, the doctor wasn't optimistic. He suggested that I skip scheduling an office visit for next week and instead just plan to be induced on Wednesday morning if I haven't already delivered.

I have wrestled with the idea of inducing before. Both of the doctors I've seen here in Atlanta have offered to schedule and induction the first moment I met them, but I've always been more in favor of letting things happen naturally. My doc in Philly wouldn't even discuss an induction until I was two weeks overdue. Induction is associated with a higher risk of c-section, and anecdotal evidence points to a more intense (aka painful) delivery.

But we're going on our second straight week of near hundred degree temperatures, and there's no end in sight. I am beyond miserable going outside, but I'm getting stir crazy from staying inside all damn day. I keep trying to stay positive. To enjoy what may very well be my last pregnancy.

But the heat, my god, the heat.

Maybe this littler girl is smarter than I'm giving her credit for. Inside of me, it's probably only in the mid-nineties. Once she comes out, she's going to have to deal with this insane weather in person.

Nine...

As my due date approaches, many of the emotional conflicts I had when I first found out I was pregnant are rearing their ugly heads again. Namely, I'm sad that my days alone with my baby boy are coming to an end. Complicating matters is the fact that Sam has chosen now, of all times, to cut more molars and act like an absolute pain in the ass 96% of the time.

In my mind, I had envisioned us snuggling on the couch and reading books while sun beams streamed in through the window. Instead every time I pull him close I get smacked in the eye. I imagined sharing snacks and singing nursery rhymes. Instead of sharing, Sam throws food at my head. Instead of singing we both end up sobbing. After he had refused three separate breakfasts today, and I mean refused them in a way that you would have thought I was trying to feed him cow dung, I ran upstairs and collapsed on a still snoozing SOB.

What were we thinking? If I can't even handle one child, for a scant 45 minutes, how on earth am I supposed to handle two? What will become of my sanity? I know that others have done it before me, but no one that I know personally had done this recently. With my mother-in-law in one ear telling me how SOB tried to try and poke his baby sister's eyes out, and my mother in the other telling me how I refused to smile in any picture that included my baby brother, I'm starting to think that this isn't going to be easy.

And I'm feeling like a shitty mother. Both to Sam and to the girl who hasn't even shown her face yet. I know, deep down that I'm not, but when I ask for a kiss and all I get in return is a violent head shake, I can't help but feel like he's trying to tell me something. SOB and SSIL are both finding Sam difficult to deal with, so it's not just me. But mix in the hormones and the guilt over time spent being angry at him instead of being lovey with him and you can imagine how I might make the leap to thinking that I'm a bad mommy.

To help, sometimes I sneak into his room at night and watch him sleep. When he's curled up and I can hear his little breath moving in and out, any anger that might have been building up just melts away. I remind myself that he's a toddler. He can't comprehend why his teeth hurt. When he chucks his cup at me, it's much more likely that he's upset about the throbbing in his gums and not because he thinks I'm an awful beast of a woman. Luckily I've been able to find these moments and hold onto them. I strongly suggest doing this. It's nearly impossible to be upset around a sleeping child.

And then I think to myself thank god newborns sleep a lot.

Seriously?

Edited below!

On Tuesday evening, the condo association here at our shitty building put up signs to let us all know that the elevator would be closed for repairs from Wednesday morning until Friday morning.

Can you even imagine how deliriously happy this made me? Now when I come home, I have to park my car behind the building, walk around to one of the other entrances (which are uphill, by the way. And I don't even mean that in a jokey 'I'm old, listen to me spin a yarn' kind of way.) and then climb the stairs to the third floor. Usually with Sam, who can't do steps on his own yet. And all of his associated gear.

Add into the mix that I have a cold and can barely breath as it is without the climbing of the many, many stairs with toddler in arms. And that SOB was just forced to switch calls at work, so that he's on call tonight, when we have a date and a sitter lined up. And that my appointment at the OB's office was terrifically late, making me miss breakfast at McD's by mere moments and thus thawarting any chance I had of satisfying my egg mcmuffin craving.

I'm so much fun to be around right now. Here, enjoy this photo of Sam entranced by bubbles at Little Gym.

Updated to add: Thank the sweet lord and baby Jesus they re-opened the elevator just before we got home. Today's high is 97 with a chance of 'don't go outside or your face might melt right the fuck off' and our hallways/stairways aren't air conditioned. I almost kissed the toothless maintenance man when he gave us the news.

A Post About a Different Finger

I have a problem. SOB has been aware of it for some time, but only recently shared with me that he's concerned.

I'll admit that I do have a fair number of vices. When I'm not pregnant, or nursing, or pregnant (or nursing, for christ sake!) I tend to drink a little more wine than I should. And tequila. I have horrid eating habits 50% of the time. For breakfast today I ate cereal that is based on a candy bar and then followed that up with a cookie. I don't get enough sleep. I swear. A lot. Even more in real life than here on the blog. But none of these are the issue that concerns SOB. He's worried because when I am behind the wheel of a car, or a passenger, or walking down the sidewalk near cars, I tend to be very, um, liberal with making offensive gestures.

That's right. I casually flip the bird to every third car that passes me. Old ladies? Bird. Federal workers? Bird? Impressionable teens? Double bird. Ass holes with mega-expensive gas guzzling vehicles that think that the 'No Left Turn' sign doesn't apply to them? Double bird, followed by honking and a 'fuck you' out the window.

When forced to face facts, I have to admit that my finger flipping tendencies have increased over the past year. I think, in part, that this is due to the polite nature of southern folks. In Philly, give someone the bird and they're likely to not only return the favor, but to give you a little cherry on top. Or they might point a gun at you. (That actually happened to me once, by the way.) Fear of retribution always helped to keep my digits in check back up north. But here? Flip someone off and they apologize, through facial expression or vehicular deference, for whatever they did that offended you so.

Additionally, I think I've been embracing my middle finger, subconsciously, to keep the Philly in me alive. Coupled with complaining about the piss poor Chinese food and the ever-present roaches, being a little brash behind (or next to) the wheel has been a way for me to hold on to a little of the northeastern part of me. Which is funny considering I never really utilized the middle finger much back up north.

SOB's main concern is that I'll continue my bad habits upon our return to Philly, and get myself into trouble. Or get him into trouble, since I 'salute' other drivers just as much when he's driving as when I am driving. Also, he's a little worried about Sam developing bad habits of his own from observing me. But he can't really argue that point with me until he stops screaming 'cock licker!' at his video games while Sam is in the same room.

So for the next two months I am going to make a concerted effort to find a more peaceful, healthy way of expressing my emotions while driving. Even if it means utilizing some pretty gruesome aversion therapy.

And We Wonder Why the Rest of the World Hates Us

Last night, due to a high level of boredom, I found myself watching Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?, hosted by the venerable Jeff Foxworthy. Sam had hidden the remote, but since I had been hearing so much about this show I decided to watch for a while instead of getting up to switch it off.

I found it to be the most depressing, baseless thirty minutes of television I have ever seen. Thank god I only started watching when it was half over, or I may have committed suicide. Or, more likely, homicide.

The premise of the show, if you are unfamiliar, is that grown people are quizzed on grade school level knowledge. There is also a pool of five talented youngsters who answer along with you. For example, last night there was a 10 year old boy who scored a 1350 on his SATs. The contestant can use each kid as a helper for two questions each. The questions are identified by the knowledge level, like 'First Grade Geography' or 'Fourth Grade Social Studies' and the contestant can choose from ten questions. Each right answer gets you more money. There are also three 'lifeline' type deals, but I didn't see all of them in action, so I'm not going to try and explain how they work.

The first contestant I watched last night was a high school history teacher. He was also the football coach, and had brought along half of his varsity football squad as his cheering section. As soon as I laid eyes on this guy, I knew he was going to fail miserably. We had a few teachers like him at my high school. He was young-ish in age, and even younger in emotional maturity. It's easy to imagine that he brought the football team because he thinks that they're all buddies, when in reality he's 15 years their senior and they're going to forget about him 2.3 minutes after graduation.

Since he is a history teacher, his first choice was a history question. 'Which one of the 13 original colonies was named after British royalty?' or something to that effect. His answer? New York. They went to the audience and asked one of his students if they though he was correct. The student said no, that the answer was NEW JERSEY! Three minutes into the show and I was writing on the floor and foaming at the mouth. Meanwhile, the 10 year-olds were all shaking their heads and laughing to themselves, because they all knew that the answer was GEORGIA! As in King. Fucking. George. This man spent the next fifteen minutes embarrassing himself on national television, and (hopefully) jeopardizing his job, all for nothing. He walked away empty handed.

The next contestant they featured was an honest-to-god rocket scientist. The geek in me had hope that he would come out there and wipe the stage with Mr. Foxworthy and his little smarty-pants sidekicks. But? He was eliminated after only two questions.

Now I don't consider myself to be any type of genius, but I knew the answer to all of the questions they asked during last night's show. There was one question about the great lakes that I was a little unsure of, but given the amount of time they give these yokels to think about their answers, I would have been able to reason through and come up with the correct answer.

What I don't know is how shows like this get made. Why we aren't outraged that our high school teachers don't possess the same level of knowledge as our grade-school kids? Why do we think it's hilarious to make a mockery of our failing education system? Why, in a time when the rest of the world thinks Americans are a bunch of drooling idiots being lead by the chief drooling idiot, do we add fuel to the fire by putting these epsilons on TV?

Luckily, I didn't have too much time to think about these things. I didn't want to miss a minute of So You Think You Can Dance?

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Still have some time to kill? Check out my other posts here and here today!

You Can Take the Girl Out of Philly...

Last friday night, we went out to dinner with Sam in tow. It was an experiment that had me more than a little stressed. It took forever to get to the restaurant because of traffic, so we arrived later than we would have liked. Once we got settled, though, I was able to relax. We had a really nice pinot, and mostly tasty food. Sam was getting a little restless and the place was getting a bit fuller once we finished our entrees, so we got dessert to go.

Because the restaurant is on the corner of a wonky five-way intersection, we had to cross a handful of streets to get there from whence we parked. We headed back to the car via a slightly different combination of streets, and came upon a short section of sidewalk that was closed. There were big orange and white barrels and that orange construction fence all around it. Because it was only about two car lengths from the cross walk, we just waited there until the light was red, the cars had stopped, and walked in between them. It was a very well lit intersection and both cars we walked in front of waved us on. So I was quite surprised that after we were about fifteen feet away, the one car rolled down his window and said something to the effect that we should just use the crosswalk next time.

My eyes began boiling with rage.

One thing I will say about the people in Atlanta is that they do not, by and large, know how to cross a street. This seems like a simple skill, right? They even changed the old 'Walk' or 'Don't Walk' signs to pictures, so you don't even have to be able to read. A big red hand means STOP and a walky white person/guy means GO. I think they teach it on Sesame Street. So why does no one here understand that?

I figured that this guy was probably a northerner, like me, and thought I was a local girl completely unable to figure out how to cross the street on my own. I made it about five more feet before turning around and yelling, 'The sidewalk is closed, asshole!' and giving him the finger.

Last night, Dr. SOB came home from work and informed me that someone came up to him at work and apologized for upsetting me so much. Turns out, the crosswalk man is a physician's assistants at Dr.'s hospital. He saw SOB and was trying to make a joke. Obviously I had never met the man before, therefore the joke was lost on me. Dr. admitted that, at the time, he though the guy looked familiar, but he didn't say anything because I was so angry and he didn't want me to be embarrassed, too.

Suffice to say, I am never leaving the house again.