Outnumbered Two to One

My two year old…ah. He’s at a special stage in his life. A delicious phase that involves a roller coaster of emotions that I, his father, and his siblings are constantly weathering.

Alright, granted most of those emotions are varied and not-so-subtly nuanced states of misery, but there’s a difference nonetheless.

Observe…

This one I call “mild indignation” brought on by a frosting mustache as captured by Mommy on a digital medium. Note the refusal to make eye contact with the camera lens.

This would be “moderate agitation” incited by a playmate attempting to muscle in on his snapshot at the park. There can only be one star after all.

This is most likely “harried aggravation”, prompted by Mommy’s repeated requests that he stand still for yet another photo op, this one in a dinosaur costume that he promptly shed before angrily stomping away.

And this last in the series is aptly labeled “extreme frustration” or possibly even “cocktail of vexation with a twist of outrage” inspired by none other than a despicable choral version of the birthday song sung for some one else.

Occasionally, he’ll spare a smile or two, just don’t make any sudden movements, that could change at the drop of a hat.

• During my morning routine, I’ve got roughly three minutes to brush my teeth, rinse my mouth, wash my face and get dressed. I may or may not have time to finger comb my hair before I slip on some shoes and dart out the door to distribute my brood to their various school buildings. Those three minutes are crucial and counted down to the very second. Three minutes in the morning are nothing. They go by in a blink, a sneeze, a breath.

• Why then when I’m on the treadmill, panting like an overheated Labrador, do three minutes feel like an eternity? A forever of burning lungs and fatigued muscles and the slowest seconds of my life, next only to the torturous teeth grinding minutes of a contraction during active labor. It’s like a weird exercise time warp.

• Surprisingly, I didn’t eat much candy during Easter. I’m not gloating, there was an abundance of Hershey’s Kisses, Peanut Butter Cups and foil covered chocolate eggs to be had, but I preferred instead to overdosed on puff pastries, fried ham croquettes, and cheesy pasta. I also had some spinach salad somewhere in there, and some fruit salad, so it balances out, right?

•   My teen got a haircut last Thursday, check out the before and after.

• On the drive to the beauty salon, this darling girl embarked on a well rehearsed rant about the insignificance of hair, deriding her teenage counterparts who fought to keep their hair long, or cried actual tears when someone took a pair of scissors to their silky tresses. This darling girl had her heart set on a short haircut. Which she got. Which she proceeded to complain, whine, and cry actual tears about over the course of the entire weekend. Please tell her how cute she looks, cause Mommy’s compliments are apparently not good enough…

• And to prove that all my kids are not selfish little chocolate hoarders, here’s one from Easter.

• That’s my tween putting one of her eggs in to my two year old’s basket, not stealing one for herself. Not that my little guy needed any extra sugar in his arsenal. Earlier in the day we attended another hunt and while I was busily chatting away with my neighbor he must have digested at least a pound of chocolate confections. When we brought him home he proceeded to strip down to his diaper and fall asleep face down on his carpet in a half naked, chocolate drunk state. He didn’t even stir when I picked him up and laid him in his crib. Talk about crashing. Wow.

For more fabulous randomocity (it is so a word), visit Keely The Un-Mom in her fabulously random lair.

What’s this HASAY all about?

My darling teen had been dropping hints for weeks.

She wanted a treadmill. A treadmill would make exercising easier. A treadmill would make exercising fun. A treadmill was all that stood between her and her lofty fitness goals, goals that once attained would make her a happier, more pleasant person to be around. Riiiiight…

The Wii Fit wasn’t good enough.

The multitude of shelved aerobics DVDs were lame.

The stationary bike was for losers.

Only a treadmill would do.

Unfortunately for her a treadmill wasn’t in the budget.

Enter my lovely sister with a crowded garage and a dusty, but perfectly functional treadmill that was at the time being used as toy shelving. One mom’s castoff is another mom’s clutter.

As of yesterday, we are the proud owners of one space saver treadmill with complimentary hand weights and a convenient water bottle holder. I suppose you could fit a bottle of pretty much anything in there, but for the purposes of this post we’ll assume it’s water. 

So far all of the children have tested the treadmill at least once. And today, I revisited my abandoned fitness endeavor and hopped on that baby for a thirty minute interval work out. It made me realize, once again, how out of shape I really am, when one minute of light jogging makes me feel like my heart is going to burst. That’s a good thing right? That means it’s working, doesn’t it?

Fortunately I avoided the coronary and live to jog another day. And my teen has also ventured on a couple of times. Whether she’s happier or more pleasant remains to be seen.

I’m hoping the treadmill stays active though, as soon as it starts collecting dust I’m going to have to find another relative to donate it to.

And candy. Don’t forget the CANDY!!!!

Recently my two year old son has exhibited some familiar signs as listed in a Babycenter potty training readiness article …

• shows interest in others’ bathroom habits (a little too much if you ask me, he’s almost scientific in his observations)
• dislikes the feeling of a wet or dirty diaper (the ear piercing squeals and tormented expressions that follow result in some very inefficient use of our Luvs supply)
• gives physical or verbal signs when he’s having a bowel movement (definitely TMI when it’s shouted in the middle of a crowded room, also farts are announce periodically, accompanied by a smug grin)
• demonstrates a desire for independence (trips through a parking lot are taken in a white knuckled grip around a tiny wrist because my little tyrant eschews public hand holding)
• Can follow simple instructions (he just generally interprets them as suggestions, to adhere to or ignore as he sees fit)
• Is in a generally cooperative stage (are kids ever cooperative after the age of 2?)

You’d think after successfully schooling three children in the rituals of toileting, I would be a little more confident in my abilities. But the prospect of this is always a tad daunting. What will it entail? How frustrated will we both become? How much upholstery am I going to have to burn because it’s become soaked with urine on more than one occasion?

Seriously, we cannot afford to replace our family vehicle right now because it suddenly starts smelling like a public restroom.

Despite my trepidation, I made a purchase the other day during a routine Target spree. Really I just went in for some groceries and a replacement watch, $200 later we were in possession of this…

Sigh.

It was mostly an impulse buy, me deviating through the baby supply aisle while my husband toured the rest of the kids through toys. When I happened upon the training seats, I made a split second decision to put it in our cart. As I approached the family, I held it out to my two year old who accepted it like he would any shiny, brightly colored new toy.

“OH, COOL!”

Now, whether or not he’ll maintain his enthusiasm for the thing during the next few weeks, remains to be seen.

I won’t be switching him to underpants just yet.

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For more unrestricted, uninhibited Spins, visit Sprite’s Keeper.

• My watch died. Please take a moment to compose yourselves.

• I am LOST without my watch. Yes, I have other time pieces in the house but it’s not the same as being able to look directly at my wrist and be able to tell how late it’s getting while simultaneously lamenting about all the things I haven’t accomplished. Also, if one of the kids wakes up in the middle of the night, I have no way of knowing what ungodly hour it is, thereby making it impossible for me to complain to my husband about all the crying he missed in the early morning while I was up soothing and he was sleeping like a log.

• My wrist is naked.

• I DVR Yo Gabba Gabba in case of emergencies. It is my two year old’s drug of choice (yes, I am an enabler, thankyouverymuch) and it is guaranteed to quell any looming tantrums almost instantly. The newest episode features Jack Black taking a wrong turn on a talking motorbike and getting lost in Gabba land. I don’t know about you, but there’s no coming back from a trip like that. When DJ Lance equips you with your own orange pant suit, I think it’s safe to assume you’re there to stay.

• You know you want one of your own.

• We’ve actually managed to get to the park a couple of times this week since our kids are finally on the mend. We flew a kite and my husband shot off some rockets he and the kids built. It was nice being out of our flu infested home. I like sun light, I hadn’t seen any in a while. Did you know it lights up the entire sky?

• There’s something very relaxing about hanging on to the end of a kite string and watching it whip around in midair. It clears the mind. Less soothing is the sound of a screeching two year old getting bored to tears almost immediately and making a run for the distant swing set, or the eye-rolling teenager loudly complaining about being sweaty and wishing she were home.

• Relaxation is overrated anyway.

• 3/4 of my children have absolutely no sense of modesty. My boys routinely expose themselves if given the opportunity and my appalled reaction probably makes it that much more enticing to them. I finally had to pull my six year old aside and explain to him how in the real world, whipping out your privates in public will get you arrested and put in jail. This did little to smother his giggles, so I had to threaten him instead with the appropriation of his beloved Nintendo DS. That hit home. Now if I could only get my two year old to stop peeling off his clothes when I’m not looking.

Feeling random. Join the fray. The Un-mom leads this parade. Check it out.

I owe my pediatrician an apology.

Well, not so much my pediatrician because I never actually questioned his integrity to his face, instead I opted to express my indignation via the World Wide Web. Then today, after The Mother’s thoughtful comments regarding any unintentional phone features I may or may not have had installed on my home line that would have impeded my doctor’s attempts to return my call last Thursday night, I decided to go online and take a look at my plan.

Guess what I discovered when I did a little research in to the details of my AT&T phone bundle…a little something labeled Caller ID Name-Number Delivery Anonymous Call Blocking.

I also learned I have the ability to forward selected calls to my cell phone, put 30 numbers on speed dial, and personalize the ring tones of my preferred callers.

Who knew?

So my pediatrician is not a total heel after all. Although he did call us at 3 am once , from a party, but I forgave him for that.

Unfortunately I’m still in the process of switching doctors, since recently his office has taken some weird cost cutting measures. Rather than purchase vaccines to have on hand, they’ve been referring patients to the county health department to get their immunizations there. Or, patients can pay for the shots up front, out of pocket, then try to get their insurance to reimburse.

It’s a weird policy that’s resulted in my youngest being behind on his immunizations.

The doctor himself is fine, he’s been with the boys since they were born, and I hate walking away from his office since he’s familiar with our history and the kids and he knows us by our first names, but well…all things come to an end some time, don’t they.

As a mom, I never want my kids to get sick. Ever. If it were up to me, I would intercept each and every nasty cold and flu germ and take it upon myself to weather the illness for them. The reasoning is only one part martyrdom and two parts self preservation. Sick kids are hard to take care of, number one. Number two, worrying about my sick kids is way more difficult to treat than say, clogged up sinuses or a nagging cough. They sell over the counter medication for that stuff.

Thursday after my last post, my two-year old’s temperature rose to about 103 degrees under his arm. That in itself was concerning enough. Worse still was the sound he made when he was breathing, a rattling wheeze that affected both his inhales and exhales. The cough was clearly croupy, but sitting in a steamed bathroom barely improved it and the steroid nebulizer treatment I’d given him before bed yielded similar results.

I called the Dr.’s answering service at about 10:30. When he didn’t call back, my husband packed the baby up and took him to the ER where he was promptly seen and treated. His oxygen saturation levels were a little low and they kept him for about three hours for observation, but he was home, breathing easier by 4 am.

My doctor’s office called me at about 9 am the next morning. Almost 12 hours after my original call to the answering service.

“The doctor tried to call you last night,” the receptionist said over the phone, “but couldn’t get through because of the call block.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t have call block on my phone, that’s not possible.”

“His call was blocked, that’s why he couldn’t get through.”

“We don’t have that feature on our home phone, why wouldn’t he have been able to get through?”

“So tell me how your son is feeling?” she asked me, completely disregarding my befuddlement and the argument at hand. The rest of the conversation was brief, and my pediatrician never once got on the telephone with me. Coward.

I was already in the process of switching doctors, but this whole exchange just kind of reinforced my decision.

Needless to say, it’s been a long weekend. My six year old is fully recovered from his flu outbreak and my two year old is on the mend, still drippy nosed and coughing, but much improved. Thanks to everyone for the concern and support. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to read and comment much in the past few days, but hopefully I’ll be able to catch up with my pal Google Reader during the coming week. I mean, all four of my kids will be home, but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of free time. Right?

It didn’t take a crystal ball to foretell that one sick and contagious child was only the beginning of my woes. Especially when said plague bearer was continually hacking unrestrained bits of toxic phlegm in to his younger brother’s previously healthy face. Not to mention the inadvertent cup sharing, face licking, and finger sucking.

The  dominoes are falling, one by one, into influenza’s sinister clutches.

The two-year-old, my diapered bundle of harnessed electricity, is currently a bleary eyed feverish mess. It is compounded by the fact that his ability to communicate is not quite as evolved as his older brother’s. Complaints and requests are usually shrieked at an inaudible pitch, possibly one only dogs can hear. Trying to decipher the words is another thing altogether. It’s almost like playing a really angry version of charades with someone from another country where language and hand gestures are completely reversed - holding your stomach means you want to be carried, rubbing your eyes means you’re cold, throwing up in Mommy’s bed means…well, that one is self explanatory.

So of course, mostly capable Mom, is for the interim, reduced to a worried, neurotic, scatterbrained lunatic. I’m agonizing over every cough, every whimper, every uneaten bite of Jello and unsipped cup of water. It makes me short tempered and irritable and generally unpleasant to live with…just ask the rest of the family.

It’s going to be a long weekend.