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.

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.

Real exhaustion is falling asleep in the middle of a cheeseburger.

I won’t be around tomorrow - me and the tween are taking a road trip to Islands of Adventure in Orlando as part of her 5th grade field trip. We have to be at the bus stop at 5:30 in the morning.

5:30 in the morning.

Hold on. I’m taking a moment to soak that in.

I anticipate being all kinds of cranky by the end of the day, but hopefully the excessive roller-coaster riding will scramble my brains enough to keep me moderately sedated on the bus ride back home.

Is it bad that I’m already tired and we haven’t even left yet?

I better pack plenty of Motrin and perhaps stage a preemptive strike on the migraine I already feel looming on the horizon.

Yay.

Don’t worry, I’ll take pictures.

1. Never assume that because a child is wearing his swim trunks, running toward the inviting water sprays of a clearly designated “splash area”, and screaming “yay” at the top of his lungs, that he actually wants to get wet.
2. Be prepared for the wild-monkey-screeching that said child will emit when confronted with the reality of ice cold water.
3. Expect him to ask you for a paper towel, before burying his wet face in to your dry pants and remaining there for the duration of the trip.
4. Realize he may at some point talk himself in to braving the rapids because clearly the other children are having so much fun. He will approach the perimeter of the splash area at a run before talking himself out of it, turning around and running back to you sobbing and asking for another paper towel.

Next time, leave the swim trunks at home.

For more Wordful Wednesday visit:

Since tomorrow is my son’s 6th birthday, we thought we’d include his Kindergarten class in on the celebration by bringing cupcakes to school for everyone to partake in. Luckily Publix has this nifty creation called a pull-apart cake, which is basically individual cupcakes set up in rectangular formation then iced and decorated like a normal sheet cake would be. Any decorated cake they offer can be set up in this fashion.

My son, the dino nut, opted for a prehistoric theme…

Lovely, isn’t it?

The great thing about this cake is that there are roughly two and a half inches of butter-cream frosting smothering the tops of these 30 cupcakes.

In case you don’t know, most 5 to 6 year olds will only eat the frosting off the top of their cupcake, the actual cake part will end up (still wrapped neatly in its paper liner) face-down in the garbage can. Then said children will promptly ask for a second cupcake they can similarly lick clean.

Seems kind of like a waste of $40 but look at these faces…

Tomorrow, we embark on a birthday safari…stay tuned.

I know I’m not the only one who obsesses about their children eating enough. If I could have liquefied his pizza and fed it to him intravenously I would have.

And why is it that food that’s all the rave to my two year old one day, is completely unacceptable sustenance the next day. He won’t even let it pass his lips. He won’t even lick a single crumb off the plate. Instead he shrieks, gags, and pushes said delicacy away with all the played out melodrama of a soap opera actress.

Seriously, he can’t live off soy milk and Hershey’s kisses forever.

Now, for the record, I generally do not delight in torturing my children and broadcasting their misery on the internet. Mostly.

But yesterday, after an exceptionally long day of two-dler tantrums, my darling son took it upon himself to flip out because his big brother was eating a left over Valentine’s day party cupcake, while he was stuck with a measly sugar cookie. He tried for a good long while to snatch the cupcake out of his older brother’s hands, to no avail.

When that didn’t work he proceeded to demonstrate his frustration the following way. Being the diligent blogger that I am, I decided to capture the moment on video. Ignore my nasal tone as I try to provoke my son in to continuing his outburst, ignore also my five year old’s out of control giggling because he thought this was absolutely the funniest thing on the planet and was very proud to be a part of it.

I swear I’m not a bad mother.

7:30 am - Woke Mom up by shouting her name repeatedly until she stumbled in with her eyes half closed and picked me up.

7:31 am - Continued saying Mom’s name until she filled my bottle full of soy milk, then pitched a screaming fit because she tightened the lid without letting me help.

7:33 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom put me down on the sofa when I really wanted to be in her bed.

7:34 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom attempted to change my diaper while I was still pitching a screaming fit over the bed.

7:35 am - Drank my soy milk with a dry diaper. It was nice.

7:55 am - Pitched a fit when I realized Mom was in the bathroom without me.

8:00 am - Pitched a fit when Mom didn’t put my shoes on before my brother’s.

8:05 am - Pitched a fit because my sister turned off the television even though she knows that’s my thing in the morning.

8:10 am - Pitched a fit because Mom didn’t let me climb up in to my car seat by myself.

8:13 am - Rode in the car while we dropped the other kids off at school, Mom played the Muppets. It was nice.

8:30 am - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me unlock the front door with her keys.

8:35 - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me fill up the dogs’ water bowls. What is her problem anyway?

8:40 - Pitched a fit because Mom made me come inside from the backyard, only to make me walk out the front door, just to get in the car again to take another sister to school. Then she wouldn’t let me climb up in to my car seat like before…what did she think was going to happen?

9:00 am - Watched Backyardigans. Told Mom yes, I wanted pancakes, except I really didn’t and I had no intention of eating them.

9:20 am - Backyardigans was over so I pulled seven DVD cases off the shelves and tried to pry the discs out before Mom could wrestle them out of my hands.

9:30 am - Pitched a fit because the dogs ate the pancakes I had not intention of eating myself.

9:35 am - Went to my room and pulled as many of my brother’s toys as I could get out of the box, even though I have no intention of playing with them.

9:55 am - Got hungry, wished for pancakes, then pitched a fit for a Hershey’s kiss. Mom gave me cereal instead. That woman never listens.

10:00 am -  Went outside and tried to play with a plastic baseball bat. I think it was broken because it didn’t do anything so I threw it in to the grass and pitched a fit, except this time I tripped and fell on the concrete, which made me really angry, so I pitched another fit on top of the first one. I don’t think anyone could tell the difference.

10:10 am - Mom filled a watering can for me and let me water the plants, only I watered the concrete instead. Also I pitched a fit when it was empty.

10:30 am - Mom said she would make me a hard boiled egg except she wouldn’t let me hold the egg, so I said “aw, man” and pitched a fit.

10:45 am - Mom brought me a perfectly cooked hard boiled egg which I ate with a sprinkle of salt. When I was finished I asked her for more but she said “all done”. What the hell? Does she want me to eat or not? I pitched a fit.

11:00 am - Hid in my bedroom behind the door so I could poop in privacy. It was nice.

11:10 am - Mom came looking for me, she sensed something was amiss. When she asked me if I had poop, I said no and ran away. She caught me and tried to change my diaper, except she wouldn’t let me reach down and wipe for myself, so I tried to pitch a fit but she pitched a louder one which made me quiet down and be still.

11:20 am - Started feeling tired so I spun circles in the living room until I got dizzy and fell down, then pitched a fit

11:30 am - Hid beneath some furniture because it seemed like a good place to lie down.

11:45 am - Mom took me to my bed for some night-night even though it was still day time which didn’t even make sense. I thought about pitching a fit but my eyes. felt. so. heavy. And I meant to get really angry, but. then. I. just. fell. asleep.

To Be Continued…

My two year old isn’t afraid of anything.

Scratch that.

My two year old wasn’t afraid of anything.

Recently we discovered his fear of the dark during one of our routine bed time rituals.

A couple of weeks ago we unmasked yet another fear during an evening bath.

Okay, I might be partially to blame for this phobia he’s developed.

This guy shoulders the rest of the responsibility…

It was a quiet night in the Bear house. The boys were getting washed up before bed. There were soap suds and lathering and scrubbing of the several layers of dirt and stink they’d accumulated, when all of a sudden my five year old said, “Mom, there’s a bug in the tub.”

The bug in question was a teeny tiny black speck of a cockroach floating leg up in the bath water.

“Get a grip,” I mentally prepared myself.

I decided to scoop up the obviously dead insect in my cupped palms and flush it down the nearby toilet. Great idea in theory.

Great idea until the creepy little mutant demon spawn faker cockroach miraculously resurrected and started CRAWLING up my arm.

So I did what any grown adult woman would do.

I screamed like a girl and flung the cockroach on to my two year old son, who just happened to be within flinging range.

Wait, it gets better.

I flung the no longer dead cockroach on to my two year old son’s PRIVATES and by privates I mean his genitals.

I threw a cockroach at my son’s genitals. Which made him scream like a girl. Which made me hop up and down for a good five seconds while I regrouped before finally snatching the bug and brushing it off my hand in to the toilet at last.

Talk about terror. Not mine, the boy’s.

He screeched, he cried, he climbed sopping wet on to my lap and buried his damp face in to my shirt and I felt like a heel.

Maybe some day, after years of therapy, he’ll learn to forgive me. Or at least channel his fear in to something productive, like a blockbuster screenplay or a really cool blog.