Outnumbered Two to One

Yesterday during a routine and uneventful blog-hopping tour, I happened to discover that Robin had tagged me for a photo game on her blog Shrink Rap. Imagine my dismay at finding my link at the end of her post, I mean, did she think I had nothing bigger going on? Had she assumed I wasn’t diligently at work on some thought provoking, eloquent blogging masterpiece?

Okay, I don’t and I wasn’t…but that’s not the point.

Okay, that actually is the point.

Currently my digestive system feels like it’s staging some sort of revolt against the rest of my anatomy. I’m hesitant to diagnose myself with anything other than stupidity. Since eating the leftovers from my birthday dinner Monday night, I’ve been feeling less than stellar. My husband thinks the reheated shellfish was the culprit, I personally prefer to blame him since he was charged with picking up our take-out order, so obviously it was the mishandling that caused my illness. Maybe he was carrying the containers at a weird angle conducive to breeding gut wrenching bacteria.

The point is, I’ve got nothing to blog about and I don’t want to blog about my abdominal pains and heartburn and migraines (although I guess I just did), so I’ll participate in Robin’s little game in the hopes that it will get my mind off my gurgling stomach acid.

The idea was to choose the fifth photo from the fifth folder from my picture files, then discuss. Here’s the photo.

This is my then three year old son and his cousin…Groucho. Obviously the photo has been doctored to protect my niece’s secret identity. She and my son are exactly one year, one month, and one day apart. The photo was taken on or near my sister’s anniversary, while I was watching her girls so she and the husband could celebrate in grown-up fashion.

At the time I was feeling overwhelmingly fatigued. The slightest activity left me winded and I found myself sitting down quite often, the room at a slight tilt, my stomach feeling oddly replete. At night, I succumbed to sleep while the sun was still out, the kids’ screeching feuds a sweet lullaby I couldn’t ignore.

A week later I discovered I was pregnant for a fourth time. It took me another week to uncurl myself from the fetal position, stop whimpering, and enjoy my pregnancy. Actually the pregnancy itself was less than enjoyable, there were maybe three weeks right in the middle of my second trimester when I felt kinda good, but the rest was rather unpleasant, although it yielded some fabulous results. As unexpected as my youngest son was, he undoubtedly completed us. He made our odd numbers even.

As for the five tags, here they are in no particular order:

1. Blue Monkey Butt (Elle)

2. Blue Monkey Butt (Stacy) - wouldn’t want anyone feeling left out.

3. I’m Living Proof That God Has a Sense of Humor (Helene)

4. Glue 4 Families (Davida)

5. Small Town Mommy (Anne)

I personally refuse to harass anyone, so if you happen by and see your name, feel free to join in, otherwise feign ignorance, I won’t take it personally. Also stop by and visit Robin too since she’s hilarious and way groovy.

Yeah, I said groovy. What?

The following is a little photo story my ten-year-old daughter recorded last week with my digital camera (while she was being punished for calling her sister an a–hole.) She was banned from the computer, television, DVD player and three different video game systems. After much crying and groaning, this is what occurred when her bored mind ignited with its own twisted creativity. The doll was a birthday gift from a good friend and the narration comes from my own warped mind…

This is my friend Zack. He came to visit for my birthday.Hi, Zack.

He doesn’t say much but he’s very friendly.

Why are you following me into the bathroom, Zack? A girl needs a little privacy.

I like you too, Zack. But why are your eyes glowing that way? Is it because you’re happy to see me?

Alright, dude. I can see we need to establish some boundaries here. I’m sure it’s very different wherever you’re from, but you need to respect my personal space.

Hey, man. Back the flock up. You’re making me uncomfortable and ew, your gums smell weird.

Not cool, Zack. Why are you getting all grabby? No means no. Stop trying to put your mouth on me. I’m married, argh, you’re the worst house guest ever. Are you trying to eat my face? What the?

No zombies (or mothers) were harmed during the making of this film.

• I broke my kids’ Guitar Hero controller. It was nothing personal, I just dropped it right on its magic sensor and poof the damn thing stopped working. Luckily when we purchased it we got an accompanying warranty for just such accidents. Yesterday when I called for service, after a lengthy 20 minutes of navigating their voice menu, the kind gentlemen on the telephone took down all my pertinent information, then asked me whether or not the strings had broken on my “guitar”. I was a little puzzled for a moment before I realized this guy was a little technologically clueless. I had to explain that the wireless guitar comes with buttons and stickers and complex internal mechanisms but alas no strings. Then it was his turn to be puzzled.
• My two year old likes to use my basket of clean folded laundry as a recliner, he plops his butt down on a stack of clean tee-shirts and sits back. I can almost envision him 20 years from now on his own Lazy Boy, sporting a beer gut and holding the TV remote in a death grip, the other hand tucked neatly in to his pants. It makes me proud, he’ll make some lucky girl a fabulous husband.
• My husband doesn’t understand why I dislike Rachel Ray but love her 30 minute recipes. It’s simple mathematics E-V-O-O + Yummo + Delish = Annoying. But a tasty recipe in 30 minutes or less is genius. It’s even better if you can trick someone else in to making it for you. Preferably not Rachel Ray since the overwhelming desire to flick her in the nose might have adverse effects on your appetite.
• People around me keep getting knocked up and having babies. Been there, done that. Still it makes me feel a little left out, like I embraced a trend a little too early then got over it after months of ridicule only to have it suddenly become all the rage. Like I gave all my over-sized shirts and stirrup pants to Goodwill, but now the 80s have suddenly made a come back. I vow to never wear shoulder pads again. EVER.
• Keep your sweet smelling newborns to yourselves. I mean it.
• My two year old, the laundry sitter, finally got his hair trimmed last week. The lady who gave him his haircut spent so much time remarking about his cuteness and making goo-goo eyes at him, that it affected her styling. Now my son alternately looks like Moe from The Three Stooges or like he’s sporting an old lady wig. I paid $12 for that? I could have done better myself with a pair of nail scissors. At least it will grow out.
• My five year old son was unharmed during the haircut fiasco.

For more Randomness go find Keely but whatever you do don’t mention zombies.

Also thanks for all the birthday wishes yesterday, it made getting older just a little less painful.

I think Google is talking to me.

Lately some of the searches I’ve gotten seem less like item look-ups and more like legitimate, thought provoking questions. People are turning to the web to seek solutions to some of their more pressing issues. Whether or not they’re finding them, I’ve no way of knowing, but I thought I’d provide a few answers for them just in case.

1. Can a toddler go to the movies? I suppose he can, but you’d probably have to drive him and buy the ticket, since generally they’re not tall enough to reach the accelerator or box office window.
2. How do I start a pointless argument? Usually by asking a pointless question that you probably already know the answer to.
3. What is a typical two year old like? They’re kind of unpredictable, like wild little monkeys only more devious and with less hair.
4. Where can I complain about my internet company? First you’d have to find someone who cared enough to listen and as far as I can tell, those people are a myth and don’t actually exist. They’ve been replaced by automated voice services designed to direct you in circles as it slowly saps you of your remaining sanity so that by the time the phone call has ended, you no longer care about your internet company’s crappy service.
5. Why would a toddler put there finger in there mouth far enough to throw up? In my experience, usually just to torment their parents. See my previous monkey statement.
6. How much does DJ Lance Yo Gabba Gabba salary? Not enough considering he’s always wearing the same clothes and his gigantic boom-box is grossly outdated. Also I don’t think your question is grammatically correct.
7. What diseases can you get from cockroaches biting your genitals? I don’t have an actual answer for this, it just prompted more questions like, why exactly are cockroaches crawling on your naked genitals? I’m trying to think about how a situation like that would ever arise and can’t come up with anything except being chained in someone’s basement, in which case I doubt you’d have internet access. Keep the roaches off your privates is all I can advise.
8. Can I give my toddler Nyquil? No. Really don’t do it.
9. Why is my toddler so lethargic? Doping him up on Nyquil probably did the trick.
10. Why is my toddler scratching his genitals? Usually itching prompts scratching, unless you’re the guy with roaches on his privates.
11. How can I stay to myself, ignore a lot of drama? I’d guess by staying to yourself and ignoring the drama. Is that a trick question?
12. Why no sick days for mommy? Mostly because we’re not unionized and have a substandard benefits package.
13. What does outnumbered two to one mean? It means there’s two of them and one of you, it means they can probably take you in a fist fight, it means if it comes down to fight or flight, head for the hills.
14. Is my paranoia serious? If you’re hiding in an underground bomb shelter because the government is watching you through your television, then yes. If you were an X-Files fan, then not so much.

Have your own question to ask? Throw it out there, I’m a fountain of useless information.

• Sometimes when the doctor’s office says “be here at 9:30″ what they really mean is “the doctor will see you at 11:15″. What they really mean is “eat a good breakfast cause you’ll get hungry” and “bring your own reading material unless you want to flip through Golf Magazine or Business Week. “
• At least if they’d told me how long the wait would actually be, I’d have had some coffee before I left the house and spared myself the migraine I had when I walked out of there.
• Normally I wouldn’t mind the wait since it’s technically considered quiet time away from my kids, except since my husband was working, I was there with my darling two year old in tow and he does not wait well. I had to resort to giving him pennies to play with and my car keys and my cell phone. I was obviously ill prepared.
• Also, since it was a general practitioner and not a pediatrician’s office, it was filled with at least seven Cuban grandmas who were all ahead of me.
• For those of you who don’t have experience with Cuban grandmas, they take extreme offense when they witness the child of a bilingual parent speaking in only English. They express their umbrage by talking to each other about how all their grandchildren speak perfect Spanish, and English should come later when a child starts school, and at home only Spanish should ever be spoken. They hold these loud conversations right next to you without ever making eye contact and alternately looking at your English speaking child pityingly.
• Cuban grandmas also have very definite opinions about children playing with money. They also are constantly fretting about children cracking their skulls open on table corners. Any time a child even approaches within five feet of a table corner, they hold there hands out toward said child and scream “cuidado, cuidado.” Unfortunately my son couldn’t understand them.
• Six out of seven Cuban grandmas agree my son is adorable. Even if I am obviously a bad mother.
• One medical professional agrees, I have an ear infection.
• At least I walked out of there with an antibiotic prescription.

For the past several weeks, buzzards have been circling our neighborhood in a pretty significant flock. I wondered briefly if this was a sign of the apocalypse. Then today, while I was dropping the kids off at school I drove past one of the lake houses and discovered at least thirty of them roosting on the barrel tiled roof. This made me think that perhaps the end wasn’t approaching after all, instead it seems that one of my neighbors is possibly storing bodies in their attic.

Sometimes the stack of dirty dishes in my sink actually smell like something dead. If you see the vultures circling my house, it’s not because I’ve murdered someone with a claw hammer, it’s the nasty dishes.

If the apocalypse were indeed approaching, I would totally give up on the dishes.

Today after getting a particularly unnerving phone call, I opened a can of whup-ass on my husband’s punching bag. Normally the bag doesn’t see a lot of action. I’m pretty sure it was caught off guard when I pummeled it with my fists of fury, except for the fact that I totally hit like a girl. I think I heard the bag snicker as I walked away.

The weather girl keeps saying it will be in the 30s on Thursday. It’s hard to fully absorb the impact of her words when all I can focus on is her stick-like legs. I want to force feed her a cheeseburger then ask her to stop wearing such shiny blouses on screen, as they give me vertigo and keep me from properly focusing on the weather reports.

If it’s going to get cold, I’m going to need clean pants, which means I’m going to have to do laundry along with the festering dishes in the sink. The thought of housework makes me secretly long for a temporary apocalyptic recess. I could hunker down for a couple of days, eating beans out of a can, and reading to my kids by flashlight. I’d get to the housework once the apocalypse was revoked.

Where are the zombies when you need them? Oh that’s right, Austin.

See Keely the Un Mom for more Tuesday randomness.

I’m always grateful for every visitor Google throws my way, although occasionally I’m a little perplexed by the strings of words people plug in. I try to imagine these people bent over their computers, hunting and pecking at the keys, looking for something specific they’re not likely to find in my little corner of the blogosphere.

Here are a few of the stranger ones from January.

1. Gave my toddler small dose Nyquil -I know sick babies can be kind of grating on the nerves, but saucing them up with Nyquil is generally frowned upon. Any dose is a bad dose, in my opinion. I know I’m not a doctor or anything, but…

2. Bad things happening to little kids - probably when they’re doped up on cold medicines and stumbling around unattended.

3. Jillian Michaels nipples - I know I’ve mentioned the 30 day shred DVD in my HASAY updates, but as far as I can remember I’ve never volunteered any info about Jillian’s nips. Which leads me to wonder why anyone would search for…

4. Jillian Michaels sneezing - I would imagine that she does sneeze occasionally, but just as to why that would make news is a mystery.

5. Monkey butt powder side effects - my monkey actually prefers the butt lotion to the butt powder, which has been tested extensively on people.

6. My teenage daughter likes to pee standing up - sounds messy, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want anyone bragging about it.

7. Toddler violent “diaper change” - the violent toddler part doesn’t really concern me since in my experience toddlers have violent tendencies, although I have to wonder why “diaper change” is in quotations.

Then there are all the vomit related searches I’ve attracted such as…

• Feeling pukey January 2009
  
• Coughing up solid chunks
  
• Two year old toddler vomit
• Toddler puking so much that I started too
  
• Vomiting toddler smells like sour milk
  
• My two year old baby throw up
  
• 2 year old child vomits every night
• 2 year old makes herself throw up at bedtime

Obviously there are a lot of children out their tossing their cookies, I myself have one with an overactive gag reflex. But I’ve never been tempted to seek out other parents who share my barf experience, nor do I want to admit to being a sympathetic puker. Some things are better left behind closed doors, just in case they’re contagious.

I also don’t want to overlook my creepo population, those searches that have just one thing on their collective minds…

• Busty mom
  
• Busty girls
  
• Big busty
  
• mommysgotboobs.com
  
• Watched mom shower
• Adult mommie mouth soaping me

I don’t even know what that last one means, but it is decidedly ew.
And then of course there’s my favorite…

How do you love your husband when he gives you crap for years over being a sahm -this lady I feel for, this lady most definitely needs a hug and possibly a divorce.

Care to share some of your funnier searches?

Most of the time I try to keep the profanity to a minimum. I know how quickly children can take a parent’s colorful vocabulary and run with it, usually during the most inopportune times, like a trip the pediatrician’s let’s say, or during story time in Kindergarten.

Unfortunately, on occasion, the expletives slip out.

See back when I was a rebellious teen, filled to the brim with anger and angst, my word choices were determined strictly based on their power to shock and offend. I was a smart enough girl who used the F word in a very broad capacity, attaching it to nearly every phrase in my efforts to emphasize whatever point I was making.  Do teenagers ever have points?

As a parent, I’ve matured (somewhat) and come to the conclusion that my children dropping the F bomb in grade school could be somewhat detrimental to their reputations. Not to mention mine. So I generally refrain from using “bad” language in front of the children, most of the time. My husband will be the first to admit that I could use a generous lathering of the mouth with a bar of the nastiest soap available. Sometimes these words eke out without my conscious knowledge.

Last Friday though, I was on the telephone with an old friend (hi, Julie) whom I’ve known since thereabout the third grade, engrossed in conversation for the better part of an hour as I wandered through the house prepping dinner and doing minor chores. After I hung up, my teenager sidled up next to me, put a hand on my shoulder and whispered confidentially “You sure do curse a lot on the phone, Mom.”

“Er, what do you mean?”

“You were cursing a lot. I heard you.” She looked taken aback. She’d witnessed a side of me she rarely sees, unapologetically offensive and somewhat angry, nothing like the patient mom that does her laundry and puts up with her own crummy attitude.

“Aw, honey,” I began, “Stop eavesdropping on my @#%&ing conversations.”

Jeez. A little privacy would be nice occasionally.

For the record, I didn’t curse at my lovely teen, although sometimes she takes me to that dangerous edge. I was however honest with her and explained that while using these “adult” words for either emphasis or comedic effect has its merits, using them too often will give people the impression that her vocabulary is limited and her manners lacking.

Today, after much internal debate, she confided that she was going to stop using colorful language for the reasons I described. This daughter of mine, who while sassy and surly, has never uttered an expletive in our house, apparently has the mouth of a sailor when she’s at middle school.

I blame the parents.

It never fails.

When mom is sick and in dire need of some TLC, 24 hours of uninterrupted sleep, and perhaps a near lethal dose of Nyquil, the crap will inevitably hit the fan.

Currently our household is afflicted with the plague. At some point our borders were breached by some kind of uber-virus camouflaged as a runny nose. In a house with four kids, the cross-contamination is a given. That runny nose was passed on from one child to another, from that child to their mother, mother to father and back again, until everyone, everyone was seeping mucous. Harmless enough, right? What’s a little cold among family members?

Except instead of clearing up, it’s getting worse.

Yay!

Think puke, think ear infections, think orange tinged drainage. I’m coughing up solid chunks of something that could possibly be lung. Trust me when I tell you, it’s hard to sleep when you’re hacking up organs, when the offspring are waking up covered in last night’s dinner.

Is it no wonder I’m so anxious to leave 2008 behind?

I’m ready to hit that big reset button. Start fresh in 09 minus the infections and whining and drama.  That’s an option right, to shed the grossness and wake up cleansed, rejuvenated, ready to tackle anything except more of the same phlegm covered same?

Please tell me that’s an option.

To all of you healthy people out there, bring in the New Year with a delicious bang.

For the rest of us, just think reset button.

Honestly, I didn’t have very high expectations for this year’s Christmas. I mean, the kids always do well thanks to “Santa” and all their too- generous relatives who believe there can’t be a holiday without giant sacks of unnecessary overpriced battery operated crap.

The kids are always satisfied (much to the dismay of my overworked fingers that end the day in arthritic knots from untangling scads of packaging twist ties and severely bloodied from all the third degree cardboard cuts.)

This year most of the adults in our family opted not to exchange gifts for a variety of reasons, among them financial and practical arguments against spending unnecessarily. Some people however could not be persuaded to quash their giving natures and chose to bestow presents upon my husband and I against our will. We struggled against them, but alas they were too persistent.

My favorite among the pleasant boxes of PJs and chocolates I received was a collectible Barbie. No, I am most definitely not a fan of the doll, nor do I collect things of that nature. This particular Barbie, however, was special. To know why, you’d have to understand that 1) I have always had a lingering love for all things dark and morbid 2) I’ve been a fan of The Birds since I was about eight years old.

Yep, I mean Hitchcock’s birds. The ones that inspired this:

Excuse the weird reflection, she is, of course, still in the box she came in, propped up on my dresser and  looking slightly aloof. Here, look closer…

Not exactly the expression I would’ve expected from a woman under assault by flocks of homicidal birds. More like she’s trying on a feathered hat she’s not sure goes well with her outfit, never mind the crow perched on her shoulder, or the one clinging to her skirt, obviously going for her femoral artery. You’d think the folks at Mattel would have opted for at least a scowl, or a grimace, instead she looks almost serene - completely resigned to the fact the birds are about to peck her eyes out.

I. Love. It. I really do.

The icing on the fruit cake was this bumper sticker from my husband, who after 15 years knows me pretty well.

Cause nothing says Christmas like zombies and birds out for blood.