I Am Stomping

All over my house. I am stomping because I am crabby, whiny and deeply, deeply displeased. Irritated. Sulky. Vexed. I am doing my best to avoid stomping on my daughter, who, funnily enough, is the reason for my stomping in the first place.

I will explain by saying Tate is sleeping. As we all know, the only thing that usually can get Tate to take a nap is a little thing called pneumonia. And while the 4 hour naps were stellar, I really don't think it would be fair to prolong the sickness just to keep those going. So, usually, no naps. Today, however, there was a nap! Still is one, actually! It's been an hour! He fell asleep in the car and I got him upstairs, no fuss, no muss. I then skipped back downstairs to get Nora a bottle since it was her usual naptime and she had only slept for about 40 minutes this morning. I was about to be on Easy Street, baby.

Well, Nora is not napping. For she is not tired, not even a little drowsy. She performed an impressive repertoire of yodeling up in her crib for awhile, until I became afraid she might wake Tate and reluctantly went up to get her. She's currently crawling around on the floor gurgling and "babadadamama"-ing while I wistfully dream of an afternoon in some far-off fairy land where young children sleep and mommies get to sit down and eat lunch, maybe take a shower, all that mythical stuff.

ARGH. WHY DO I NOT GET A BREAK??????

Because really, after taking Tate and the two dogs to the vet this morning, I think I deserve one. If you were driving past my vet clinic and saw a woman holding the leash of a fat black idiotic dog and a little boy holding the leash of a little black idiotic dog who was currently running circles around the other three while the big dog tried to drag them all over to the snow so he could pee and then the little boy fell down while still holding on to his leash, refusing to let it go as he yelled and when the woman tried to pick him up, the fat black dog decided for the first time in like a year that he felt like running so he tried to run out in the street while the woman was holding his leash while trying to calm the little boy who had the other leash wrapped around his legs so he couldn't walk, and the woman's shoulder almost got dislocated when the fat black dog reached the end of the leash while running full speed, and then the little dog saw a cat come out of the vet and ran after it, yanking the little boy off his feet again, and then the woman's purse got knocked off the back of her van and all the loose change that she never puts in her wallet fell out all over the parking lot...yeah, that was us. I'm sure you got a good laugh out of it. I was about to ask for a nice chihuahua tranquilizer to guzzle or something when we finally got in there.

Plus I just feel really fat today. My butt is the size of...oh, let's say, Costa Rica. Not quite up to Canada proportions, but the size of a country just the same. Good thing I'm going to go celebrate Fat Tuesday with the kids and some friends in a bit. It's my very own, personal day! Freakin' laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all.

Slow Down There, Big Fella.

Here is Tate today:

At the rate this kid has been eating lately, this will be Tate in about 2 weeks:

Seriously. The kid is eating like he's got a tapeworm or something. For lunch the other day, he had four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Yes, four. Yes, he ate the crusts, too. Last night for dinner? Six bowls of corn cereal. Stuff should be called crack cereal the way he goes through it. Oh, and he had an apple too. He likes a little fiber thrown in there. Tonight I'm fully expecting him to put away a stuffed rack of lamb. Maybe a small Cornish hen to top it off. Never mind that we eat neither lamb nor hen. I have a feeling he will find them.

But he's been in a much better mood now that I've figured out that perhaps I should be feeding him sometimes. As soon as he starts to pitch a fit, or any kind of hard object at my head, I immediately ask if he's hungry. The answer is usually affirmative, so off we trot to raid the pantry. And refrigerator. He selects a nice block of cheese or bucket of ice cream and has a snack. This usually tides him over for an hour or so, when he puts away a box of crackers and a jug of apple juice. Or something close to all that.

It must be a growth spurt. I'm just waiting for him to come trotting out of his room one morning next week measuring 6'3'' and weighing in at a nice 200 lbs, the way he's scarfing everything down.

I decided to be either very brave or very stupid yesterday and take both kids to meet some friends and their kids at the Hardees playland yesterday, and then on to Toys R Us. It went suprisingly well. Tate was extremely well-behaved at Hardees. I had to keep standing up and checking that he hadn't escaped out of the room everytime 5 or so minutes went by without some kid screaming. Toys R Us was his reward for being so good. He's still young enough that we can get out of there with minimal toy buyage. He did need some new toys though...for some reason Nora's rattles don't really hold his attention. I'm hoping this angelic streak will continue, but I am well aware of the fact that now that I put that hope down in words, I will be forced to eat those very words because later today Tate will give the dog a haircut or dump all the napkins on the floor and spill vegetable oil on them or something.

I'm just enjoying it while it lasts.

When, Exactly...

...did I get so old that I'm perfectly content, nay, THRILLED to partake in a Saturday night spent stuffed in my fat pants, plunked on the couch, drinking wine, watching crap on TV, and generally looking like poo warmed over? Cause I'm there. Right now.

Granted, not only do I look like heated poo, I feel like it too. My nose is all stuffy. You know how you get where all you want to do is get all that crap OUT of your nostril (why is it always just my right nostril? Left one's clear and sunny) so you're sniffing and snorting so hard you swear you feel your eye pop out of it's socket and an artery burst in your brain? I'm right there too. In the city of Snotty Couchland. I'm the mayor tonight, baby.

Countdown is on for Tate's bedtime and then...yeah. I'll probably go to bed too. Next Saturday night is shaping up to be a different story, at least. I can try and recapture the lost days of my youth for a few hours before returning home at oh, 10:30 pm and falling into bed before waking up with Nora at 5:45.

And here's another fun friendly tip from yours truly. Don't give my daughter a plateful of cut-up peaches when you're at a restaurant. She will somehow position the plate so it is half off the table, karate chop it at the precise angle to send it careening 20 feet up through the air, and then sceam in horror as chunks of peaches come hurtling at her from outer space. People will stop eating, drop their food and turn around with lasers shooting out of their eyes towards the parents who MUST be pinching their daughter to make her screech like that. I learned that today.

Livin' la Vida Nora

Nora leads quite the busy life around here these days, as evidenced by my little photo montage below. Catching up on the daily news

Seeing what's on the tube

Sweeeeet! American Idol!

Drinking water served by a giant bodyless hand.

Looking cute.

What was in that cup, Mom??

Things have been chugging along here. Tate's slowly getting over the pneumonia, and here's a great little fun fact for you. Apparently, after your child gets pneumonia and starts the recovery process, that very process turns your child into a bedeviled clump of lunacy and general derangement. Tate has been...oh, let's say...very unpleasant to be around these last couple of days. I feel for the kid, honestly, but GOOD LORD, does he have to scream like a person getting their eyes gouged out with a rusty fork everytime something does not go his way? Or does go his way? Or just goes in general??

This morning was particularly unpleasant for everyone residing in this house. Well, probably everyone residing in this neighborhood. That kid has the volume of a steam engine when he gets going. We did get him calmed down enough to go look at another preschool where he steadfastly refused to speak, make eye contact, or basically acknowledge anyone else's presence in general. And now he's fine. I guess a gourmet PB&J made by yours truely will do the trick.

Nora and I went to my niece's baptism this weekend, which was an enjoyable time, hanging out with the reles. People take way too much interest in my eating habits, though. My mom spent a large portion of Sunday morning trying to convince me to eat a grapefruit. My denial to eat said grapefruit based on the fact that it tastes like paper clips dipped in stomach acid seemed to fall on deaf ears, as she must have asked me a good 10049 times to "just try it You'll like it". Then at the get-together at my sister's house, she had a sign posted stating that $40 would be rewarded to the person who could get me to eat an orange. I've never eaten an orange. It looks like it would feel like a big ball of juicy skin. I kept stating that I wasn't going to eat a juicy skin-ball just so someone ELSE would make money. I mean, seriously. My mom then offered me $500 to eat the orange. She could not produce the money then and there, however...so no orange. I shall not falter.

See? Evil. Oranges are evil.

Pneumonia is Pnot Cool.

So Tate's been rockin' this horrible fever the last few days. It hovered around 103 for the most part, and Tylenol would get it all the way down to oooh, 100. But the doctor's office always says to wait till it lasts longer than 3 days, so I didn't call. Today, though, Tate woke from a four hour nap with a temp of 105. That got me on the horn to the doctor.

Tate, Nora and I made the field trip to the doc's at 3 pm. We got out of there at ten to 5. It was a long ordeal made up of swabs up Tate's nose, finger prickings, Spongebob Band-Aids, my realization that Tate seems to think that Band-Aids will rob him of his soul, the removal of said Band-Aid, chest X-rays, lots of tears (mostly from Tate...), and lots of waiting. It was rather nerve-wracking. I was fairly sure that it wasn't anything life-altering, but really, what do I know? Waiting those last 30 minutes in the little 10x10 room with Nora chewing on a tongue depressor and Tate asleep on the floor in the corner was not very relaxing for me. I let my mind wander way too much, and the diagnosis of pneumonia was honestly almost a relief. Pneumonia can be fixed.

Well, it can if Tate would agree to take the medicine for it. He was game at first, but after the first squirt into his month, he quickly changed his tune. I did manage to get it all in his mouth, but about 10 seconds later it pretty much all ended up harked up onto the floor. He does not enjoy imitation banana flavor, it seems. I have no idea how I'm going to get him to take this stuff 19 more times. After that whole debacle, he wouldn't even agree to chug some Tylenol, which he usually is cool with.

Poor kid. He's so listless and devoid of his usual spunk. Hopefully it passes soon. I'm going to bed, because I got no sleep last night and it was a long and wearing day, and I am wiped OUT. No wonder I decided to reward myself with hot wings, cheese fries, and wine. Yeah, the plan to lose weight is going just peachy.

Tater the Skater

Eric took Tate skating the other day, after promising me 3449 times that this did not mean Tate was going to be pressured into playing hockey. I really don't want to push him into any sport, let alone one that costs the parents like 6 million dollars a year and eats up about 70 hours a week. But we're going to Disney on Ice in Minneapolis next month, and my dad was able to set it up so we get to go skating with the characters beforehand, then sit in the front row for the performance. Now Tate can wow Mickey and Buzz Lightyear with his mad sk8ing skilz.

What a goofball.

It's Expanding.

No, I'm not talking about my waistline. Thanks for thinking that, though.

I mean the clutter. It's like The Blob. Pretty soon we'll all be swallowed alive by it before it moves out into the neighborhood. You'll see a quivering mass of toys, magazine shreds, various kitchen utensils and mismatched socks go globbing down my street looking for it's next victim. I'm picturing something like this dude, only made out of aforementioned products:

Case in point. I looked out onto my back deck earlier this afternoon and saw the turkey baster that's normally in the drawer next to my oven. It was just chillin' on the deck, enjoying the warm 38 degree weather. I was thinking of going out there and asking it if it wanted a nice beer and to fire up the grill. I'm sure pretty soon it will be joined by the pizza cutter, as I hear that's quite a party animal.

Tate did try to take matters into his own hands, though. He marched over to the dishwasher a little bit ago, declaring that it was "Time to clean UP, people!". He then opened the dishwasher and started unloading it. Awesome, right? Would have been a lot better if the stuff inside there was actually clean. Most of it he couldn't get into the correct places, but he did manage to put away every piece of silverware back into the drawer. When I tried to tell him the stuff was dirty and needed to get washed, well, he just wouldn't hear of it. Hopefully I remember to empty the silverware out of the drawer back into the dishwasher before I just grab some random fork covered in scrambled egg remnents. I hate looking at and touching old food. It makes me dry heave.

Also, would someone please remind my darling baby girl that sleep is, in fact, a MAGNIFICENT thing, and she should really partake in it more often? 5:30 AM is not my finest hour. Half hour naps are just not doing it for me. I'm starting to do the zombie walk again. Days are passing by in fogs, and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten to wash my hair for a good 3 days now. I gotta say, it's not a good look on me.

Plop.

Why do my children never let me sit down? Ever? Is it something ingrained in their little minds, that Mommy is not allowed to actually SIT and eat dinner but only to perch on her chair, bringing a forkful of food to her mouth, only to immediately have to put it down again?

This is a typical dinner for me and the kids. Eric is working at dinnertime at least two weeks out of a month, usually three, sometimes four, so we've pretty much got the routine down pat.

I plop in my chair.

Tate: "Mommy, I need milk."

Plop again. Well, if I want to get technical, it's more of a "Plop, jiggle jiggle." But I'm going to omit the jiggle jiggle and pretend I have thighs of steel. Hey, it's my story.

Tate: "Mommy, I dropped my milk."

PLOP.

Nora: "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Roughly transated: "Where are the rest of my diced apple bits, you nutty woman?"

PLOP.

Tate: "Mommy, Spencer ate my noodle! Get it back! Get it out of his mouth!"

I'm thinking of doing a workout video along these lines. All that standing up and sitting down has to be doing something for my quads. But by the end of dinner, I'm about ready to plop through the floor and eat my dinner in peace in a hole under the house or something. By the time the kids are done eating, my dinner has usually congealed into something thoroughly unappetizing on my plate and I end up eating puffcorn and gumballs later and calling it dinner.

Tonight, though, I will plop and stay plopped. I'm going out for Mexican food and to see a movie with some girlfriends, and I'm greatly looking forward to eating an entire meal without getting gnawed-up Cheerios hurled at my head. Eric and I took the kids to Culver's for lunch today after swimming lessons, and while there were no great catastrophes, Tate did end up spilling his chocolate milk all over his butt so it looked like he was walking around with something gross and runny and brown on his rump. I don't know how he managed to get the milk on his butt instead of his lap, but that's my son for you. We decided to stop ruining other diners' appetites and wrapped him up in my jacket and left.

It's funny how meals out with the four of us start out just fine...Tate serenely coloring on his kids menu, Nora peacefully sucking on the edge of the table while Eric and I ignore it and convince ourselves that germs are good for children...and then by the end turn into something out of a horror movie. The kids are screaming and there are carcasses of grilled cheese sandwiches or slices of pizza on the floor where they've been launched to their death. Tate's under the table, Nora's trying to climb out of the highchair, Eric and I are hissing at each other to find Nora's freaking jacket and load up Tate's 20 books back into his diaper bag for GOD'S SAKE, and the waiter is no where to be found, probably because he thinks the four have us have become possessed with demons from the netherworld. I always expect everyone in the restaurant to stand up and applaud when we leave.

I would not blame them.

Welcome to the Jungle

Or insane asylum, perhaps, would be more accurate. Things around here are just...loud. Messy. Chaotic. Prime fodder for a case study on just what drives a stay-at-home-mom to literally tear her hair out, drink a box of wine in one sitting, and pass out into peaceful oblivion.

I can't even put a finger on what exactly the chaos is made up of. Squealing. Screaming. "Ay-yi-yi-ing" (yes, Nora's still channeling Bob Marley. Well, him and Chewbacca. She does a mean impression when she gets going). Endless claims of "It's mine!". Constant admonishments from Tate that I must stop requesting for him to do things since he will, in fact, NOT do what I ask him to, because as we all know, he is extremely busy doing one of the actions mentioned above.

It's just been one of those days. You know the one. Where you're trying to obtain some semblance of tidiness in your kitchen while your baby girl is pulling a mummified Skittle covered in dog hair out from under the fridge and trying to eat it and your two year old son is running around half naked with blue Sharpie all over his face, pausing only in his careening in circles to pull his sister's hair everytime he passes, resulting in more screaming and ay-yi-yi-ing and desperate clinging to your legs trying to escape the whirling cloud of sassiness who at the moment is pulling every plastic cup he can find out of the drawer and you wondering why you have that stupid stupid song from FreeCreditReport.com in your head and wishing desperately it would just go away since you don't really CARE about the stupid guy serving chowder and ice tea and all you want to do is sit but you know that you can't just quite yet and....ARGH.

Then you look at the clock and realize that it's almost that magical hour known as bedtime. The end is near. Then you look at the windowsill above the sink where you keep the kids' medicine and remember that you're out of infant Tylenol. Normally, not a big deal. Today, when you have a teething infant with a temp of 102, BIG DEAL. But no way in hell will you be driving to the store to get some. Not tonight. Not by yourself. You let your eyes dart fleetingly to the liquor cabinet but decide that ultimately you just don't feel that comfortable rubbing Malibu or Butterscotch Schnapps over your daughter's gums to try and grant her some relief. You settle for the Orajel. You're heading into the home stretch...getting the baby changed and jammies on and all that jazz. Baby enjoys a little naked time at the end of the day so you let her charge around bare-assed on the floor while you attempt to do maybe a little more cleaning up. Then you look over and see your baby sitting cheerfully in the middle of Lake Urine. Better than sitting atop Mount Poo, yes, but still not something you really quite feel like dealing with right now.

But then finally, you sit in the rocking chair with your baby as you feed her her bottle and watch her eyelids droop and finally close, and you breathe in her smell and listen to her breathe and feel completely, 100% in love with this little human. Then you cuddle on the couch with your two year old son and stroke his hair and feel him burrow in as close to you as he can while you expose him to the awesomeness that is American Idol. And you think, "Yeah, this isn't so bad. I suppose the kids are worth the trouble. Tomorrow will be completely different...calm, Lake Urine-free, quiet..." and you completely ignore your subconcious knocking at the back of your head screaming at you that for the love of GOD, listen to yourself, you're in denial, and you snuggle with your son and you're happy.