The Toys Are Out to Get Me

So a pair of plastic toy keys almost made me drive off the road today. Good times. They are the keys of Beezelbub. They somehow floated up from the depths of Hell and landed in our unsuspecting minivan.

I had tossed them at Nora for her to gnaw on while we tooled around, since her behemoth molars are still causing us all to go through pure hell, and she held on to them for about 2.3 seconds before chucking them to the floor, just beyond me reach. I think Tate is holding late-night seminars on how to do such things as this, designed to drive me insane and make car rides as absolutely unlovely as possible. This week's lesson: Chucking Toys Into the Back of the Monstrous Minivan. Next week: Screaming Randomly Like a Chimpanzee Being Ripped Into by a Hippopotamus Just as Mom is Trying to Back Out of an Extremely Tight Parking Spot, Causing Her Foot To Jerk on the Gas Pedal and Almost Flatten a Blue-Hair Walking Behind the Car. I'm afraid to think of what tidbits of wisdom he'll dole out next. He's got quite the stash.

So the keys are on the floor and I'm cruising down the highway when all of a sudden I hear "SQUEAL!! CRASH!! ARGHHHH!". Yeah, the keys make noises like a twelve-car pileup. It's lovely. They emit these particularly hair-raising sounds when you press the button on the key ring part. Noises are also emitted when you breathe near the keys, look at the keys, or think about how you want to chuck the keys into a fiery inferno and do a happy dance around the fire as they die a slow death. And of course, since I could not reach the keys (Nora must have gotten an "A" from Tate in that lesson), I had to listen to the sounds of random cars involved in some type of smashup like 50003 times. And EACH TIME, I would reflexively slam on the brake because I thought someone was about to crash into me or the guard rail or something. Those keys are the dumbest thing ever.

Except for the puzzle that makes noise when the lights go on our off. Nothing like being home alone at 11 pm, turning off the lights in the family room, and hearing come out of the pitch-blackness "VRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!! SQQQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!" Or when you take a step too close to a certain horrible, vicious, sadistic stuffed dog and cause the ground to vibrate or shake or something (just me that makes the floor rumble when I take a step? Great. Awesome.) and that makes the dog come alive and say "PLAY WITH ME! LOVE ME! YOU STUPID BITCH! I'M COMING TO CLAW YOUR EYES OUT! RIGHT AFTER YOU SQUEEZE MY PAW SO I SING ROW ROW ROW YOUR BOAT!!" That thing is alive. It starts talking at the most random times when no one is near it. Except me. It's fooling with my head. It's making me crazy. The stuffed dog wants my soul.

Don't ever wonder why I refuse to buy my kids any creepy stuffed clowns or weird puppets or anything. Their toys already freak the hell out of me. They don't need any help from Doodles the Killer Klown.

My Boy Likes to Potty All the Time...

...potty all the time, potty all the ti-iiiiiiime.

Ok, well, not all the time, but I'm in a giddy cloud of potty-related giddiness. I'm taking whatever I can get these days. Last week, Tate trotted by me, went into the bathroom and locked the door. I could hear him take his pants off, undo his diaper, and then make noises like he was either climbing up on the toilet, already up on the toilet and trying to make magic happen, or trying to pull the toilet out of the wall. I was hoping for options 1 or 2. So I knocked on the door and we had this exchange:

Me: "You ok in there, Tate?"

Tate: "Mom! I need privacy! I'm going potty!"

Me: "You got it, buddy. I have no desire to interfere with your potty adventures."

Tate: "Mom. Go. Away."

He didn't actually do anything, but I was psyched that he actually went in there of his own accord. He did it a few more times over the next few days, and I found that with each time, he felt the need to shed more clothes until he got to the point where he just climbed on the throne buck-ass naked. Again, no problem. Whatever it takes. If he needs to channel George Costanza to get the magic done, more power to him.

He may need a little more guidance in some respects though. He handed me a DVD while we were in the car yesterday and told me it had pee on it. Apparently his aim was a little off. I do not know why there was a DVD on the floor next to the toilet, but again, people...I just let him do whatever the toilet gods call him to do in there. I'm but a mere mortal. And since I'm so lowly, it fell to me to be the one to actually clean the pee off the DVD so he could watch it. Thank you, Lord of the Commode, thank you. Nothing like wiping off dried pee to really make me feel like I have a true calling in this world. I'm the Dried Whizz Wiper-Offer.

Anyway, we were in the car because we took a trip to go visit my grandma and uncle. It's about a four-hour drive. It's pretty much like you'd think it would be, knowing me and my spawn. Since Eric drove on the way there and it fell to me to be the Constantly Turning Around and Handing Goldfish Crackers, DVD Cases, Cups of Water, and Various Toys, Books and Other Objects Designed to Shut Kids the Hell Up bitch, I decided that Eric should have a turn being the CTAaHGCDCCoWaVTBaOODtSKtHU bitch. So I drove home. It was fine except for the torrential downpour that followed us wherever we went, and when we had this exchange as I was pulling out of a parking lot after we stopped for lunch and making a left-hand turn onto the street.

Me: "'Doo, doo do....here I am, calmly about to turn left as soon as this other dude turns out of the road. Man, I am a wonderful driver."

Eric "DUDE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING???????"

Me: "WWWWWWWHHHHHHHAAAAAAAT????? What, what WHAT??"

Eric: "Oh, I was talking to that other guy. I wasn't talking to you."

Me: "Don't SAY things while I drive! You know I HATE that!"

Seriously. What a douche. We almost drove into a street sign. I HATE when Eric talks while I drive.

And Nora woke up this morning with the personality and basic likability of one of Satan's minions on crack. Then I looked into her mouth and saw four molars the size of my head poking through her gums. Honestly, you could have parked a Hummer on these things. I'd be pissed the hell off, too. I kept putting Orajel on there and she would keep grabbing my finger and trying to get me to put more on it. Still addicted to the stuff, I see. She needs an O-hit every now and then, just to take the edge of...you know how it is. She can stop any time she wants, really.

I also choose to believe that the Gigantic Molars from Hell are the reason she insisted on persistently flinging things all over the car as we drove. I thought we'd end up with a cracked window or deep, gushing head wound on one of us unsuspecting, pathetic parents before we got home. That girl's got an arm. And four new teeth.

My Family Is Weird

Today Tate came up to me with a handful of Thomas the Train wooden track pieces from his train table. There was a lovely little track set up on that table at one point, then Nora swooped in from the sky and destroyed it like a little baby Godzilla. I kind of expected to see little airplanes buzzing around her head as she tore apart Thomasland, roaring and squealing with delight. Nothing quite like a creature hell-bent on world domination and destruction who's wearing overalls with little hearts and flowers on them. Kind of softens the blow.

Anyway, Tate seemed to be about to hand me all his train pieces and I thought he'd want me to go reconstruct the tracks.

Me: "Do you want Mommy to build you a track, honey?"

Tate, as he makes a sharp left and continues around my chair: "No, it's too hard for you. I'll get Daddy to do it."

Awesome. He thinks a few pieces of wood with a tab on one end and a hole on the other are simply too much stimulation for my feeble mind. Better not strain Mommy's brainpower by asking her to construct an oval!!

Nora has started doing this over dramatic, Oh-Lord-Whatever-Shall-I-Do-Life-Is-So-Hard-For-A-One-Year-Old thing. Whenever I dare to put her down in the family room and walk away to the faraway, unreachable land of Kitchen, she starts wailing and plops down on the floor where she positions herself so she's laying on her stomach with her face buried in the carpet and her arms and legs limp by her sides. Then she screams like a monkey on crack. So we just have this languishing, faceless blob on the floor, shrieking. It's quite funny. Most kids kick and roll around due to the inhumanity of it all, but she just lays there like a paralyzed slug. Well, a slug who's got the lungs of a gigantic rooster.

Let's move on to Eric. He's got curly hair, as many of you know. Now, on a normal day, he keeps it pretty well under control. He throws some gel in it and it looks fine. Today was not a normal day, I guess. It was rainy and damp out, and he forgot to put anything in it after his shower. He also put on a v-neck sweater with a v-neck undershirt under it (he claims that's all that was clean. Whatever). Therefore, you could see his like 4 chest hairs poking out, plus his thin gold chain that he always wears. He looked like this dude:

Seriously. His hair was that high. We went to go pick out new glasses for him and I kept calling him Disco Stu in the store. He thought it was funny for awhile, then he didn't. But trust me, it was pretty freaking funny every single time I said it. I know I laughed. It was either laugh or cringe in embarrassment at being out in public with Q-Tip Man From 1975. I had to stay strong and fight through the potential humiliation.

How I ended up with these flakes in my family, I do not know. Good thing I'm so wholesome and normal. Otherwise who knows what would go on around ere.

Exulte, People!! We Did It!

As we all know, today was picture day for the kidlets. As we all know, just about any time I try and do something with the kids where I'd prefer a happy outcome, it usually ends up in tears, bloodshed, and/or dents in the wall from Tate running into them out of sheer irateness. Really, who would expect today to be any different?

We headed over to Aubrey at her great little studio to get the party started. And seriously, people, if you live in the Green Bay area and feel the need to photograph your kids (or yourselves, or pets, or plants, or shoes, or...whatever. I don't know, people take pictures of weird things), there is no reason not to go to Aubrey. (http://www.photobyaubrey.com/) She knows what's up. She has fruit snacks! Oh, and she takes great pictures, too.

Nora and I got there first. Eric and Tate were on their way back from Milwaukee and were going to meet us there. Nora took a little while to warm up and pry her face away from my neck and allow Aubrey to look at her, speak to her, or generally acknowledge her presence in any way, but once she got warmed up, she did great in her little ballerina outfit.

Then Tate got there. Yeah. He took one look at the situation, realized he was somewhere where he would be expected to at least partially behave and cooperate, and blew his shit, hardcore. He ran his ass straight of there and didn't stop til he careened headfirst into the wall. Now that I think of it, I probably should have checked for any damage. To the wall, I mean, not Tate's head. I think he's built up a layer of steel under his forehead. You could bounce a bowling ball off that thing at this point.

Me: "Tate, do you want to go sit over here on this chair?"

Tate:"NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOARRRRRRRRRRRCCCCCGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHBBBBBBBLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAHRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTIMGOINGTOEATYOURBRAINS!!!!!!!!!"

It took a loooooong time to calm him down. Fruit snacks saved the day. Thank the Lord for Tonka fruit snacks. After he digested those, he graciously allowed us to escort him into the studio. He then climbed up on a chair, sat down, and turned around. Now this would have been great if we were doing a photo study called "Tate: A Boy and His Ass", but that's not really the look I was going for. After awhile, he would peek over his shoulder. Smile? Nah. He looked like this guy.

But thanks to Aubrey and her infinite patience, and the sugar rush from the fruit snacks, Tate finally started to warm up and crack a few smiles. Then he got REALLY comfortable and started spitting on the chairs. I didn't really feel the need to capture that on film, though. Inevitably, though, once Tate start warming up, Nora started melting down. We got some awesome shots, though...I was really happy with the end results.

How kickass are these.

Yeah, that last picture? That's pretty much our life, summed up in one shot. Hair pulling. That's it. That's what we do. Pull hair. That sucker's getting blown up and hung on the wall in the front hallway to warn all ye who enter here. Hair. Pullage.

I Know, I Know.

It's been a week since I've given all you people more reason to laugh at me. To shake your heads and wonder why I'm not clinically insane yet, given the children I have and general life I lead. Sorry. It's just been a week of the usual monotony, the same struggles and showdowns. Getting up at 5:45 and not going to bed until 10:30 because I need just a couple more minutes of alone time. Trying not to crush Nora with my gigantic body as I lay on her to get her to stay still for more than .02 seconds so I can change her diaper. You know. The usual.

Here's fun, though. Tate has started calling me Melissa. And it's PISSING ME OFF. All I hear now is "What are you doing, Melissa? Can I have some milk, Melissa? STOP IT, MELISSA! MELISSA! GET OVER HERE AND GET ME SOME SPONGEBOB MAC AND CHEESE, NOW!" I tend to ignore the last two types of requests. I fetch Spongebob for no one, least of all a 2 year old who needs to learn that his mother is the person most deserving of respect and utter adoration in his life. I mean, hello, I am pretty awesome.

Nora is...clingy. I know it's just because of the aforementioned awesomeness of me, but hello. I would like to be able to walk more than 2 feet before falling over because there is a little body wedged in between my legs with a death grip on each shin. If I don't pick her up right away because I'm doing something stupid like, oh, cooking dinner (I've heard somewhere you shouldn't have little kids around open ovens when they're at 450 degrees. I might be making that up, though) or getting dressed (ever try to put a pair of jeans on when holding on to a little person who's trying to climb into your mouth? It's not as easy as you'd think. Especially when the jeans are fresh out of the dryer and you gotta do the jump-up-and-down-squat-and-try-and-tuck-your-muffin-top-into-the-waistband-thing).

I have been going to the gym regularly, though. I'm one of those people who will go to the gym for an hour, and then rush home and hop on the scale. Then I will see that I did not magically lose 10 lbs in that hour and go downstairs and break open a bag of Lay's to soothe my chunkified self. I'm getting better at not doing that, though.

So, really, not a whole lot going on. Sorry for the boring blog entry, but I got tired of people whining and grumbling and pathetically pleading with me. I mean, have a little self-respect, people. It's just lately I haven't been feeling the creative juices sloshing around in me all that much. I try to think of what to write and it almost feels like a homework assignment or something. And anyone who knew me when I was in school knows I did not like homework and therefore didn't really...do it.

But fear not. The kids are getting their pictures taken tomorrow and you know that experience is going to most likely be chock-full of opportunities for you to laugh at me. I will strive to not let you down.

Happy Birthday, Norey Pants

Ok, her actual birthday was yesterday, but Eric was working last night and I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the NKOTB concert. I mean, I'm so above that kind of teeny-bopper dreck. I TOTALLY did not stand up on my chair and start squealing like a little girl when they were a mere 7 feet away from me. Then when I touched Danny, Donny and Joey I did NOT almost pee in my pants from sheer glee. Totally did not. I mean, God. PLEASE.

Anyway, back to my little girl. I can't believe she's one. I swear it was just yesterday she looked like this:

And then I turned around 2 seconds later and she had grown to this:

And now, today...we've molded her into the epitome of class, elegance, and pedigree.

Heh. Yeah, I got a cupcake, bitches. And this shit is good.

I don't know how she went from trying her damnedest to off me during childbirth (which I've pretty much forgiven her for)to all of a sudden being a year old. She walks and babbles and is all...human-like. She points! She waves! She scampers up the steps, cackling with the knowledge that she should be doing no scampering of the sort! She has a personality! And I love it!

Happy birthday, little girl.

Cute. And Not.

Awwww......

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I may just be the meanest mom in the world, putting that picture out there for the world to see, but day-um, that is a bad picture of a cute baby. Holy crap. She looks like some kind of chub monster zombie type person who just ate a lasagna made out of human remains. See, there's someone's brain matter hanging out in her hair up there. And smeared in her hair above her left ear? That would be someone's spleen goo.

Here's another cute one to help cleanse your brain palette of the one you just saw.

In other news, Tate is on the mend. This means that he's tired, crabby, and capable of going from chill to Oh-My-God-He's-Possessed-By-Some-Kind-Of-Demonic-Being in the span of 4.3 seconds. We've had some doozies. They're usually followed by him passing out on the couch or up in his room. It takes a lot out of you, screaming and kicking like someone's trying to remove your eye with a spork. Anything can set him off. He turned into some kind of nightmarish incubus at Wal-Mart yesterday because I asked him to stop yanking on my hair. I know, right? I'm such a bitch.

We made a quick exit from Wally World and when we got to the car, Eric spied a bike lock in Tate's sweaty little paw. The child had officially began his life of crime. He plundered a bike lock.

Really? A bike lock? We sat Tate down and had a stern talk with him.

Eric: "Tate, if you're gonna steal stuff....you gotta at least make it something good."

Me: "Yeah, I could use a diamond necklace. Hell, I'd settle for a new package of socks or a nice casserole dish (see my entry about my girls weekend last month) or something. I don't freaking need a bike lock!"

Tate: "I stole?"

Eric returned the bike lock to Marv, the 104-year-old man who stands guard at the front door (and apparently doesn't do a very good job of it), and we slunk out of the parking lot.

I'll let you know what he moves on to swiping next. Mother's Day is coming up next month.

Well, That Totally SUCKED

Tate and his giant green paw.

Our adventure has ended. We came home last night with no surgery needing to be had. The Great Tate Hospital Incident 2009 is over. It was not fun.

Tate woke up yesterday morning at 4 when they came in to take his vitals. He then proceeded to cry til about 4:30 when he fell back asleep. Then he woke up at 5 when someone came in to prick his finger. Cue another half hour of crying followed by being taken over by sheer exhaustion and succumbing to sleep. Then Eric called at 6:45. After that, we were up for good. Well, I had pretty much been awake since 4. Believe it or not, the couch that converted into a bed was not so comfortable. It felt like sleeping on soggy Styrofoam. And I didn't even want to let myself think where that pillow had been before. Blech.

Basically the day played out like this: Tate would cry and scream for a couple hours, which would get amped up a few notches each time a nurse came in, he would throw his cup at us 59 million times, then pass out from fatigue. As soon as he would fall asleep, the hands of fate would decide to poop on our heads (can hands poop? Whatever), and then nurses would need to come in to take vitals, some volunteer would absolutely HAVE to stock the closet, the bathroom would need to get cleaned, etc, etc. So Tate would wake up after sleeping for about 15 minutes, look around, take a deep breath and start yowling again for the next couple hours. Seriously. I thought I was going to lose my mind.

He did enjoy getting pulled around the hallways on a wagon with Nora, though. We milked that for a good 45 minutes.

When the doctor finally came in, he said the fever was gone, the white blood cell count was almost back to normal, and the tonsils that were so swollen they were almost touching the previous day had shrunk down significantly. Apparently the antibiotics he had been on earlier just didn't work and weren't killing the bacteria or whatever the hell was causing all this. Getting a continuous dose of a different antibiotic and some type of steroid did the trick.

This better not happen again, is all I can say. I don't think the nurses would allow us back, for one thing. Our room was right next to the nurses station so they had front row seats to the concert Tate so thoughtfully provided from his bed. I also don't think they really appreciated getting sippy cups of apple juice chucked at their heads.

I felt so bad for him. He was completely confused, terrified, pissed off, what have you. I think it will take awhile for him to get back to normal...he's still extremely pale and lethargic. It's 9:32 am and he's already taking a nap on the couch. Well, the 45 minute tantrum he threw this morning might have contributed to making him a wee bit weary.

You gotta admire his sheer dedication to his art of tantrums. He will soon be known as a legend in his field, I believe.

So Here We Are...

...at the hospital. Whee. I'm sitting here looking at my little guy sleeping in his hospital bed while I'm wide awake and not tired in the slightest. It's been a day. A DAY.

Basically, we took him to his pediatrician again today and she did more blood work (boo) and determined he didn't have mono (yay!), which was something she was thinking it might be. After taking a few looks at his throat, she made us an appointment with an ENT specialist to take a look-see. Tate hated being at the doctor again and made this pretty well known by smacking her whenever she tried to look in his mouth. Or ears. Or tried to listen to his heart.

At the ENT, Tate decided he hated being there too and screamed bloody murder when the doc said he wanted to look into his throat. This actually was helpful, though, since the doc could see clear into the back of his throat while Tate was squalling in his face. He said the tonsils looked absolutely horrible, and with his white blood cell count still being double what it should, and his fever still being crazy-ass high, he thought that getting the tonsils out might be the way to go. He mentioned just getting it down right away as an option, or getting Tate set up on an IV and antibiotics first to try and get the fever down before doing anything. So here we are. The process of getting to this point was horrible.

As soon as we got to the hospital, Tate flipped his shit when he realized he had been tricked into going to a doctor AGAIN, and just went ballistic. Nurses would try and take his temperature and he freaked. Try to listen to his heart... freaked. Getting his blood pressure was a joke since it was off the charts what with the screaming and flailing about and all that. Then came the truly horrible part. They had to do more blood work and put an IV in.

The nurses basically said that if either Eric or I were going to have issues with being in the room for that part, we should leave. Yeah, that would be me. I knew I would be a wreck, and therefore scare Tate even more. I went out in the hall and heard him start to scream. I went farther down the hall. The screams followed me. Through a set of doors...and I could still hear the screaming. It was tearing my heart out. I heard my baby screaming in terror and fear and I could. Not. Fix. It. It was unlike anything I've ever felt before...I felt completley helpless and guilty and scared and sick to my stomach. I could hear him scream "STOP! STOP! ALL DONE! ALL DONE, PLEASE!" It was the "pleases" that really tore me apart. It took about 20 minutes to get everything done, but it felt like an eternity of staring at the pattern on the hallway wallpaper and pretty much feeling like shit. All Eric said when I got back in the room was, "That was horrible."

When I came back in, he was hooked up to an IV and his entire hand was wrapped in bright green gauze. He's got a neon green paw and is NOT amused. But he seemed to forget about it after a bit. Still won't let the nurse do his blood pressure, though. We'll see what happens tomorrow. My brain is pretty much shut off at this point.

Poor baby.

Updater on the Tater

It's been an interesting 24 hours around here. I last posted that Tate seemed to be getting better, was up to his usual evil overlord ways, etc, etc. However last night around 6 pm he was acting awfully listless and droopy so I decided to take his temperature again. Yeah, so...

Thermometer: 106.0

Me: CLUNK.

Seriously? I didn't think it was possible to get a fever that high. Wouldn't that entail you like, turning into a blazing ball of flames or something? A HUNDRED AND SIX??? So I took a deep breath and stuck the thermometer in his ear again. 105.8. And again. 105.8. Ah. Well, that's much better.

I went into my patented "Oh-my-God-what-do-I-do-do-I-call-Eric-or-the-doctor-or-an-ambulance-what-do-I-do-whatdoIdowhatdoIdo" mode. I paged Eric at work, putting 911 in front of our number so he'd know it was urgent and he told me to call the nurse hotline. Which any clearly-thinking person would have done first, but as we already established, I was not in clear-thinking mode. I was in "Omgwdiddiceortdoaawdidwdidwdid" mode.

When I told the nurse that his temp was 105.8, she said that ear thermometers weren't always the most accurate so I had to do it the other way. The yucky way. Let's just say Tate was THRILLED about that one. As he was screaming, the nurse dryly said "Well, he's obviously coherent, at least." Rectal temp was 105.4. The nurse paused, and then said "Yeah...I'm gonna have you bring him in". Good call.

I called my friend Aimee and she came right over to stay with Nora, like an angel, and Tate and I took off to urgent care. Oh, but before all this happened, he yorked chocolate milk all over the floor. Almost forgot about that. So then of course while we were in the car, Tate was acting perfectly normal, yelling at red lights, huffing at having to wait for our chance to turn left...the usual. I always get all paranoid that I'm going to get my kids to the doctor and the fever will magically be gone and they'll practically be up doing a jig on the table and I'll look like a prime nincompoop.

But when they took his temp, it was 105.4. The nurse didn't even seemed fazed by it. I just wanted to be like "DUDE! It's almost 106! That's the temperature where the body basically starts cooking itself!! Let's get a little concerned, here!!" The doctor's diagnosis? Tate is prone to frequent, high fevers. He called it "Persistant Fever Syndrome". I called it "I Could Have Told You That, Pal." He said it would probably go away in a couple days, and most likely would come back again at some point. Then he said goodbye. So that was just great. Totally cleared up my worries. Poof. Gone. Ha.

So now I don't know. We go back in to the doctor tomorrow, and they may run more tests to start ruling things out. Or they may not. I feel like I really need to ask for something to be done to get this figured out, but I don't even know what that would be. A 2 year old should not have that high of a fever for that many days in a row, this frequently.

What I do know, though, is that I have awesome friends. The number of people who have called, emailed, Facebooked, etc, to check on Tate just blows my mind. It's a huge comfort to know there are that many people who care about my little dude.

And on another high note, my good friend Jodi's little girl Gabby had her surgery today and it went really really well. So many people have been thinking and praying for her and it's such a relief to have it all over and done with. She's such a little trooper. Rock on, Gabs.