My Two Favorite B's

Okay, shocking as it may sound, I have only had to go upstairs to re tuck a certain someone once so far. It's kinda freaking me out.

First of all, granddaddy came over. This is always a special treat for the boys. Not just because they love him, but because he brings toys. Yes, loud ones. Thanks Granddaddy! However, I did manage to wear them out and then get them bathed before he came. It was a monumental task, but I achieved it. All we had left was the opening of the 'loudest toys in the world' and then a quick story and bedtime. (I had even pre-drugged them with Tylenol Cold to ensure we didn't suffer through another night of coughing...)

It was no use. The toys were the cars that you shake and they yell "Hey, show some respect Holmes!" and then peel off. Great... I've already hidden two of those that the Easter bunny brought... None the less, they graciously accepted his gift and Beaux didn't bother to tell him that he already had one of those. (Could he have possibly forgotten the long-lost Easter gift?!)

By the time the newness had worn off and they played 15 minutes of "Slinky Britches," which from what I can gather is a game where they run past Granddaddy and he tries to catch them, the reading of books commenced. This is almost always a guaranteed half hour event. But we survived that one too. All was looking in my favor. They even wanted him to tuck them in, so I was getting away without the traditional "lets stand in the driveway and wave to Granddaddy while he flashes his headlights at us" game. I was elated. I could taste that honey brown ale already!

But, alas, just as I sat down here to type, I heard the 'thump', which was quickly followed by the shuffle of bare feet on freize carpet. As anticipated, the sniffling of a stuffy head sleeping at the top of the staircase ensued. I had a feeling it was all going too well.

Just moments after resolving myself that I would just ignore it and put him back in bed when I was ready to go, I hear "momma"... Ug. Here we go. "Yes, son." "Mommma, I left my baby glubs down stairs and I really, really, really need him." "Okay, son. Come down and get him." "Momma, I got boogers." "So go blow your nose." "But momma, nuttin will come out!" "Um, okay. I'm not sure what else I can do for you." "Momma, I need you to pick them for me." (Good grief. Is it not enough that I carried the child for 9 months, nursed him for 12 months and allowed him to survive for 4 1/2 years?!) "Alright. Go upstairs."

Ah, the joys of motherhood. Boogers and warm Beer...mmmm.

My Own Meltdown

At what age are we socially prohibited from having meltdowns? Seriously, I would love to just throw myself on the floor and loose it over something completely senseless. Apparently, in this house, that works. At least when daddy's home and mommy's lost the will to live...

Today, I had hit that point. We took the boys to the neighbor's to play in a little baby pool. Beaux decides to throw water on everyone and then gets super pissed when the neighbor kid has the nerve to splash him. In order to save some sibilance of face with my neighbor, I order him out of the pool and force him to sit in time out. Sit he did. And scream he most certainly did. I was so mortified. It was awful. He is screaming at the top of his lungs and Steve's laughing and saying, "Is that all you've got? Is that the best you can do?" Okay, I am generally the one to antigonize him during meltdowns, but Steve isn't. Kinda stold my thunder there.

After the third and last meltdown, I took him home. Actually, I insisted that since it was Steve's last day in town, he should be the one to drag him down the hill and across the street. And he did.

By the time I finished making excuses for him to my neighbor and sulked home wishing I had a child that didn't scream in people's faces, I found him playing in the garage like nothing happened. That was the last straw. With all the calmness I could muster, I grunted "get in the house" through clenched teeth. That was all I said. But that was all I had to say. Maybe it was the clinched teeth, maybe it was the knit brow, maybe even the pea soup...either way, he knew what I meant and took it fully in the way it was intended. Before I could make it to the door, he was upstairs clinging to daddy with all his might. He was groveling so bad Steve couldn't figure out what had happened. As guilty as I felt, I just wanted to convey my sense of embarassment to him through a lesson taught by 'one of mommy's talks.' I don't really blame him for hating those. I do kind of ramble about other people's feelings and throw in some 'how would you feel' when needed. But it's not like I torture him with it.

Anyway, daddy swooped in to save the day with a "let's just settle down boys". Surprisingly, this time it worked. So well, in fact that I was in the next room considering what it would take for me to make enough money so he could quit his job and stay home with them!

Some days I just suck at this job. Parenthood is much more of a guilt-trip than I had envisioned...

Maybe I will throw myself in the floor and cry about it.

$1,500 Pimple?!

Yeah, my sentiments exactly.

Apparently after being married 7 years and birthing two children I have just hit puberty. Good times. My face has been breaking out for the first time in my entire life in the past few months. I'm not big on makeup, but have actually had to wear CONCEALER!!! Ick.

So I get up Thursday morning and without any warning, there's a new one. This is no ordinary pimple. Oh no. This has taken over my chin. I'm not exaggerating here. It is literally the size of a half-dollar and my entire chin is shiny from the skin stretching. I look like Jay Leno. No joke. I finally get up the nerve to touch it and I almost passed out from the pain.

The best part of my new-found treasure was when Spruce took his toy car and ran it over the pimple. I honestly almost hit the floor. It was absolutely the most incredible pain. Later, Beaux told daddy that "Sprucey thought mommy's ouchie was a speed bump!" If it hadn't hurt so bad, I would have laughed.

.....

Now, I'm not a 'let's see the doctor' kind of girl. I go when things get bad enough that others say, "you should see a doctor." However, this one seemed much more serious. Hell, I had to take Motrin to talk! So I call the dermatologist. October 1st is her next available!!! I told them that my entire face would be paralyzed by then (or the Motrin would have killed my liver) and they put me on the cancellation list. They called two hours later and had a spot for the next morning. Hallelujah!!!

I get there and sit in the waiting room for the longest hour. I could feel all the eyes on my face. It was mortifying. I was the guy in the drive thru with the lazy eye. People would make eye contact with me and do their best to not look at the chin. (My neighbor even asked who hit me...) Great. So an hour and a $1500 bill later, I'm leaving...in agony. She numbed it and lanced the bad boy. Yeah, sounds as bad as it was. As I'm walking to the checkout reading the enormous bill in my hand I'm thanking the Good Lord that we have great health insurance. Well, that lasted about as long as the numbing medication in my chin... The receptionist kindly let me know in her 'all-knowing and could-give-a-shit-less" attitude that my insurance only paid 1/4 of my last bill and I had a $400 balance already!!! I about died. If they only paid $100 on my last visit, what would they say to a $1500 pimple?!?! Holy shit. I really almost puked then. If the car and the lancing hadn't done me in, this was going to.

So here I sit with the remnants of my mortgage payment sized pimple (which is just half it's original size but is very much still there) and mull over the conversation I will have with the insurance company on Tuesday. Good thing they aren't open now...mamma's got on her beer muscles. (What?! It goes great with Motrin!)

Sticks and Stones

So we're in the car bringing mams to our house to babysit. We are having an in depth conversation about how electronic toys are inhibiting both of my sons imaginative play. (Which is actually something I had been thinking about, but it all comes down to having the time to play with a wooden toy with them. You know?) Mams starts in on the 'when I was a kid' tyrade and we are all pretty intrigued. "My father took old soup cans, punched holes in them, tied strings to them and we wore them as stilts." Wow. That's pretty impressive honestly. I'm trying to imagine balancing my 5'10" frame with size 10's on a tin can. Not a pretty sight even in my head. "Then we'd play kick the can. Someone would kick the can and everyone would run and hide." Sounds like 'hide and seek' but I still can't find a use for the can. However, it does have me wondering about how much soup they ate.

Beaux, sitting attentively while mams recounts her childhood, finally pipes up and says, "Mams, Daddy only had leaves and sticks to play with when he was a boy. Sometimes, if he was really good, his daddy gave him some rocks."

The entire car goes silent. I look at Steve, who is pretending not to hear...

Just Surviving...

We're in survival mode now. Steve is almost home, the boys are arguing constantly (when they aren't ganging up on me) and I have already polished off one of Steve's last three 'special beers' that my cousin brought him back from St.Louis. I contemplated drinking them all in hopes that he would forget they were there in the first place, but I think that will just incite a riot...if he remembered.

I am hiding in the office, throwing out the occasional "Stop That" when I feel it might be necessary. You know, audio parenting. (For the novice, that's when you listen to the specific pitch of the scream before you jump and run.) Currently, they seem to be playing together pretty well. Even if I was in the room, I would be ignored.

Those two have their own games with unidentifiable names such as "Tay-Al, Tay-Al" and "Jearz". At first I thought it was just their language. They were communicating with eachother, playing little games, etc. Then I finally started paying attention to the actual game itself. "Tay-Al, Tay-Al" is the southern slang for "Tail, Tail" and the game consists of chasing the dog around the house in persuit of her tail. Yeah, she likes that about as much as I enjoy hearing the screaming. Part of me is enjoying the fact that they are leaving me alone AND the dog could use some exercise anyway. The second game "Jearz" is named so because they get on the rug and spin in circles until they fall down. In case you haven't picked up on it, "Jearz" is the sound a drill makes to a four-year-old. Pretty inventive if you ask me. Certainly, as with any little boy game, it gets violent. The eldest will throw his 45-pound-body like a projectile in the direct path of the littliest one. No warning, no consern for self-preservation. Nothing. He certainly has that 'watch this' mentality that will one day bite him. (Just hope I'm dead by then cause my "I told you so" would really annoy him.)

What Ever It Takes

So tonight I came to a realization. (This doesn't happen often, so work with me here.)

Some moms are just born nurturers and some are survivalists. I'll give you some examples.
.....

Nurturing mom: "Oh, Johnny! You fell! Are you okay? Did you get a boo-boo?! Here, let mommy kiss it!"

Survivalist mom: "Dude! You're bleeding all over the damn carpet! Hurry, get the carpet cleaner that mommy uses for cleaning up her wine!"

.....

Nurturing mom: "Sweetie, do you want to go play now while mommy fixes dinner?"

Survivalist mom: "Hey, you want nuggets again?"

.....

Nurturing mom: "Honey, it's time for bed. You have to get a good nights sleep so we can have plenty of fun tomorrow!"

Survivalist mom: "Listen kid. It's almost midnight. Get in bed now! Trust me, it's for your own safety..."

.....

Now, on a daily basis I find myself fluctuating between the two. On occasion, I have been both at the same time. But for the most part, I find success in a happy medium. You have to have enough of the loving side to get them to want to please you and a touch of the 'do it now' side to help them realize that if they don't...they'll regret it. However, I have friends that are on the drastic ends of both and their kids seem just fine.

So is a wet wipe bath really that bad???

Sleep when I'm dead...

If someone came up to me right now and said, "You. Go to bed." I would gladly ablige. No questions. No problems. So at what age does the pendulum swing and we go from udder torture to begging for a nap?! Cause I gotta tell ya, if these two 'chillins' don't starting going to bed when I say so, this blog is going to turn into something completely different!

Tonight, for example, I begged and pleaded all through dinner. I finally gave up when the peas started flying. (At some point one has to resolve themselves to picking battles wisely and I knew I was outnumbered. I had learned that similar to dogs, one is a pet and two is a pack.) I gave up and they knew it too. I tried to save a little face with the old mommy addage of "Well, that's all you're getting for dinner. You can go to bed hungry." But knew in my heart they were smirking at eachother behind my back. They always do...

Next came the bath struggle. Now I'm no super mom. (If you have read any of the above posts, you are already well aware of that fact.) However, I feel strongly that on certain occasions, a wet-wipe bath will serve as a suitable replacement to an all-out water fight in the bathroom. Tonight was one of those nights.

The bedtime struggle is always the best. 'Little Sprucey' never fights. He actually requests to go 'see his duckies' and is gone in a matter of minutes. Beaux on the other hand, is always a different story. He will come up with the most amazing excuses for not sleeping. Honestly, I am secretly proud of his tanacity. One night he actually put liquid hand soap on his tongue as an excuse to come down stairs. I was shocked, and worried at the same time. Of course, this IS coming from the kid who peed down the air conditioning vent to keep from taking naps. Guess I shouldn't be too shocked. I digress. So the soap thing has taught me one valuable lesson. Not only will he go to extremes, he has no fear. (That and I can always threaten to 'wash his mouth out with soap' and know I don't have to follow through with it!)

Tonight the first attempt was "I have to pee." Fortunatly, he has his own bathroom, so that was a pretty lame one. Next came the "I'm scared." Which I do believe as he's been having bad dreams lately...but you have to sleep to dream, so I sent him back to bed. Finally he got up the nerve to march himself downstairs and announce that his pants were inside out. That they were. I can invision him sitting in the bathroom floor trying to get them inside out just so he could come down and tell me... Tanacity. It's impressive. I fixed his pants, kissed him goodnight and sent him back upstairs. Good mommy. Didn't get upset. Didn't raise my voice. Just told him goodnight.

But I am pretty sure the 'thump' I just heard was him falling out of bed... He better have a broken bone.