Just stuff

I am still sick. I woke up a few days ago and didn't feel exactly like this anymore, and so I thought I was on the mend. And, in fact, I do think I am one my way to Wellsville. I finally swept my floors, although I almost bought a Roomba; yes, they were so bad I contemplated robotic intervention. I got the laundry done. I even made the 3 hour round trip drive to the bank (see, I am way too cheap a bastard to pay some dumb ass bank $50 to wire money into my account when I live all of 30 minutes from the American border. I'll do it myself, thank you very much). I was doing ok. Yes, my nose is still packed full of stuff the same color as this blog page, but what can I say? I like things to match. Yes, my tum has been upset all week, but I figured that had something to do with the packed nose and the post-nasal drip and a fairly strong gag reflex. But last night, oooooh last night, it all came crashing down. About 10:15 or so my stomach told me to take a flying leap and turned over several times. Now, I never, ever throw up. I have a stomach of steel plated steel. I can clean up puke, I can watch people bite the heads off praying mantises (which are an endangered species, people, and it's totally illegal to do it, but if you did, I could watch it just fine*). I only puke when I'm drunk and when I'm pregnant. Funny, one usually leads directly to the other and the both make me hack. Coincidence?

Anyway, I was not drunk and since I picked up one of these beauties**,



I know I most certainly am not playing host to any short people. But for some strange reason, right about 10:15 last night, I had to throw up. My kids have never actually seen me throw up before, and 2of3 sorta freaked out. Yes, honey, even moms throw up sometimes. And when they do, well, let's just say that Mr. Creosote ain't got nothing on me.

There's no point here. I thought I was better; I clearly am not. And now I'm totally afraid to eat. I'd rather listen to 7 hours of Kathy Griffin than throw up once.

On another note, I am thinking it might be time to change my email address. Unlike my incredible traveling blog here, I have had to same email address since the dawn of man. Which is fine, except that my email is the first 4 letter of my name and my boys names. Which is also fine, except it might be time to accept that I now have a third child and maybe start including her in some things, like my tattoos, or my jewelry, or my email address. And hell, the boys have their own email accounts now. Maybe I should just have one in my very own name? Maybe???

Maybe I'm not quite ready for that just yet. So I'll leave it up to you, dear readers. Do I get my own, shiny new email address or do I bank on the fact that I've got 3 good years before this kid can read and 7 or so before she gives a dingo's kidneys about email?

*Turns out, they're not. Bite away, dudes.

**Good lord, someone needs to post the chastity belt scene from Robin Hood, Men in Tights onto Youtube. They're ruining my blog vision!

Dear 3of3,

You suck.

Is there a particular reason you refuse to take a nap for me? Now, I know you'll nap for your daddy; no problems there at all. But your daddy isn't ever here and I am here all the damn time and you clearly hate me and will not take a nap and to that I say, "Dude, you suck."

Of course you'll nap for your daddy. Daddy doesn't run errands. Daddy plays Wii with you and is going to buy you a pony. Momma, however, has two birthday parties in the next 48 hours to shop for and, as you can tell from the last post, momma thought today was Wednesday when it is, in fact, quite solidly Thursday and will remain so for the whole rest of the day today. Momma missed a whole day and that means that we are running a little late for your nap, since your amazing, wonderful, superhero father left his wallet 30 miles from home last night and switched bank accounts and forgot to add me to the new one and that leaves us as a family unit with little choice but to drive daddy into work to get his wallet so we can buy presents for the entire band of neighborhood children, who all seem to have been born in the same 24 hour time span (God damn it I hope we don't live in the middle of some whacked-out cult), eating up a good hour-and-fifteen-minute chunk of our day, putting us home from the mall exactly 2 hours behind your preferred nap time, at least as your daddy sees it.

The thing here kid is that you napping for him and not me makes daddy a very smug man indeed, and gives him something to gloat about over the phone whilst I pull my hair out sobbing because a one-year-old has driven to the brink. See, honey, Momma is the domestic goddess, the sultan of suburbia, the baron of boo-boo-kissing and the to-bed-putter. Daddy looks hot in a tux. Those are our roles, darling, and you are screwing it all up.

So honey, it's time to take a nap for momma. Yesterday we tried nap after nap after nap and you ended up staying awake the whole day and screaming at me for a little more than 5 1/2 hours straight. My head hurts. Today you are going to scream at yourself until you go to sleep. Period*. Yes, you look very pretty in your new dress and oh my, those shoes are fabulous, but the lady at the Gap gave me a look I've never seen on an adult face before and I think that means your behavior could use some tweaking. Nap tweaking.

*Between you and me, kid, give it 30 minutes and I'll cave. I always do.

We'll call this one, "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta"

I think it's fairly obvious that Mr. Lady doesn't like pictures of Mr. Lady. Well, today, in the interest of stepping out of my own comfort zone, I would like to begin a new installment over here at my little blogedy-blog. Every Wednesday, no matter how much is pains me, I am going to post a picture of myself. Let's start with this one.....

I started with this one because, well, it's hilarious. It was also taken 17 years ago, almost to the day. That's my dad, my step mom, my brothers and my sisters. Please note the very very hot pants my brother is wearing. Interesting fact: my step mother is 29 years old in this picture. With four step children. Three of which are in their teens. Well into their teens. That poor, poor girl.


And if you so much as think about saying anything about my hair, I'll hurt you. I swear, I will.

It's all in the details

My daughter has a problem. A small, brown problem of Latin descent. Poor thing; She has a monkey on her back.

We have Dora backpacks, Dora potties (yes, we have TWO of them. She couldn't decide on one, and I am a big pushover). We have Dora panties, too, which make for lovely hats, we've discovered. 2of3 had this exact same obsession (not with the panties, just the Dora), and it lasted almost 6 years. So, on one hand, I'm totally used to it and already capable of tuning it out. On the other hand, I already endured 6 long years of this particular form of torture and don't know if I can take 6 more.

This week, I tried diversifying this kids' options. The results, I am happy to report, are much better than I could have ever expected.

The good news is that we have gone a whole week with no Dora, cold turkey, and she hasn't had the shakes or anything. The bad news is that we have watched Nemo 50 times in two days.

For those of you who have lived under a childless rock for 10 years, Finding Nemo is about a fish who loses his son and has to travel the ocean wide to find him. It is a story of how trauma affects us all differently, and the struggle to overcome our own personal demons, and how sometimes the only way to do that is with someone else. It's flippin' fantastic. I would dare say it is one of the best movies ever made. It's not just that it's pretty to watch, or a nice story, it's the small things, the little details, that make the difference. Someone really thought about this movie. Like the seagulls, who don't just squawk....
That's, by far, the baby's favorite part of the movie. The main characters are Marlin (the dad), Nemo (the son) and Dory.

Yes, Dory.

We have a Dora obsession coupled with a Dory obsession. Slap a one-year-old-bilingual-illiterate on top of that, and you have a frustrated mess.

The first thing out of this kid's mouth when she wakes up is, "Dory Nemo!" Sometimes she forgets, though, and just asks for Dory. That usually goes like this....

"Hiya, momma! Ni-night all done! Dory? Dora? D?..d?..dor?...Dory Nemo!"

The thing that amazes me is that she seems to get that she needs to differentiate between the two. When she wants Dora, she singing the theme song now. "Doo-dadoodoo-da-Dora, momma!"

You see? It's the small things, the little details, that make the difference.

Bedwetting

What do I know about bed-wetting? Almost nothing. Except that I know just enough to sound like an over-bearing-know-it-all and a total failure.

My mother was a bed-wetter until she was 13. She also suffered the sort of childhood abuses that Oprah would think twice about discussing, and I'm guessing those two things are in no way mutually exclusive.

My sister wet her bed until she was 8 or 9, but she had some serious genetic issues including, but not limited to, almost no leg function or ear function until she was past 4 years old, one oddly shaped kidney right where you and I have two, a good dose of mental retardation, and almost no structure at home. This one time she got up in the middle of the night to pee, walked into the hall by the bathroom, walked back into her room, dropped trou and pee'd* on the floor, pulled'm up, walked back into the hall by the potty, walked back into her room and climbed into bed. At 8 or 9, on vacation in Colorado, my dad found a pile of peepee sheets that I had been hiding from him over the course of a week and beat the crap out of her. She never pee'd her bed again.

I in no way agree with beating the bed-wetting out of a kid, for the record. It just happened. That's all I'm saying.

I have never been a bed-wetter. Well, except that there was that one time**......

Anyway, both of my boys have been bed-wetters. 1of3 did it until he was about 5, and I tried everything. I tried no drinks after 7, I tried making him wear his brother's Pampers. Nothing worked. Especially the diapers bit. When he started school, he just stopped.

I never got too worried about it; I mean, I double-mattress-pad their beds already (YOU spend a week in the hospital with your son, Captain Asthma, who can't breath almost at all and see how much you're willing to wrap in plastic after it). I have a washer. It's not the worst of my problems. I did some reading on it, and the consensus seems to be that some kids' bladders just don't grow with their bodies like some other kids' do, and it's not their fault, and there is almost nothing at all you can do about it but wait. And so, I let it go.

Because of that, it never even registered that 20f3 was still doing it. I've asked him (repeatedly) to tell me if he does so I can take care of it. but he makes his own bed every day, and I never think to check for it. Once a week I pull the sheets and wash them. They have 2 very good waterproof mattress pads that are apparently quite absorbent. And, honestly, I have just trained myself to ignore it. It's not on my radar. I thought for a while it might actually be over, but then...

But then I went away for a week and came home and instantly caught the goddamn plague, and so almost 3 weeks came and went without a sheet-change.

Sweet mother of Christ.

My 7 year old has NOT stopped wetting his bed. I think he may actually be going for a world record or something. It was bad enough that I had to go buy new pads for the beds. And perhaps new sheets. We'll see how a few days of baking soda soaks do.

The poor thing is absolutely humiliated by the whole thing, and if you've ever met him, you'll attest to the fact that humility isn't exactly one of his stronger points. He said he forgets to tell me in the morning. He says he tries to wake up at night but he can't. I know he goes potty before bed every night. I also know that he completely loses his shit if he doesn't drink 15 1/2 gallons of water every day. I also also know that if I come home from the store with overnight pants he will find amazingly creative ways to make both me and his therapist pay for it in his teens.

Rock? Meet hard place.

The fact of the matter is this: he is a bed-wetter. Period. I can't change it. All I can do is wait. But I also cannot live with stinky beds and so I think my plan of attack here is this:
  • We're cutting off the water at 7 again. This is going to make my life an absolute hell on earth. He is going to freak out in a largish way. But hell, I have an obsessive-compulsive one year old. I should be able to handle a water freak out.
  • We're buying an alarm clock and setting it for 2 am. It's going by my bed. 1of3 will shoot us both in the head with a bazooka if he has to wake up at 2 am so his brother can pee, so I am going to be the potty police. We've agreed that we are going to try & re-train his body to wake up.
  • We're both taking a little more responsibility for this. It is his job to tell me if he wet the bed, daily, and it is my job to make sure he has a clean bed, daily. He's going to check in the mornings; I'm going to double check for him.

I'm writing all of this because dear god in heaven I would love some input on the subject. This is one of those things where the best advice comes form moms and dads, not doctors and websites. Anyone? Bueller?

*How the hell does one spell peed?

**So, I'm 21, maybe just barely 22, and I'm living with Josh. We shared a house with 4 other guys and I had my own room and everything, but we were totally doing it and we weren't with anyone else, so I guess that means we were dating or something. He was at work and I was reading in his bed and I fell asleep. I woke up later, all cozy and warm, and almost fell right back to sleep when I realized that he still wasn't home. Weird. I stirred awake a little more and realized also that I was perhaps a little too cozy and warm. It took a few minutes to wake up enough to understand that the cozies and the warms were also accompanied by the moists. Yes-sir-ree-bob, I somehow managed to pee in my on-again, off-again, boyfriendish's bed. I didn't know where clean sheets were, or if there even were clean sheets. I totally panicked. And then I saw it, there on the bedside table. A barely touched, almost full beer. And I did what any self-respecting blond would do...I dumped that beer all over the wet spot on the bed and covered the whole thing with towels. See, I am a bit on the clumsy side and spilling beer? Well, that was right up my alley. Josh came home later, rolled his eyes at me, showed me where the clean sheets were, and that was that. And we never mentioned it again. A couple of weeks later, he asked me to marry him, and so I'm guessing I got away with it. And no, I never did tell him. There's a Post Secret for you.