So three little pirates just came up to the door. We answer the door and I ask, "Does anyone have any allergies? Because I have peanut free stuff in addition to all this chocolately stuff." The little brother, with a very sweet lisp says, "Yes. I'm allergic to smoke."
I'm telling you it was only the power of Jesus in me that kept me from laughing in the kid's face. "Well, you're in luck. We're not handing out any smoke tonight, so you can have some of everything."
Friday, October 31, 2008
Pocket Full of Kryptonite
The saddest Superman ever. But I think we're on the mend as he moved from Papa's chair to the couch (to be by me) and picked up a tractor on the way. 'Cause when you're watching The Sound of Music with your Mom and your bunny, you need a tractor to butch it up a bit.All George All the time
The second time your kid pukes on you, it is not funny.
By the third time, you're not even grossed out. You just look away, lean him over a surface that's easy to clean, and wait until he's done.
By the fourth time, you stop showering between pukes.
By the fifth time, and he's shaking, you call the doctor. At 4 am. And then you put on Curious George.
By the sixth time, the smell has left. It's nothing but Popsicle colored mucus coming up. And you want to cry, not because you are sorry for yourself, but because your child is green. And miserable. But, he is very cuddly. And you've mastered a position that keeps his head above his chest while you are laying on your side on the couch so you can sleep. Also by this time you wish there was an All George All the time TV station because you've already watched every Curious George you've TiVo'd and it also means that you have to fool with the remote every 30 minutes to load up another one. You also, by this time, tempt fate by trying to play a Veggietale and then Sid the Science Kid, only to find out that no, all we want is George.
By the seventh time, you are in the doctor's office. And you are being treated by a doctor dressed up as Snow White. And you haven't brought a change of clothes for yourself or your son. So you just stand there, with puke on your pajamas. And you take your son's PJ shirt off and just tell people he's being Bruce Lee for Halloween.
We haven't puked in 2 hours. He can only puke one more time in the next 8 hours or we have to go get IV fluids at the hospital. As it is right now, he is asleep in Papa's chair with Mr. Bunny, watching Curious George. I tried to turn the TV off, but he woke up. I have to give him 5 ccs of pedialyte every 15 minutes for 3 hours. Then 7 ccs. Then 10 ccs. If he can make it 8 hours, he can then have either 5 cheerios, 1 slice of banana, or 1 tsp of cooked rice or applesauce. Snow White also said he can have a lollipop or 2 because the sugar is good for nausea.
So pray for my boy. He is puny.
At least his Halloween costume is a pair of Superman pjs! And if he pukes on them, we have a spare--Batman pjs.
By the third time, you're not even grossed out. You just look away, lean him over a surface that's easy to clean, and wait until he's done.
By the fourth time, you stop showering between pukes.
By the fifth time, and he's shaking, you call the doctor. At 4 am. And then you put on Curious George.
By the sixth time, the smell has left. It's nothing but Popsicle colored mucus coming up. And you want to cry, not because you are sorry for yourself, but because your child is green. And miserable. But, he is very cuddly. And you've mastered a position that keeps his head above his chest while you are laying on your side on the couch so you can sleep. Also by this time you wish there was an All George All the time TV station because you've already watched every Curious George you've TiVo'd and it also means that you have to fool with the remote every 30 minutes to load up another one. You also, by this time, tempt fate by trying to play a Veggietale and then Sid the Science Kid, only to find out that no, all we want is George.
By the seventh time, you are in the doctor's office. And you are being treated by a doctor dressed up as Snow White. And you haven't brought a change of clothes for yourself or your son. So you just stand there, with puke on your pajamas. And you take your son's PJ shirt off and just tell people he's being Bruce Lee for Halloween.
We haven't puked in 2 hours. He can only puke one more time in the next 8 hours or we have to go get IV fluids at the hospital. As it is right now, he is asleep in Papa's chair with Mr. Bunny, watching Curious George. I tried to turn the TV off, but he woke up. I have to give him 5 ccs of pedialyte every 15 minutes for 3 hours. Then 7 ccs. Then 10 ccs. If he can make it 8 hours, he can then have either 5 cheerios, 1 slice of banana, or 1 tsp of cooked rice or applesauce. Snow White also said he can have a lollipop or 2 because the sugar is good for nausea.
So pray for my boy. He is puny.
At least his Halloween costume is a pair of Superman pjs! And if he pukes on them, we have a spare--Batman pjs.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Warning: Post Rated R for language, bodily humor, and partial nudity
Hmmm....in light of my last post, I wonder what that title is going to do. But I'm serious, you oughtta be sitting down and not drinking a latte for what I'm about to spill.
This afternoon, I got some cuddles. Which is odd, because the Pickle is not a cuddler. And he seemed overly juicy, that is to say he was drooling non-stop. I peeped in his mouth to see if he was cutting some new teeth, only to find the back of his throat white and splotchy and his breath rank. (No wonder he didn't want to split that 3 Muskateers bar with me!)
So we headed to the Dr's. Not strep and no trick or treating for us as we've got a fever. I'm horribly disappointed. Henry could care less as he'd just as soon eat sidewalk chalk, but I'm totally deflated. But I digress....
So I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to pick up some drinkable yogurts, Gatorade, and more Children's Motrin for H and then hit the Ukrop's salad bar for me. The following story is why I am now eating a Mango-Mushroom-Cole Slaw-Beef Lo Mein Garlic Expressions Vinaigrette Salad.
By the time we get home, Henry is asleep in his car seat. So I rush into the house, praying I can disrobe, re-diaper, and pajama the boy all without him waking up. I leave the groceries in the car, the car door open, and oh yeah, for good measure--I leave our front door wide open too. And I'm thinking this is okay because really, how long is this bed-timing going to take. 3 minutes?
Well. The pickle wakes up, and is just barely comatose. But still, huge tears are running down his cheeks. So I change the diaper, put on footy pajamas (so I don't have to worry about socks when we head to the airport in an hour to pick up Sloan), and decide to hit him up with a couple dropper fulls of Baby Tylenol to help his throat. In hindsight, I probably should've forgone the Tylenol. Or at least not given it to him while he was lying down.
So I pick him up and begin to sing "Jesus Loves Me." And then he starts to gag. I think, ugh, I'm going to get the Tylenol spit up all over me. Wrong. He pukes on me. And then screams. And then pukes again. And again. And again. And it is grosser than gross. Think of what vomit smells like. Now add the smell of Applewood Smoked Cheddar Cheese and this is what I have all over me. What I have on my face. In my underwear. On my shoes. All over the carpet in Henry's room. (Like his room didn't smell like poop already. Come on! Do they even make enough Fabreze?)
I'm covered in orange vomit. Henry is covered in orange vomit. (How seasonal.) And I don't know what to do. "Shit!" I mumble. "Shit. Shit. Damn it, Sloan. I need you!" Because I'm standing in a pool of vomit, holding Henry, waiting for the aftershocks and I can't decide what to do first--clean Henry or clean myself. I'm afraid to move because, oh yeah, I forgot to mention, there are chunks of the smoked cheddar and bits of what I'm assuming are Whole Grain Ritz cracker (because we are high dollar snackers here at the Phillips house), and I'm fearful that if I walk I'll drip. And then Henry goes and spews chunks again. Praise Jesus his missed his crib.
Option A: I clean myself up first. But this means putting Henry down, giving him the opportunity to toddle off, dripping and chunking all over the upstairs. Option B: Clean up Henry first and ignore the fact that the smoky goodness has started to pool in my sports bra. I chose option C: stripped us both down in Henry's bathroom and plop him down in the bath. I could wash up in the sink while he soaked.
In theory, this was the only option available to me. When I took off my sports bra, there was an audible splash on the floor. And there were bits of cheese just sitting there. Smelling smoky.
I start the tub and forget to turn on the cold, so I practically burn Henry, only noticing this because he climbs up my naked body to save himself.
Well, not completely naked. I'm wearing my socks and shoes.
So I turn on the cold and wait, praying he doesn't pee on me too because then I'll just cry. And I'm reminded of a blog entry I read where a Mom is worried about choking death on a Tootsie Roll while her husband is out of town. I thought she was just being funny, but really, I could accidentally die right now. And die naked. In the bathroom. Like Elvis or something.
And to make matters worse, as I put Henry in the tub, I realize I'm standing there in the buff, bent over, with the bathroom door wide open, and I can see out into the driveway. Through the front door.
Now I have to decide if I want to be robbed while I'm naked covered in vomit or if I want Henry to drown. Because I can't close the front door without leaving Henry unattended in the tub. I compromised by closing the door to Henry's bathroom. At least if I'm robbed the thieves don't have to see me and my son's birthday suits in all their dimpled glory. (Cute on Henry, me--not so much.)
I decide I can safely wash up in the sink in Henry's bathroom because I can see him in the mirror. Except, as I'm washing my face with Lavender Baby Wash, I noticed there are dime sized chunks of cheese in my hair. I start to gag. I'm going to have to take a shower. I notice there are also chunks of cheese and cracker floating in the tub. I gag again. It just smells so smokin' bad. I may never be horny again. Ugh.
I put Henry in a diaper, put him down in the hallway, pray he doesn't fall down the steps or find a puddle of vomit to play in. Instead he stands and screams bloody murder as I scurry around to find a robe, dash down the steps, grab the groceries (not paying attention to how I'm carrying them, making my salad bar items fall out of their compartments and blob together), toss said groceries in the kitchen, shut the car door (because I forgot the first time), and then shut the front door. None of this feels good when not wearing a bra. Especially when you have sticky, stinky boobs. Now you may never be horny again. Sorry.
But I got the pickle dressed again and put him to sleep. No more medicine. I'll see if he needs some Motrin when we get back from the airport. And I'll give it to him while he is sitting up.
Shockingly, (because you haven't been shocked already), Henry didn't scream or cry at all when I put him down in his crib. Just curled up with Mr. Bunny and shut his eyes.
I think he'd seen enough.
This afternoon, I got some cuddles. Which is odd, because the Pickle is not a cuddler. And he seemed overly juicy, that is to say he was drooling non-stop. I peeped in his mouth to see if he was cutting some new teeth, only to find the back of his throat white and splotchy and his breath rank. (No wonder he didn't want to split that 3 Muskateers bar with me!)
So we headed to the Dr's. Not strep and no trick or treating for us as we've got a fever. I'm horribly disappointed. Henry could care less as he'd just as soon eat sidewalk chalk, but I'm totally deflated. But I digress....
So I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to pick up some drinkable yogurts, Gatorade, and more Children's Motrin for H and then hit the Ukrop's salad bar for me. The following story is why I am now eating a Mango-Mushroom-Cole Slaw-Beef Lo Mein Garlic Expressions Vinaigrette Salad.
By the time we get home, Henry is asleep in his car seat. So I rush into the house, praying I can disrobe, re-diaper, and pajama the boy all without him waking up. I leave the groceries in the car, the car door open, and oh yeah, for good measure--I leave our front door wide open too. And I'm thinking this is okay because really, how long is this bed-timing going to take. 3 minutes?
Well. The pickle wakes up, and is just barely comatose. But still, huge tears are running down his cheeks. So I change the diaper, put on footy pajamas (so I don't have to worry about socks when we head to the airport in an hour to pick up Sloan), and decide to hit him up with a couple dropper fulls of Baby Tylenol to help his throat. In hindsight, I probably should've forgone the Tylenol. Or at least not given it to him while he was lying down.
So I pick him up and begin to sing "Jesus Loves Me." And then he starts to gag. I think, ugh, I'm going to get the Tylenol spit up all over me. Wrong. He pukes on me. And then screams. And then pukes again. And again. And again. And it is grosser than gross. Think of what vomit smells like. Now add the smell of Applewood Smoked Cheddar Cheese and this is what I have all over me. What I have on my face. In my underwear. On my shoes. All over the carpet in Henry's room. (Like his room didn't smell like poop already. Come on! Do they even make enough Fabreze?)
I'm covered in orange vomit. Henry is covered in orange vomit. (How seasonal.) And I don't know what to do. "Shit!" I mumble. "Shit. Shit. Damn it, Sloan. I need you!" Because I'm standing in a pool of vomit, holding Henry, waiting for the aftershocks and I can't decide what to do first--clean Henry or clean myself. I'm afraid to move because, oh yeah, I forgot to mention, there are chunks of the smoked cheddar and bits of what I'm assuming are Whole Grain Ritz cracker (because we are high dollar snackers here at the Phillips house), and I'm fearful that if I walk I'll drip. And then Henry goes and spews chunks again. Praise Jesus his missed his crib.
Option A: I clean myself up first. But this means putting Henry down, giving him the opportunity to toddle off, dripping and chunking all over the upstairs. Option B: Clean up Henry first and ignore the fact that the smoky goodness has started to pool in my sports bra. I chose option C: stripped us both down in Henry's bathroom and plop him down in the bath. I could wash up in the sink while he soaked.
In theory, this was the only option available to me. When I took off my sports bra, there was an audible splash on the floor. And there were bits of cheese just sitting there. Smelling smoky.
I start the tub and forget to turn on the cold, so I practically burn Henry, only noticing this because he climbs up my naked body to save himself.
Well, not completely naked. I'm wearing my socks and shoes.
So I turn on the cold and wait, praying he doesn't pee on me too because then I'll just cry. And I'm reminded of a blog entry I read where a Mom is worried about choking death on a Tootsie Roll while her husband is out of town. I thought she was just being funny, but really, I could accidentally die right now. And die naked. In the bathroom. Like Elvis or something.
And to make matters worse, as I put Henry in the tub, I realize I'm standing there in the buff, bent over, with the bathroom door wide open, and I can see out into the driveway. Through the front door.
Now I have to decide if I want to be robbed while I'm naked covered in vomit or if I want Henry to drown. Because I can't close the front door without leaving Henry unattended in the tub. I compromised by closing the door to Henry's bathroom. At least if I'm robbed the thieves don't have to see me and my son's birthday suits in all their dimpled glory. (Cute on Henry, me--not so much.)
I decide I can safely wash up in the sink in Henry's bathroom because I can see him in the mirror. Except, as I'm washing my face with Lavender Baby Wash, I noticed there are dime sized chunks of cheese in my hair. I start to gag. I'm going to have to take a shower. I notice there are also chunks of cheese and cracker floating in the tub. I gag again. It just smells so smokin' bad. I may never be horny again. Ugh.
I put Henry in a diaper, put him down in the hallway, pray he doesn't fall down the steps or find a puddle of vomit to play in. Instead he stands and screams bloody murder as I scurry around to find a robe, dash down the steps, grab the groceries (not paying attention to how I'm carrying them, making my salad bar items fall out of their compartments and blob together), toss said groceries in the kitchen, shut the car door (because I forgot the first time), and then shut the front door. None of this feels good when not wearing a bra. Especially when you have sticky, stinky boobs. Now you may never be horny again. Sorry.
But I got the pickle dressed again and put him to sleep. No more medicine. I'll see if he needs some Motrin when we get back from the airport. And I'll give it to him while he is sitting up.
Shockingly, (because you haven't been shocked already), Henry didn't scream or cry at all when I put him down in his crib. Just curled up with Mr. Bunny and shut his eyes.
I think he'd seen enough.
Who you are
I've been thinking a lot about friends lately. Who mine are, how I found them, how I love them, etc. etc. Expect a post about this in the near future as I'm tossing a few ideas around. But connected to these ideas of how we make friends in the 21st century is this blog. And your part in it.
You see, I've got this little sitemeter on my blog that tells me when people are on the blog, where they are viewing the blog from, how they found the blog and the like. If this seems a little too big brother to you, recognize I'm only tracking my readers so that I can feel popular. Think of a hit as a signature in a high school year book. And well, it seems I'm getting more popular by the day. This week I've gotten 920 signatures. But I think a lot of the signatures are repeats.
I used to complain to Sloan that I had no friends. Well, I've got peeps now. I don't really know who they are--but they're there.
Or it could just be me, as I check my own blog often. (I liken this phenomena to a similar fete in the ridiculous--opening the refrigerator in hopes something new has arrived without our having shopped for it.) But using my signature metaphor, I kind of feel like a loser. Can you imagine signing your own year book over and over? Geesh.
So who are you? IF YOU COMMENTED MORE OFTEN I WOULD KNOW WHO YOU ARE. (HINT HINT!!!!) All I have to go on is your location, your referral page and/or your entry link .
I'm guessing here---- Huntsville, AL--My niece, J. Or is it you, K? I thought you were in Birmingham. Brooklyn--Hiya A. Hope the Big Apple is treating you and B. well. Huntersville, NC--hello JSC. Hopefully you won't find out about the gestation diabetes until after Halloween. Stuff your face with as much candy as you can get just in case. Greenville, SC--what up MD? Tell W that Henry says hello. We miss the double named duo. Denver--hello LK. So proud you are training for a marathon. I'm training for a 5K. (Yeah, I know--people don't really train for those things.) Delaware--hey J. SOOOOO looking forward to your wedding. Sydney, Australia--is that you, Mel? Mount Laurel, NJ--Do you work for AFR? Greensboro, NC--my hometown. Could it be my parents? Do they know how to work this interweb thing?
But the following locations baffle me--Winston-Salem, NC, Macon, GA, the ATL, St. Paul, MN, Minneapolis, Topeka, Kissimee,FL, Rock Hill, SC, Dallas, Brookings, SD, St. Petersburg, FL, Bessemer, AL, Sierra Vista, AZ, Ada, OH, Durham, NC, Indianapolis, Wichita, Summerville, SC, St Albans, WV, Stuart, FL, Salt Lake City, and Dunlap, TN. My favorite was Harvest, AL. And did you know there was a Liverpool, NY?
And I'm international. I've got regular readers in Canada, Lebanon, Germany, the UK, Ireland, Spain, and India. WHAT?!
And because sitemeter also tells me how you got to my page....A huge shout out to the best Kickapoo Princess ever for my Texas contingency. You are so getting a margarita from me the next time I'm in Austin. (And by next time, I mean the first time.) And shout out to the Lillster's buddy Nate who has posted a link to me as well.
And the google look-ups are hilarious--people meandered over here by typing in the following--"pastel de carne", "batman pumpkin pattern", "How much did Jesus weigh at birth?" (how that gets you to me, I have no idea), "blisters on my fingers", and my favorite, "do not tell my husband".
And seriously, could the person who keeps looking up the photo of my son on my Crappy Day post please stop? You are ruining the blogging experience from everyone and making me think that maybe I should stop doing this.
And some of you found me from my Facebook page. I hit 300 friends yesterday. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. But really, if you aren't my FB friend yet, you should be. FB doesn't allow me to befriend myself the way sitemeter does. So I feel that facebook is a more accurate measure of my worth.
I mean-- I AM kind of a big deal. People know me.
You see, I've got this little sitemeter on my blog that tells me when people are on the blog, where they are viewing the blog from, how they found the blog and the like. If this seems a little too big brother to you, recognize I'm only tracking my readers so that I can feel popular. Think of a hit as a signature in a high school year book. And well, it seems I'm getting more popular by the day. This week I've gotten 920 signatures. But I think a lot of the signatures are repeats.
I used to complain to Sloan that I had no friends. Well, I've got peeps now. I don't really know who they are--but they're there.
Or it could just be me, as I check my own blog often. (I liken this phenomena to a similar fete in the ridiculous--opening the refrigerator in hopes something new has arrived without our having shopped for it.) But using my signature metaphor, I kind of feel like a loser. Can you imagine signing your own year book over and over? Geesh.
So who are you? IF YOU COMMENTED MORE OFTEN I WOULD KNOW WHO YOU ARE. (HINT HINT!!!!) All I have to go on is your location, your referral page and/or your entry link .
I'm guessing here---- Huntsville, AL--My niece, J. Or is it you, K? I thought you were in Birmingham. Brooklyn--Hiya A. Hope the Big Apple is treating you and B. well. Huntersville, NC--hello JSC. Hopefully you won't find out about the gestation diabetes until after Halloween. Stuff your face with as much candy as you can get just in case. Greenville, SC--what up MD? Tell W that Henry says hello. We miss the double named duo. Denver--hello LK. So proud you are training for a marathon. I'm training for a 5K. (Yeah, I know--people don't really train for those things.) Delaware--hey J. SOOOOO looking forward to your wedding. Sydney, Australia--is that you, Mel? Mount Laurel, NJ--Do you work for AFR? Greensboro, NC--my hometown. Could it be my parents? Do they know how to work this interweb thing?
But the following locations baffle me--Winston-Salem, NC, Macon, GA, the ATL, St. Paul, MN, Minneapolis, Topeka, Kissimee,FL, Rock Hill, SC, Dallas, Brookings, SD, St. Petersburg, FL, Bessemer, AL, Sierra Vista, AZ, Ada, OH, Durham, NC, Indianapolis, Wichita, Summerville, SC, St Albans, WV, Stuart, FL, Salt Lake City, and Dunlap, TN. My favorite was Harvest, AL. And did you know there was a Liverpool, NY?
And I'm international. I've got regular readers in Canada, Lebanon, Germany, the UK, Ireland, Spain, and India. WHAT?!
And because sitemeter also tells me how you got to my page....A huge shout out to the best Kickapoo Princess ever for my Texas contingency. You are so getting a margarita from me the next time I'm in Austin. (And by next time, I mean the first time.) And shout out to the Lillster's buddy Nate who has posted a link to me as well.
And the google look-ups are hilarious--people meandered over here by typing in the following--"pastel de carne", "batman pumpkin pattern", "How much did Jesus weigh at birth?" (how that gets you to me, I have no idea), "blisters on my fingers", and my favorite, "do not tell my husband".
And seriously, could the person who keeps looking up the photo of my son on my Crappy Day post please stop? You are ruining the blogging experience from everyone and making me think that maybe I should stop doing this.
And some of you found me from my Facebook page. I hit 300 friends yesterday. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. But really, if you aren't my FB friend yet, you should be. FB doesn't allow me to befriend myself the way sitemeter does. So I feel that facebook is a more accurate measure of my worth.
I mean-- I AM kind of a big deal. People know me.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
You've got one month...
Oh yeah-- you've got one month to find me that perfect birthday gift. I'm registered at Merry Maids and the Maid Brigade.
Daddy come home
We're on day three of Sloan's trip to Orlando for his new job with CHEP. And while I like to remind myself that I may never be the perfect Mommy but that out of all the mommies in the world God chose me for Henry so that's got to say something, but seriously, I'm a horrible single parent. Sunday night, by about 6pm, with Sloan having only been gone around 5 hours--I was done. So we did the great time killing bath. And then I put Henry to bed. At 6:45.
Yesterday, I let him just eat Cheddar Soy Crisps for lunch because I was too tired to care that he didn't touch his turkey or apple slices. (But hey, soy crisps have both protein and fiber and isn't that what the turkey and apples were for anyway?)
I've also started using drinkable yogurts mixed with milk as viable snack options.
Upon discovering that it wasn't that poopy of a diaper, I performed a poopy extraction rather than changing his diaper.
He's watched 2 Veggietales, 3 Curious George episodes, and Sesame Street. I rationalize this as being okay because during Veggietales and Sesame Street he only stops playing to watch them sing. And Veggietales is about God and Sesame Street is about letters and I want him to love both of those things. It's only during Curious George that he stops, climbs up in Sloan's chair with his cell phone, and watches the TV. And he thinks George, Hundley, Bill and the gang are a hoot. The TV is an effective parenting tool, right?
He went over to Nathan's house last night to hang out so I could go out to dinner with a friend.
I almost stopped at McDonald's tonight on the way home from the gym for a Nugget Happy meal, but decided to come home instead so he could have a "healthy" dinner. He ate an entire can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, a cup of green beans, 6 Ritz crackers, and a frozen Gogurt. Chef Boyardee is healthy right?
However....I have done 6 loads of laundry, painted Sloan's new home office (and the ceiling too), hung blinds and curtains in said office, and begun setting up my new sewing room (since Sloan took over my cute pink room) in Henry's future big boy playroom (aka the finished attic where things get dumped when I'm too lazy to figure out where things should go). And I'm about eight pages away from finishing Lee Smith's The Last Girls.
All's I'm saying is that Sloan better never die cause I make a lousy single Mom.
Yesterday, I let him just eat Cheddar Soy Crisps for lunch because I was too tired to care that he didn't touch his turkey or apple slices. (But hey, soy crisps have both protein and fiber and isn't that what the turkey and apples were for anyway?)
I've also started using drinkable yogurts mixed with milk as viable snack options.
Upon discovering that it wasn't that poopy of a diaper, I performed a poopy extraction rather than changing his diaper.
He's watched 2 Veggietales, 3 Curious George episodes, and Sesame Street. I rationalize this as being okay because during Veggietales and Sesame Street he only stops playing to watch them sing. And Veggietales is about God and Sesame Street is about letters and I want him to love both of those things. It's only during Curious George that he stops, climbs up in Sloan's chair with his cell phone, and watches the TV. And he thinks George, Hundley, Bill and the gang are a hoot. The TV is an effective parenting tool, right?
He went over to Nathan's house last night to hang out so I could go out to dinner with a friend.
I almost stopped at McDonald's tonight on the way home from the gym for a Nugget Happy meal, but decided to come home instead so he could have a "healthy" dinner. He ate an entire can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, a cup of green beans, 6 Ritz crackers, and a frozen Gogurt. Chef Boyardee is healthy right?
However....I have done 6 loads of laundry, painted Sloan's new home office (and the ceiling too), hung blinds and curtains in said office, and begun setting up my new sewing room (since Sloan took over my cute pink room) in Henry's future big boy playroom (aka the finished attic where things get dumped when I'm too lazy to figure out where things should go). And I'm about eight pages away from finishing Lee Smith's The Last Girls.
All's I'm saying is that Sloan better never die cause I make a lousy single Mom.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Book of Awesome
Saturday we set out to carve our Methodist pumpkins. I was certain Henry would be totally into it. Pulling out the gooey insides. Squishing the pumpkin pulp. But apparently, Henry did not get this memo. 
Mom, I'm still not getting why you put this yucky stuff at my place if I'm not allowed to eat it. It smells pretty good--but it is kind of yucky.
Mom, I'm still not getting why you put this yucky stuff at my place if I'm not allowed to eat it. It smells pretty good--but it is kind of yucky. 
So I'm just going to return some voicemails and shoot out a few text messages while you and Daddy carve these things up. Let me know when you need me.
Great Mom. An H. That's my name don't wear it out. I can't believe you made me put my phone down just so you could take a picture of me with the pumpkin.
And Holy Cow, woman! Why did you turn off the lights and take away my phone. And you won't even let me touch the candle. AAAAAUGH! (Sorry for the grainy photo, I had to "auto correct" it a lot so you could see the pickle's dismay at his cell phone being taken away.)So while Henry was not into the pumpkin carving process, Sloan made up for it in spades. He decided to carve a batman symbol. (Pattern courtesy of Mommy's time spent teaching PreK to a bunch of boys and her awesome Batman coloring skills.) While carving it, Sloan kept saying, "I'm serious. This may just be the best pumpkin ever. Just look at it. Are you freaking kidding me?" But post carving it, Sloan decided to tidy up the inside a bit (despite my warnings of damaging the bat) and broke off part of the upper wing. I almost cried. Seriously. I think if it had been my pumpkin, I would've. Right before I made us go to Wal-Mart to get a pumpkin to replace it. But Sloan just grab some toothpicks and patched it up. But he wasn't as excited about it. I said, "Are you sure you're alright about the pumpkin?" "Yeah," he said. "There hasn't been a perfectly carved pumpkin since Jesus carved pumpkins. And then all he had to do was just stare the pumpkin down and then BAM! it was carved. You know that's where Emeril gets the Bam from right. It's from Jesus carving pumpkins."
I didn't quite know what to say. He wasn't laughing at all when he said this. He didn't even look up from his pumpkin-toothpickectomy. "Where exactly in the Bible is this pumpkin carving incident?" (I was expecting him to say, "Duh! In the Book of Awesome.") Instead, he said, "Well, if you don't know I think you should just read the Bible again. It's obviously in the New Testament!"
Sloan's awesome pumpkin.
The Phillips pumpkin patch. (Notice my boring smiley face pumpkin in the middle.)
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Mmm....Blue
FYI...Henry's favorite color of sidewalk chalk to eat is blue.
Henry helped me do some interval training today. For starters, while pushing 50-odd pounds of toddler in a double stroller around Henry's BFF Nathan's neighborhood, Henry kept tossing his matchbox car out of the stroller. And usually when we were cresting a hill. So I'd have to put the brakes on the stroller and then sprint for the convertible PT Cruiser. Then this afternoon, while Sloan was blowing about 3000 pounds of acorns off our driveway and I was raking leaves, Henry kept tottering down the driveway, heading for Smoketree drive. So I'd have to drop the rake and sprint to save my son from the road. And sprinting while you are having a heart attack because school has just let out and there are buses and teenagers leaving high school is a workout. He also thought it was so funny that Mommy was chasing him while she and Daddy were yelling, "No! Stop! Henry this way!" But God was good and had him trip on an acorn and face plant into the driveway, bloodying his nose a bit, but at least now he doesn't run when Mommy sprints towards him.
And you seem to be making some sort of pile here, Mommy. Will it help you if I pick up all these leaves and throw them in the air? They don't really taste good. I tried a couple and they just don't hold a candle to blue sidewalk chalk.
Mommy, did you really think if you buried me in a pile of leaves I wouldn't find my way out and try for the road again? Silly Mommy!Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Great (Methodist) Pumpkin
We had thought about taking Henry to the Chesterfield Berry Farm to get a pumpkin so he could do the corn maze, ride a pony, and have a hay ride. It's $40 a person. So we set out to find something a little more "current economic situation" friendly. And as I was looking around, I realized that it is only the Methodist churches that have pumpkin patches. When I was a kid, it was Centenary Methodist Church. For Henry, it was Huguenot Methodist. Do the Methodists control some sort of pumpkin racket? Are there no Baptist Pumpkins--easy for dunking? Presbyterian Pumpkins--or have they already been chosen? And, while we're thinking about this--are pumpkins always Christian? Couldn't there be Jewish pumpkins? (Well, I guess Halloween did start off as a Christian holiday. So maybe not.)
Henry surveys the patch.
Daddy tries to explain to Henry that this pretty much a perfect pumpkin, but Mommy is a bit touched in the head, so we have to get three and they have to coordinate nicely together. She's making some sort of Jack-O-Lantern arrangement.
Woo Hoo! Henry loves being able to scream at the top of his lungs without being told to use his "inside voice."
Henry loves the little pumpkins.
Hey Mommy, I was wondering, why are pumpkins always Methodists? We'll have to take them home and carve them up--you know, Reform them a bit. Then they'll be Presbyterian.
Henry surveys the patch.
Daddy tries to explain to Henry that this pretty much a perfect pumpkin, but Mommy is a bit touched in the head, so we have to get three and they have to coordinate nicely together. She's making some sort of Jack-O-Lantern arrangement.
Woo Hoo! Henry loves being able to scream at the top of his lungs without being told to use his "inside voice."
Henry loves the little pumpkins.
Hey Mommy, I was wondering, why are pumpkins always Methodists? We'll have to take them home and carve them up--you know, Reform them a bit. Then they'll be Presbyterian.Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Gearing it up one level
I took my first spin class this morning. Despite my expectations, I did not die. I thought about it, but, quite frankly, I didn't have the energy to do it.
Spinning is very similar to having a baby. You can't feel your legs. You keep pushing because someone tells you. There is a lot of counting involved. You have to be remided to breathe. Being hooked up to fluids would've been helpful as I've had a dehydration headache all afternoon. And you just keep praying nothing rips "down there." And the soreness in your hoo-ha lasts.
And lasts. And I even borrowed one of the gym's gel seats. There were people in the class without gel seats and I'm quite certain they have crotches of steel.
About 5 minutes into the class, I wanted to die. And all we'd done was warm up. I was certain that I wouldn't make it another 45 minutes. Beth, the instructor, tells us that there are five ways to climb this hill and we're going to do all 5. I'm confused, because I see no hill. And also we have to keep tabs on our cadence so we're going to count for 15 seconds. She tells us to be somewhere between 20 and 27 for fifteen seconds. But that we'll thank her later if we are between 20 and 24. I shocked myself by being 24 at my first cadence check. But then we "geared up one level" (aka cranked up the resistance knob) and after 2 minutes--more counting. Down to 22. Apparently, I was supposed to "commit" to that number and stick with the pace, despite the fact that I was going to "gear up" 4 more times. By that 5th hill, I was pleased to still be peddling at all and registered an 18. Oh well. My hoo-ha hurt to much to peddle any faster. And I was busy concentrating on breathing, the sweat pouring off my body, and trying to peddle with my feet parallel with the floor. I did not do a good job with the parallel thing because my toes kept going numb. And oh yeah, after class did we mind signing a release form because the gym's photographer showed up to take pictures for next season's brochure. Awesome. I'll be the sweaty one trying not to die in the back.
And sometimes I got confused about the handlebars. When you are 'running with resistance' or 'jumping' or 'really getting at that hill' you are standing up. This is great because it gives your hoo-ha a break. But apparently, you are not supposed to be using the handlebars as a fulcrum to take weight off your jello jiggly legs. Beth reminds us our hands our for balance and asks us to raise them up to check to make sure we weren't cheating. Mmmm, yeah, not so much. I could do the jumping without shifting my weight, but that was about it. (Jumping is just standing up, peddling a few times and then sitting back down. And oh yeah--sitting down is getting "back in the saddle.") And don't even get me started with the darn toe clip thingys that popped off half-way up a hill. I had to readjust them and I almost fell off the darn bike.
But all in all--I'm pretty proud of myself. I'm going to start "spinning" every Wednesday during the morning class. I may even get my own gel seat. Or some of those fancy shoes some of the others were wearing. (I just love it when sports have their own cute shoes!)
Spinning is very similar to having a baby. You can't feel your legs. You keep pushing because someone tells you. There is a lot of counting involved. You have to be remided to breathe. Being hooked up to fluids would've been helpful as I've had a dehydration headache all afternoon. And you just keep praying nothing rips "down there." And the soreness in your hoo-ha lasts.
And lasts. And I even borrowed one of the gym's gel seats. There were people in the class without gel seats and I'm quite certain they have crotches of steel.
About 5 minutes into the class, I wanted to die. And all we'd done was warm up. I was certain that I wouldn't make it another 45 minutes. Beth, the instructor, tells us that there are five ways to climb this hill and we're going to do all 5. I'm confused, because I see no hill. And also we have to keep tabs on our cadence so we're going to count for 15 seconds. She tells us to be somewhere between 20 and 27 for fifteen seconds. But that we'll thank her later if we are between 20 and 24. I shocked myself by being 24 at my first cadence check. But then we "geared up one level" (aka cranked up the resistance knob) and after 2 minutes--more counting. Down to 22. Apparently, I was supposed to "commit" to that number and stick with the pace, despite the fact that I was going to "gear up" 4 more times. By that 5th hill, I was pleased to still be peddling at all and registered an 18. Oh well. My hoo-ha hurt to much to peddle any faster. And I was busy concentrating on breathing, the sweat pouring off my body, and trying to peddle with my feet parallel with the floor. I did not do a good job with the parallel thing because my toes kept going numb. And oh yeah, after class did we mind signing a release form because the gym's photographer showed up to take pictures for next season's brochure. Awesome. I'll be the sweaty one trying not to die in the back.
And sometimes I got confused about the handlebars. When you are 'running with resistance' or 'jumping' or 'really getting at that hill' you are standing up. This is great because it gives your hoo-ha a break. But apparently, you are not supposed to be using the handlebars as a fulcrum to take weight off your jello jiggly legs. Beth reminds us our hands our for balance and asks us to raise them up to check to make sure we weren't cheating. Mmmm, yeah, not so much. I could do the jumping without shifting my weight, but that was about it. (Jumping is just standing up, peddling a few times and then sitting back down. And oh yeah--sitting down is getting "back in the saddle.") And don't even get me started with the darn toe clip thingys that popped off half-way up a hill. I had to readjust them and I almost fell off the darn bike.
But all in all--I'm pretty proud of myself. I'm going to start "spinning" every Wednesday during the morning class. I may even get my own gel seat. Or some of those fancy shoes some of the others were wearing. (I just love it when sports have their own cute shoes!)
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Lessons Learned at a Yard Sale
Friday night parades. Saturday morning yard sales. Does it get any more Norman Rockwell's America than this? Geesh, I live a charmed life. Or maybe I'm just easy to please. (Somewhere my husband is choking as he reads this.)
This morning I woke up at o'dark early and headed over to the house of Henry's BFF, Nathan, for the yard sale. RP is an expert yard saler, so I decided to hitch my yard sale virgin self to her wagon. I'd labeled everything and was setting it out by 6am. The things I'll do for cash. So here are the things I've learned---
1. Some people are weird. Like the old guy who approached Sloan and said, "So I'll tell you who I'm not voting for..." Sloan looked at me as if to say, "Was I in the middle of a conversation with him without knowing it?"
2. At least three people will come to your yard sale looking for guns. Am I the only one that is shocked by this?
3. Yard Sale Strategy. There are two types of yard salers--the early birds and the buzzards. The early birds come buy at 6:58am when you clearly stated on the signs the sale begins at 7. And half of your stuff is still in boxes. They are looking to purchase one of the four non-crap items that every yard sale is bound to have--furniture, yard equipment, children's items, or maybe some type of home item. And they want to purchase said non-crap item for rock bottom prices. To these people I say there is no way I'm selling my wooden mantle to you for just $10. You're the first person to show up. Be a buzzard. These are the people that come at the end of the yard sale and are frustrated that you've already sold that commercial air sweeper. But these buzzards, while they may not get the nice duvet cover, the red keens, or the oriental rug, they know a little secret... (see below)
4. By the end of the yard sale, I was willing to pay someone just to clean up and take the crap that didn't sell to Goodwill for me. Seriously, I kept saying, "Ugh, why didn't I sell that mantle for $10" as I did the "Goodwill or Craigslist" sort.
5. That thing you thought no one would buy will sell and your really great non-crap item won't. Mine were a box of plastic floral arranging dishes, which sold for a dollar and a pair of Pottery Barn Silk Striped drapery panels which didn't sell for $20 for the pair. I just couldn't part with them for $5 like everyone kept offering me. So if you want them, check Craigslist.
But all in all, we made over $60, had some fun with our friends, and also are going to get a tax write off for the rest of it we donated to Goodwill. We're planning on doing it again at our house next Spring, so if you've got any crap you'd like to donate to the cause (my wallet being the cause)--bring it on over.
This morning I woke up at o'dark early and headed over to the house of Henry's BFF, Nathan, for the yard sale. RP is an expert yard saler, so I decided to hitch my yard sale virgin self to her wagon. I'd labeled everything and was setting it out by 6am. The things I'll do for cash. So here are the things I've learned---
1. Some people are weird. Like the old guy who approached Sloan and said, "So I'll tell you who I'm not voting for..." Sloan looked at me as if to say, "Was I in the middle of a conversation with him without knowing it?"
2. At least three people will come to your yard sale looking for guns. Am I the only one that is shocked by this?
3. Yard Sale Strategy. There are two types of yard salers--the early birds and the buzzards. The early birds come buy at 6:58am when you clearly stated on the signs the sale begins at 7. And half of your stuff is still in boxes. They are looking to purchase one of the four non-crap items that every yard sale is bound to have--furniture, yard equipment, children's items, or maybe some type of home item. And they want to purchase said non-crap item for rock bottom prices. To these people I say there is no way I'm selling my wooden mantle to you for just $10. You're the first person to show up. Be a buzzard. These are the people that come at the end of the yard sale and are frustrated that you've already sold that commercial air sweeper. But these buzzards, while they may not get the nice duvet cover, the red keens, or the oriental rug, they know a little secret... (see below)
4. By the end of the yard sale, I was willing to pay someone just to clean up and take the crap that didn't sell to Goodwill for me. Seriously, I kept saying, "Ugh, why didn't I sell that mantle for $10" as I did the "Goodwill or Craigslist" sort.
5. That thing you thought no one would buy will sell and your really great non-crap item won't. Mine were a box of plastic floral arranging dishes, which sold for a dollar and a pair of Pottery Barn Silk Striped drapery panels which didn't sell for $20 for the pair. I just couldn't part with them for $5 like everyone kept offering me. So if you want them, check Craigslist.
But all in all, we made over $60, had some fun with our friends, and also are going to get a tax write off for the rest of it we donated to Goodwill. We're planning on doing it again at our house next Spring, so if you've got any crap you'd like to donate to the cause (my wallet being the cause)--bring it on over.
Friday, October 10, 2008
I love a parade
So around 5:30 tonight I'm putting stuff in my car for a yard sale tomorrow at a friend's house and I see all of these people in our yard, cars lining our street, and people with kids and strollers and teenagers with their faces painted lining Smoketree Drive. Confused, I walked back into the house and said to Sloan, "turn off the grill. We're going outside. I think there is gonna be a parade or something." I definitely felt like I was in some sort of social experiment. Get a couple of people to stand outside and stare at the road and see if others would followed. I followed.
What a taste of America, people! For someone who grew up on a golf course and went to a school that didn't even have a football team, this was incredible. Like I'd died and gone to heaven. A high school parade, complete with floats, a marching band, and teens throwing candy. It was pretty awesome. Add this to one of the many reasons I LOVE MY NEIGHBORHOOD.
GO MONACAN CHIEFS! BEAT THE HUGUENOT FALCONS!!!
Henry watches the approaching marching band that we've been hearing practice every afternoon for the past couple of weeks. The neighbor's kid obviously thinks its a bit loud.
A high school marching band. I really wanted to clap along with them, but no one else was doing it and Sloan would've made fun of me.
Thanks to Nic Cannon, I love that drum line!
I swear--I thought parades like this only existed in Kevin Williamson movies. And Texas.
There were loads of floats. It was fun trying to guess the club. The artsy one depicting the 7 deadly sins--drama club. The truck with the awkward kids trying to look cool--glee club. The one with all the mythical gods--has to be Latin Club. The one with sombreros--Spanish club. The one with the kids hollering, with a giant sign reading "Monacan Maniacs!"--pep club.
Henry wonders where all the people with the candy are going. Too bad we didn't let him eat any of the bucket full of candy we got before going to dinner. Sloan and I need to check and make sure that none of the candy is poison. I'm on chocolate duty. The things I do for my son...
What a taste of America, people! For someone who grew up on a golf course and went to a school that didn't even have a football team, this was incredible. Like I'd died and gone to heaven. A high school parade, complete with floats, a marching band, and teens throwing candy. It was pretty awesome. Add this to one of the many reasons I LOVE MY NEIGHBORHOOD.
GO MONACAN CHIEFS! BEAT THE HUGUENOT FALCONS!!!
Henry watches the approaching marching band that we've been hearing practice every afternoon for the past couple of weeks. The neighbor's kid obviously thinks its a bit loud.
A high school marching band. I really wanted to clap along with them, but no one else was doing it and Sloan would've made fun of me.
Thanks to Nic Cannon, I love that drum line!
I swear--I thought parades like this only existed in Kevin Williamson movies. And Texas.
There were loads of floats. It was fun trying to guess the club. The artsy one depicting the 7 deadly sins--drama club. The truck with the awkward kids trying to look cool--glee club. The one with all the mythical gods--has to be Latin Club. The one with sombreros--Spanish club. The one with the kids hollering, with a giant sign reading "Monacan Maniacs!"--pep club.Henry wonders where all the people with the candy are going. Too bad we didn't let him eat any of the bucket full of candy we got before going to dinner. Sloan and I need to check and make sure that none of the candy is poison. I'm on chocolate duty. The things I do for my son...Saturday, October 4, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
EARMUFFS!!!
This is what my happens when I leave the boys alone for an afternoon by themselves. His father teaches him the most useful things.
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