Movement(s)

There have been some movement(s) in the Phillips’ house in the past week.

Primarily, we had some progression in our home study.  We had our home visit last week.  This week we have three more interviews.  Tomorrow, I get to “dig deep” into the traumas of my formative years.  Sloan “digs deep” Friday morning, and then we get to discuss our marriage in depth Friday noon.

So that should be fun.  

Pray for me.  I understand the whys as to why our case worker wants to discuss it, but I’m so over it that I'm afraid I’ll be blasé about it.  Or that I’ll spend two hours bubble snot crying.  I sent our case worker several blog posts (like this one and this one) that I’ve written about the issue in hopes to head her off at the pass, so to speak. 

Secondly, we’ve had some progression in the potty training of Gracie.  We decided to sort of half-heart it for now until Spring Break so that I’m not constantly washing the car seat.  We want to just put her in panties and not look back.  But Gracie did not get this memo.

It was the afternoon before our home visit.  I has spent the day furiously straightening, dusting, mopping, and vacuuming—regretting not getting our cleaning lady to come on her off week.   

I was walking in the living room when…squish.  I had stepped in a heaping pile of warm poo.  In my house.  You know, in my pet free house.  Then there was a brown blur running the lap that is our kitchen, living and dining rooms chanting, “Stinky poopy!  I naked and I stinky poopy!  POOPY!”

I was dumbfounded.  I didn’t really know what to do.  I was not prepared to deal with human excrement on my living room hardwoods and then pittered pattered poopy footprints across my sisal rug.  Also, let it also be known that my FitFlops are heretofore labeled my “$h!tFlops”.  Had they not been black patent leather and the only flops I can wear with my plantar fasciitis, they would’ve heretofore been called trash.

The next day, about 5 minutes after our case worker left our house, Gracie pooped on the kitchen floor. 

Awesome. 

Dear Jesus, Thank you for the movement in our adoption of Charlie.  As to the movements with Gracie, that’s not really the kinda movement we need right now. Or ever, really. Amen.

Earthquakes, Book stores, Crap storms, and Shia Lebeouf

Did I miss something?  Did someone see four horsemen and forget to tell me?  Surely I would've read something about them on FB if they showed up.  Right?

Yesterday, while G was napping, I took advantage of the rarity that is Sloan working from home.  Henry and I donned our swimsuits and cover-ups and ran one errand and then were off to the pool.  And since G was not in tow, we could go in the deep end and work on our strokes.  (By the way, Henry can now swim a 25 meter lap all by himself.  Yes, his stroke is a hybrid of doggy paddle, freestyle, and drowning, but he is in it to win it, baby!) 

Our errand was heading to the used bookstore.  Normally I like to read on my Ipad, but we are headed to the beach next week and the Ipad is not kids-playing-in-the-sand friendly.  Henry skipped off to the children's section while I checked out the new releases.  And then--cue the Carole King--I felt the earth. move. under my feet.  I felt the sky tumbling down. tumbling down.  At first I was fearful that Henry was leaping off the shelves or some other tom-foolery and was searching for him so I could speak sternly to him in that "I'm going to yell at you but do it in a monotone whispering voice" that all mommies of preschoolers reserve for in public come to Jesus meetings. 

But then the books started falling off the shelves.  And the old people (because this used bookstore is run by a group of snobby blue hairs who think my asking for David Sedaris is beneath them) started shrieking.  And the teenagers who work the Tobacco shop next door had gone out into the parking lot.  I thought, "Oh my gosh.  This is a freaking earthquake.  My son and I are going to be found beneath a sea of musty books surrounded by all these old people.  They'll look for the elderly first, so we are going to die." 

Ummm....I may have been overreacting. 

I'm pretty sure the shelves at Midlothian's Book Exchange are so stuffed that all it takes for the books to fall is lots of traffic.

My sister's story is funnier. 

First off, you need to remember my sister has 8 children.  So inevitably, there is always some sort of drama going on.  Bats in the living room.  Barbies in the toilet.  A child in the corner crying because of some sibling.

Also, my sister's house is 13 miles from the epicenter of yesterday's quake.

She was outside giving her sons haircuts when she too felt the earth move.  Knowing her luck, she immediately assumed that her septic tank was failing.  So she sent the kids inside her house, trying to avoid the impending crap storm, envisioning a geyser of poopy water erupting out of her slate patio. 

Inside, the housekeeper and my teenage niece were rounding up the littles trying to get them outside.  Once my sister had just gotten all her big kids inside, they realized, no--it is not a crap storm but an earthquake. 

And really.  Let's think about this.  5.8 earthquakes are pretty much always preferable to exploding septic tanks and the resulting crap storm. 

But if you combine yesterday's quake with today's poor air quality from the Great Swamp fires and then add those to the weekend's prediction of Hurricane Irene and you have the plot to a Michael Bay end of world thriller.  I'm fully expecting to hear about a meteor coming toward the earth.  I made sure to speak kindly to my suburban today in case it transforms and gets upset about my secret desire for a minivan.

Or maybe I should be looking out for the Rodents of Unusual Size.  I'm not quite sure which would be more shocking at this point. 

Why I do NOT use cloth diapers

A friend of mine recently ran a series on her blog about why she uses cloth diapers.  For starters, if you have an infant, or are pregnant, or just want to learn a lot from a really neat lady, you should go read this. Now.   I’ll wait. 

Didn’t you love it?  Didn’t it make you want to move to Taiwan, have your kids play on a playground made out of brightly colored rubber tires, and use cloth diapers?  That’s what it did for me.  I mentioned that I wanted to make the switch to Sloan.  He replied, “You can think your friend is cool without switching to cloth.  Using cloth diapers to be like someone else is lame.” 
And it is lame. 

But so is not giving any thought about your parenting decisions. 

Now let me say that it’s none of my darned business what you put on your kids’ bum so long as you never ask me to wipe said bum.  I also don’t think using cloth diapers makes you a better parent (nor does my buddy Kristie) and I resent all of you peeps who make me feel guilty about using disposable diapers.  (I also want you to stop judging me for every single time I forget to take my own bags to the grocery store.  I own them.   Loads of them.  I just only remember them a third of the time.  So get off my back already!)    But we should make informed decisions.  And I feel like Kristie’s posts on cloth diapering informed me a lot about cloth diapers other than what I already knew which was merely that with a ribbon sewn on the bottom, cloth diapers make a great burp cloth.

That said, in response, I want to tell you why I do NOT use cloth diapers.  (Please note that while Kristie’s post are serious, well thought out, and informative—my main goals here are to say why I don’t use them and also to make you laugh.)

1.        I don’t care (that much) about chemicals.

I began asking for an epidural just minutes after Henry’s zygote was injected into me with a turkey baster and I had to take various pharmaceuticals just to keep in my womb.  My daughter was born addicted to methadone, cocain, and heroin.  So the LAST thing I’m worried about is disposable diapers causing some sort of bum-fungus. 

2.        I am not a hippie.

Now, to be clear, some of my best friends are hippies.  My friend M tells me that when I say hippie I really mean outdoorsy or from the west coast.  You may say the phrase crunchy, granola, outdoorsy, earthy, health-concious.  But this is Elizabethtown, and I like the phrase “hippy-dippy”.  It makes me think of my Chocos and adults in pigtails; two things I ADORE.

So, to let you know what I DO mean by hippie, in Elizabethtown, here is MY definition of hippie.  If two or more of the following statements are true about you, you are a hippie:

1.        You have hair to your waist and are not Crystal Gale, a middle school girl, or a stripper. (Bonus hippie points if you part your hair in the middle.)

2.       Shop exclusively at Whole Foods or another boutique grocery store where they don’t even HAVE plastic grocery bags.

3.       Grow all of your own produce using homemade compost as fertilizer.

4.       Own chickens.  (My sister has chickens.  Because, you know, having 8 kids doesn’t make her life hectic enough.  I feel like everyone is getting chickens.  My friend A said, “Is this what we’re doing now?  Getting chickens?”  No A.  This is NOT what WE are doing.  Also, because chickens poo EVERYWHERE!!!!!)

5.       Use cloth diapers. 

6.       Wear your baby in a homemade sling everywhere, at all times, until they are in seventh grade and you tell people who are wearing  their child in a Baby Bjorn that they are going to give their child hip dysplasia like some aged Golden Retriever.  (Not that a woman in the Post Office ever said anything like that to me or anything.)

7.       Are over 25 and wear any of the following on a REGULAR basis:  hemp jewelry, anklets with jingle bells, toe rings, wooden beads, and long flowy skirts.  (Bonus hippie points if all worn at the same time to a Phish concert.)

Do NOT confuse my beloved hippies with the DIRTY HIPPIE.  The dirty hippie is anyone for whom ANY of the following statements are true:

1.     Are a white person with chunky, ratty dreadlocks.  Seriously.  You look ridiculous.  People with kinky coiled hair can have dreds and still look put together and clean.  That is because it is a natural protective style not requiring bucket loads of wax, pomade, and back-combing to achieve for persons with that hair texture.  So please, take out all of you hair earrings and shave your head already.

2.    Use your body hair as a means of protest.  Really?  Is that armpit hair really "sticking it to the man"?  At least change out of your tube top and oh, by the way, a crystal doesn’t work that well as deodorant.

3.    Have EVER, and I mean EVER, EVER,EVER used patchouli.  I don’t care if it comes from the mint family.  It does NOT smell minty.

(If you find that YOU are a DIRTY HIPPIE, please stop reading this now and take a shower.) 

3.        I like to throw crap away.

Remember how I never take my bags to the grocery store?  I use those plastic baggies to put my poopy disposable diapers in.  Then they get tossed on my front porch.  And then, usually once I’m embarrassed about there being 3 (or 8?) bags of poop on my porch do I get around to yelling at Sloan to take taking them out to the trash can.  (So you heard it here first, neighborhood kids, should you want to set a bag of poo on fire on my front porch, just bring matches.  The poo is already there.)

Also, I can not envision a world where I have a bag full of dirty nappies across my shoulder.  Seriously.  I’ve been known to leave a milk-filled sippy cup in my car until the offending milk becomes a hard blue puck, so there’s no way I could always remember to empty my diaper bag of poo and pee laden nappies.  And I don’t care if after the initial investment of cloth diapers is paid off and cloth diapering makes it cheaper in the long run, you would have to pay me large sums of money to tote poo. 

4.        Speaking of money, my time is worth money.

I’m already drowning in a sea of laundry.  Sometimes it literally makes me cry.  If I had to dump out poo from my purse into my washing machine, I would need some type of prescription.  And I think if you have to take Xanax to follow through with a parenting decision, you’ve probably made the wrong one. 

5.        To save the environment, carpool.

This one gets me riled up.  Sure, I’m putting diapers in a landfill.  But to wash all those cloth diapers requires detergent, oodles of drying time, water, and electricity.  Seriously.  Most of the cloth diapers suggest washing and drying them 6 times before using them to obtain maximum absorbency.  So to all the Hollywood elite who spout off about carbon-footprints, how many of you carpooled to the Oscars? Yeah, thought so.  That’s what I call an Inconvenient Truth. 

In the end, my friend Kristie chose cloth because she likes it.  It suits her lifestyle.  She began cloth diapering with her first child and I’m certain after her third kid that she has saved hundreds of dollars.  I don’t doubt that.  She also suggests that cloth diapers are cuter.  To that I say, really?  Cuter than this?

 And this?

Yeah.  I didn't think so.

Rocket Man (Overheard)

I confess.  I was eavesdropping.  Through the closed bathroom door.  I love my son. 

Henry:  5!  4!  3!  2!  1!  Blast out the Pooooooopy!  Way to goooo Henry!  Yeah Henry's bottom!  You go poopy on the potty!  And now.....relax....and....pee-pee!  Woo-hoo!  Yeah Henry's penis!  You go pee-pee on the potty!  Henry. You.  Are.  Awesome.

Oh, to love myself enough to congratulate myself upon successful bodily functions.

Apparently, this is just how I roll…

In my mind, I’ve got it going on. My house is straight, my children relatively obedient, my priorities in order, my schedule appropriately filled, my legs shaved. Other than the fact that I’d say, yeah, my kids are about as obedient as one can expect a 16 month old and an almost 4 year old to be…well, let’s just say if everything is perfect in my mind, in reality, clearly, I am out of my mind.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was washing my face, preparing to go to bed, I noticed that there was a Dora yogurt label affixed to my shirt. No one had eaten yogurt since breakfast. So apparently, I’d gone to the grocery store, picked up Henry from school, and eaten at Qdoba, all with an aluminum foil pasty stuck on my left nipple like some cheap Janet Jackson impersonator.

Last Friday, on the way to Gracie’s follow-up RSV visit to the pediatrician, Gracie took off her socks and shoes. Too tired to put them back on, I carried her in shoeless, despite the cold temps. No biggie, right? But then, while in the waiting room, she had a poop explosion. So she was the baby with just a shirt on. And a winter coat. But it’s the doctor’s office, right? However, upon returning to my car, I noticed the Suburban was driving all wonky and I was legitimately scared my truck was going to explode. So I had to drive straight to the mechanic’s with my half naked baby. What was wrong with my car? It was in 4 wheel drive. Someone (who will remain nameless) likes to push buttons while sitting in my lap in the carpool line.

On Monday, upon taking my shoes off for Gracie’s Kindermusik class, I noticed I was wearing two different socks. Not two with just different colored stitching. But a shortie sock and a tube sock. How does that even happen without me noticing? And since I had grabbed a sock ball from the drawer, my lack of paying attention happened not only while dressing but while folding laundry.

Yesterday I dropped Gracie off at nursery without a diaper bag. I’d packed her one; it even had an extra outfit in it in case of poop explosions. Because, you know, I’d learned my lesson from last week. I just left the well-stocked bag on our front porch. Mother. Of. The. Year.

So when today, I found myself late because the clock in Gracie’s room was 15 minutes slow, walking across the parking lot of Henry’s school carrying an IKEA potty full of urine to dump in the bushes, barefoot in 50 degree weather showing my half worn off pedicure, in a shirt crusty from snot and applesauce, a head full of teeny tiny hair bows that I’d meant to put away, with a zit on my face so large that it felt wrong not to name it (Larry), I had to laugh. I wanted to make excuses--I was focused on sorting out the too small clothes in Gracie’s drawers and lost track of time. I didn’t want to be late so I didn’t put on shoes or change my clothes. But really, I think I just have to face it. Crap like this happens to me all the time. Apparently, this is who I am. The mom with serious wardrobe malfunctions and half naked kids.

Good thing I know how to rock hair bows and make yogurt label pasties look friggin' awesome.

We are family...

At first this was going to be a post about my night last night. I had my first “gig” for Bethany where I talked about our adoption experience with Gracie at a local church. It was a praise and prayer service and typically they have various ministries from around the area come in order to share with their congregation their needs and how they can be praying. Cool, right? And since Saturday was the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, Sunday was Sanctity of Life day, having an adoption agency was a natural fit for the week. And trust me, I’ll get to that. I’ll tell you all about my speech and my reactions to the differences between their traditions and my own faith traditions. But as I’ve reflected on last night, I realize that I first must let you know something.

These people who I talked to, who prayed for me, are my family. And not just in some mambi-pambi metaphorical way because we all wear crosses and know the words to Kumbaya and Jesus Loves Me. As in, the basis of Christianity is that through Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Christian is adopted into a new family. A family where Jesus is not only Lord, but brother. Where we are taught to pray “Our Father.” Not just to remind us of who God is to us, but also to teach us who we are to one another. Brothers and Sisters. Flesh and blood. We belong to each other, permanently. Our liking one another or even agreeing with one another has nothing to do with it.

And because this is a family that resides here on earth in the fallen world, it can get hairy sometimes. And that is putting it nicely. Think of your family of origin: you have that one cousin who can’t seem to keep a job, the Aunt with the crazy hairdo, the nephew who insists on teaching your kids dirty words, the uncle with a drinking problem, the in-law with a million diplomas who talks like he’s hosting an NPR program, the grandma who wraps up her cat for Christmas. So it’s no wonder that when we, The Church, all get together, we find ourselves feeling like we’re in a National Lampoon’s movie. It’s no wonder that last night, at a Church different from mine, I channeled my inner Clark Griswold and thought, “Oh, Eddie. If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”

But like it or not, these folks are my folk. I fully plan on spending eternity with them. So if I use the term “they”, please note I am not meaning “THEY”. They are my people. They don’t look like me, worship like me, pray like me, but they are loved and redeemed by Jesus, JUST like me.

So please, as I relay to you some of the events from last night, be mindful of who you chuckle at. Because you ARE going to laugh. It was hilarious. But please don’t laugh at my family. Laugh at me. Laugh at the fact that at one point all I could do was pray in my brain, “Sweet Jesus, forgive me for feeling awkward and judging these people, and please don’t let me pee my pants.” Because peeing in my pants was a legitimate concern. Several times.

First off, I couldn’t find the church. It meets downtown in a building that sort of doesn’t look like a church. And my GPS told me I had arrived when obviously, I had not arrived. So I’m circling around, trying to make sure I’m not driving down a one way street incorrectly, trying to find a spot to parallel park my behemoth Suburban, while simultaneously fighting the butterflies in my stomach that are genuinely making me fear not just peeing on myself, but worse. As in, if I didn’t find the church soon, we’d have a real problem on our hands. And our tights. And perhaps, our shoes.

When I find the church, I start to consider what I’d learned about the Church and its congregation from my contact at Bethany and also the pastors at my church. Its members are diverse, hip, young, socially conscious, and they have a heart for adoption. They have a sizeable fund at their church just for helping its members finance adoptions. They have several families who’ve adopted from all over the world multiple times.

I was nervous about all the logistics—what to wear, would I talk too long (I don’t think I did), would I fidget (holding a microphone gave me something to do with my hands), would my new haircut drive me bonkers and be in my face the whole time (it wasn’t)? However, it would have been nice to know that this was a charismatic church. Had I known, I would not have fretted over whether I could wear jeans (I did not) or my Frye motorcycle boots (I did). I would not have spent 20 minutes in prayer that afternoon begging God to help me not sob uncontrollably the entire speech. (Bonus—I did not cry the entire time. Everyone else did. A lot. As in, at one point I actually said, “Wow! For a bunch of people gathered to praise God, we sure are doing a lot of crying!”)

It was a prayer service, so I figured that at a prayer service they would lay hands on me. I’m not crazy about strangers touching me, but seeing as the last time people layed hands on me and prayed over me I was in the hospital pregnant with Henry, I figured I was due. At least this time I’d bathed in 48 hours and was wearing underwear, right?

I was not expecting, however, for the lady next to me to be speaking in tongues.

It’s not uncommon when a group of people are in prayer and one person is praying aloud for others to quietly chime in their “Amens” and “Yes Lords”. Not really my bag, but whatever, I’ve come to expect and even find comfort in it. But not someone whispering in parseltongue next to me. At first I thought perhaps she was foreign and just praying in her native language. I peeked. Nope. She was shaking and speaking in tongues.

There was also a woman who softly sung "Holy Jesus, Hallelujah for Elizabeth" and things like that as though she were some weird Bat Mitzvah canter. This is when I began repenting of my own self-righteousness and begging for bladder control.

I was uncomfortable. And when I feel awkward, uncomfortable, or just don’t know what to do, I laugh. I laughed when Sloan first kissed me. (Not the reaction he was hoping for.) I laughed at a classmate’s mother’s funeral because my buddy Sarah had to hold hands with an elderly nun. So I also prayed they mistook my quaking body as those uncontrollable sobs I was so afraid of.

And at the end of the service, there was sort of a prayer altar call. Not an uncommon occurance, right? In fact, at the end of every service at my church, the Pastor invites those who would like to be personally prayed for to meet with an Elder at the side of the sanctuary. But these people were invited up to the front. And since I was a speaker at the service, I was sitting in the front row. So basically, the people seeking prayer were two feet in front of me.

And at one point a young man came up. And what I witnessed I really have no words for. I can only describe it as an exorcism of some sort as the gentleman was pounding the floor, yelling "F#*^ You Satan!"

I opened my eyes and looked around—in part to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, and also to be ready if Jesus showed up with snakes for us to wrangle. Perhaps the Frye boots were the right choice after all. Literally, I quoted Chevy Chase in my mind. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”

And while it was shocking, and different than what I am used to, I was moved by what was happening. This man was being freed. Any fool could see that he’d come to the service carrying around something. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Grief. Anger. All of the above. And though I didn’t understand the motions he was going through, I connected with him. I knew those burdens; I carry those burdens. And freedom? The freedom of having those things that strangle you, grip your chest so you can’t sleep at night, eat away at your selfhood, nailed to a tree and done away with forever? Well, that does (perhaps) merit shouting an F-bomb or two.

What was even more moving was how a trio of men came around him, held him, got down on the floor with him, cried with him, and assured him of Christ's power to forgive. Of him being a new creation. I heard them saying over and over, “You are loved. You are forgiven. God is for you. You are His. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are His.”

But yeah, as the service ended, I told the pregnancy counselor with me, "Yeah, I'm Presbyterian. We may have a few hand raisers here and there, but we. Do. Not. Do. This. It's cool, but wow."

But wow, indeed. How awesome and wack-a-doo my family is. Heaven is going to be a RIOT!

Te Amo, Enrique

Perhaps the apple has not fallen far from the tree, but I'm pretty sure I'm living with a crazy person. Granted, I learned everything I know about medicine from watching House. However, I'm nearly certain Henry has multiple personalities.

60% of the time he is Henry.  Henry loves trains, jumping, swimming, doing puzzles, coloring, and eating candy.  He sings while he picks up his toys and always, always, always pushes his chair in when he gets up from the table and puts his silverware and cup in the sink.  Henry tells me every morning that he slept well.  Henry loves all things Thomas the Tank Engine and Buzz Lightyear.  He tells passersby in Wal-Mart that he has Thomas in his bedroom and when reading the Bible story of Jesus' ascension, he will say that Jesus is going "to infinity and beyond".  Henry prefers to be carried upstairs if Mommy or Daddy are also carrying Grace.  He begins conversations in the middle--randomly he'll mention that Gracie likes Santa Claus, horses eat hay, or may even tell the man checking us in at the gym that "Mommy has nipples".  (Thank you very much.)  Henry is potty trained and rarely has accidents.  Henry cheers for himself while he pees--"Yeah, Henwe!  Yeah, Henwe's penis!"  So perhaps it is safe to say that Henry is a little bit obsessed with body parts and their functions.  Henry enjoys being helpful and often 'reads' books to Gracie and will even sometimes (unfortunately) try to pick her up if she gets fussy.  Henry can write his name.  All in all, Henry is a pure joy to be around.

20% of the time he is Henri.  Henri is a grumpy Frenchman.  Henri is never content with what is set before him--be it food, activities, shoes,  or life in general.  Henri often falls apart should you offer him for afternoon snack the rest of his banana that he did not finish in the morning.  When offered food he randomly decides he doesn't like, he will often quote "Green Eggs and Ham" at the top of his lungs.  I WILL NOT EAT DEM HERE OR DER, I WILL NOT EAT DEM ANYWHERE!!!!  When I remind Henri that the Who eventually learned that he did like Green Eggs and Ham, Henri goes into what could be mistaken for a seisure.  Henri can cry on cue.  Henri does not like to have his hand held and will yell in parking lots "No, Thank you, Mommy.  You hurting me."  Then Henri goes limp.  In the middle of the parking lot.  Henri, despite that his first language is whine, is quite mannerly.  If you offer Henri water instead of milk, Henri screams at you "No tank you.  I want milk!!!!!"  Henri not only will not write his name, he will throw crayons at you for daring to mention it.  Then he'll say, "Shhhh, stop saying dat.  Mommy, BE QUIET!" Henri will only wear his red "dragon crocs".  No matter that you are going to church.  No matter that he picked out $40 keens that he loved and had to wear out of the store.  All other shoes, Keens included, are either too big, too sticky, or just down right yucky.  Henri does not like to brush his teeth and will only allow you to brush his teeth for him if while brushing you also sing the Thomas the Tank Engine song.  Henri will not go to the potty when it is convienient for you.  Henri has extraordinary will power and won't even poop for days on end--no matter how many bottles of prune juice, FiberOne granola bars, or even suppositories you give him.  In fact, we're pretty certain that Henri's major problem is bowel related. 

The other 20% of the time he is Enrique.  Enrique is pure love and affection.  Enrique tells Gracie 40 times a day he loves her.  Enrique will never have enough of Mommy's kisses.  Enrique declares all errands as "fun and a really good time".  Enrique compliments me every chance he gets--as in, "MMmmmm, Mommy, tank you for dis yummy pwoon juice,"  or "Oooh, Mommy, taking you for making me Cheerios.  Mommy is a good cook."  (Yes, he complimented my ability to have the proper cereal to milk ratio.)  Or, "Mommy gives good hugs,"  "Mommy and Gwacie have pretty curly hair".  Enrique's favorite activities include bringing a stack of books to my lap and begging me to "wead me", rubbing Grace on the head and saying "there, there, wittle baby", Eskimo kisses, butterfly kisses, fist bumps, and the ever popular zerbert.  Enrique will even offer you his foot to kiss.  Admittedly, sometimes Enrique is a little creepy. 

I fear that this is a side effect from growing up in Elizabethtown.

Or perhaps it is just life with a three year old.

A Real Crappy Conversation

It's my own fault.  While at the beach, bathing the kids meant literally hosing them off in the outdoor shower at the Beach House.  (Which worked well for Gracie. We were able to sort of power wash her folds.)  So we needed to bathe the kids.  And because Henry had spent all day locked in his car seat, I let him play with all of his bath toys while I put away the towels and emptied his dop kit.   

Henry:  Mommy?  What's dis?
Me:  Huh?
Henry:  Dis?  (Henry is holding in his hands a large turd.  And I mean LARGE.  And slimy.)
Me:  Oh my gosh.  Henry, that's poop!  Put it down.
Henry:  It's brown. 
Me:  (Searching for the slotted kitchen spoon that found its way to the bathtub.)  Henry put down the poo.  (He starts to smash it into the side of the tub.) But don't smash it.  Here put it in the spoon.  Yuck, Henry.
Henry:  Poopy go in the potty.
Me:  Yes, Henry.  Let's go take a shower wash down in Mommy's shower.  You have poo-water all over you.
Henry:  Henry go poopy in da baftub and Mommy put it in da potty.  Now Henwe go to da wash down.  Poop poop!!
 

Because Lionel Richie is Da Bomb

*******Warning.  This is the premier post for one of Elizabethtown's newest blog contributors:  Gracie Phillips.  She found out Henry has posted before and also that her one true love Grayson was a blogger and she wanted in.  The following comments do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions held in Elizabethtown, but are the sole property of the aforementioned Gracie Phillips.*****************

Hello!  Is it me you're looking for?

I would like to take a pause to tell you that I am three months old now, people, and so I have some wisdom to share.  The first is that I have discovered a way to get what I want in terms of wardrobe--and it is easy like Sunday morning, yo.  I am writing this down so my teenage self will remember--when Mom dresses you in something you don't want to wear, poop in it.  And I mean really grunt and groan if you have to.  Get that poo all the way up your back.  Don't be afraid of the poop.  Who cares if it collecting in the bottom of your tights or gets in your hair?!  Whining is for amateurs.  If you really want to drive the point home, poo as soon as your diaper has been changed.  If you poo enough, if it is really stuck on you, you will get a bath.  And bathtime is what I like to call Awesome time!  Am I right?

My mom wanted to take my three month picture in this "G is for Girl" shirt and giraffe jeans my Aunt Pam gave me.  Don't get me wrong.  I look super chill in this outfit.  The jeans have a giant pink bow at the waist.  It is just that, well, I really wanted something a bit more girly for the photo shoot, seeing as I am three times a lady.    So I pooped on my shirt.  Not my pants, mind you, but my shirt.  Because I like to see Mom be confused.  So then Mom changed me into this little bunny outfit with purple leggings.  Also cute, but not the look I was going for.  So I pooped on them before we even got on the matching cardigan.  And then I looked at Mom and said, "Ha Ha Ha!"  Mom said because I am young I can get away with such blatant acts of disrespect, but sooner or later she would drop the hammer and that laughing at her would not be tolerated.  Whatevs, peeps. 

All that being said, I would, however, not suggest pooping this often for a week.  I got so good at pooping that I kind of have forgotten how not to.  I kind of like to poop during every bottle.  And everytime I sneeze.  Mommy calls it "poop soup". She had stuck me on some type of probiotic junk.  This apparently did not stop my pooping so she called the doctor and now it is Pedialyte for me.  Now she is going to starve me.  Maybe this is what her dropping the hammer looks like?  She and brother get to have pizza and meet Auntie Robin at Palani Drive and I'm stuck with unflavored Pedialyte. 

Which brings me to my second bone to pick with the 'rents--my weight.  You see, I like to eat.  I like to eat A LOT.  As in every four to five hours, and sometimes every three in the daytime, I like to have 7 or 8 ounces of formula.  I have been getting better about sleeping all night long.  I sleep through the night now about half of the time.  I never sleep through the night when it is Daddy's turn to get up with me.  Mommy thinks it is because I love her the best.  It is because I think Daddy is very handsome and he lets me watch shows like Modern Marvels.  Mommy justs sits with me in the dark and says things like "Night time is for sleeping".  I swear I've even seen her nod off mid bottle.  I really question her parenting skills. 

Also, I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight.  I'm not fat; I'm thick.  It's a cultural thing.  So please, could you stop calling me "chubby bunny", "chunk-style", "chunkaliscous", "Mommy's little Sumo wrestler", or "Buddha".  My preferred nickname is "Brickhouse".  Because I am mighty mighty and I like to let it all hang out.

Shake it down, shake it down now.

New Year's 2010

In the morning of New Year's Eve Day, Henry played with his Auntie Ann and girlfriend Emily while Sloan and I took Gracie in for her 2 month check up.  The great news is that she has gained so much weight that she can come off of the High Calorie formula that is uber expensive and gives her gas.  She weighed 12 lbs, 3 oz.  That's 75% percentile, folks.  She certainly is chunkaliscious.  However, she is only 3rd percentile in height.  We're resting in the fact that the pediatrician assures us this is the least scientific of all of their measurements.  But since we've just learned that her biological mother is a quarter Japanese and only 5'2'', it stands to reason that my baby girl isn't going to be too tall.  That's okay.  That's why God invented high heels. 

And that's right, I said Japanese.  It is has taken 2 months, but we finally had our first "oh, she must be adopted" moment with a stranger.  We were in Wal-Mart, Henry in the seat of the cart and Gracie in her car seat in the actual basket of the cart.  An African American women looked at Henry, commented on his long eye lashes and then looked at Gracie and said, "Oh, she's dark!"  Henry responded, "Baby Gwacie, I wuv her."  My response?  "Um......yeah?"  Then the lady proceeded to ask me what she was.  A baby?  As I pushed my cart past her I answered, "Japanese" and kept on going.

And to celebrate the fact that Gracie is part Japanese, thereby assuring her placement in a future Benetton ad, we went to Kabuto for dinner as a family to ring in the New Year.  (Okay, we had plans to do this prior to finding out about G's ethnicity.  But you'd better believe I'm going to play the 'sharing her culture' card when it comes to explaining why we just HAVE to eat Hibachi Shrimp so much.)  Henry cleared his entire plate of food.  I think he left three onions and half a mushroom.  According to Sloan, the poopy diaper the next day was one for the record books.  I was convieniently unavailable to help him out for that one.  One of my New Year's resolutions is to delegate more of the parenting to Sloan, mainly in the crappy pants category.

It should also be noted that I was 7 books shy of meeting my "read 52 books in one year" goal.  I blame Gracie. 

Question

Does it still count as my bathing him if he pooped in the tub?

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.

Home to a Hottie

When I came home from Charlotte, Henry had a fever, wasn't eating well, and was very lethargic. At first, I lied to myself thinking he wanted all the Mommy-cuddles because I'd been away. But let's get real--the boy can't stand to sit still. So I took his temp and it was 104. So we did the usual, alternated between Tylenol and Motrin every 4 hours and took lots of luke warm baths. I was trying to delay the inevitable. I didn't want to pay another copay just to hear that he has a virus and there is nothing the Doctor can do for him. Oh, and did I mention that the pediatrician is by our old house, 30 minutes away? But after 2 days of him not eating and still the 104 fever, I broke down. So with his 15 month check up this Friday, this is going to be a 2 copay week for the Phillips family. But this definitely cinched the deal of us getting a pediatrician in the Midlo area.

So the Big H has an ear infection and Strep throat. So we are back on antibiotics, I desperately miss the gym, and oh yeah, Augmentin has given Henry diarrhea. Serious. Even with the probiotics and yogurt at every meal. We're talking poop soup people. I went to have a smell check of his heiny, only to see the stuff dripping down his leg into a puddle on the floor. And he was splashing his foot in the puddle with great delight. I like to think this is a sign of his great disposition--you know, like is kind of crappy sometimes, but you can still find the joy in it and all that. Needless to say, it was a 7 wipe diaper change and then into the tub.

He is getting better though. He was back to his usual piggy self this morning at breakfast--a yogurt, cheerios, a scrambled egg with cheese, blueberries, and strawberries. In hind sight, berries were probably a bad choice in light of the poop soup.

As I type, I think he is on the phone to Nasa. He has an old cell phone of my he likes to play with and he usually never goes anywhere without his rocket ship puzzle piece. I could put the puzzle back together, dig a hole in the ground outside and then lay concrete over it, and he could still find the rocket ship puzzle piece. It is most certainly his favorite.

He has also discovered that he can climb into the ottoman where I keep his toys in the living room. He thinks this is super fun, until at some point he closes himself up in the ottoman. It gets very quiet for about 5 seconds. And then there is this loud wail--"MA MA MA MA MA MA MA!" And I open the lid and we're all giggles again. And to make it really fun, we repeat.

Question...

Do I need to rewash the clothes I accidentally washed with a used disposable diaper?

What if I'm positive it wasn't a poopy?

My son has made me stupid

Two times in the past week I've left my wallet at home, only to discover it when trying to check out. I swear I never did this kind of thing before Henry was born. Ugh. The people at Michael's and Target just love me.

And yesterday, the Phillips family stunk. Like Homeless people. While changing a diaper at church, Henry peed all over himself and ALL OVER ME! Of course, ever the prepared Mommy, I had a change of clothes for Henry--but alas, none for me. As I went back into the service and sat next to Sloan, he noticed that Henry was no longer in seersucker overalls, but pajamas. "Have an accident, honey?" he said. "Yes. Your son peed all over me. I've got urine all over my shirt and pants." Sloan laughed and then cuddled Henry. I leaned over to him, "We're leaving. I'm sure God will understand that I'm not going to sit here with pee all over me." So we left. And of course, we still had to go by the old condo and pick up a few more things so I sat in my urine and fed Henry while Sloan lugged stuff down those three flight of stairs getting ever so sweaty. On the ride home, Henry spit up all over himself and of course, reeked of vomit. So by the time we got home, Sloan said, "We smell like homeless people. I'm nasty and sweaty, and I smell the best of us. We should buy some cigarettes just so the smell is complete."

There just is no hope for Henry when he has such awesome, responsible parents. Last night, before going to bed, I checked in on a sleeping Henry. He'd taken off his pajama pants (of course) and had grabbed some dirty laundry out of his hamper that sits next to his crib and was cuddled up with it. My poor boy. Pantless and cuddling dirty clothes. I'm growing ever more compassionate for Britney by the day.