Anatomy Of A 5 Year Old Boy's Crap-Taking

I think my son exploded.

Those of you with older children, please tell me that there will come a day when I WON'T find this in the bathroom:
It's going to be hard to explain to future employers, roommates, and girlfriends why he STILL has to be completely naked before he can successfully execute a bowel movement.

Nothing below the fold today.

Sorry charlies, nothing to see here

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Whine And Sympathy

Day 4 of the 5-day bidness trip.

To date, I've been enduring repeated assaults by conference speakers who think that mumbling every single line on an 8-point type, chart-laden presentation is the path to corporate enlightment. I've been burning through Bullshit Bingo sheets at the rate of roughly 18 per session.

And I somehow managed to lose my bra - in my own hotel room. It was in the drawer when I went to bed but gone when I got up, apparently stolen by the same Underwear Gnome that lives behind our washing machine and eats The Boy's favorite cartoon-character underpants.

From a practical standpoint, the loss of the bra doesn't REALLY matter since it has been scientifically proven that I have the tiniest breasts in the world (and verified by the internet community - my #1 Google Search referral is from people entering "small breast mother"). However, I have to present to a large group of people tomorrow; from a confidence-building point of view, I'd prefer to holster the poached eggs instead of going commando.

But what really hurt was my last phone call home, when I found out that The Boy and I were no longer on speaking terms. He is angry with me for going away. And MD told me that The Girl has been taking my picture to bed with her because she can't remember exactly what I look like in person.

To make myself feel better, I went for a run, and spaced out listening to a playlist of self-pitying mopey emo songs. I came back to consciousness and realized that I had run six miles. All in one direction - east of frigging nowhere. Since it was getting dark, I had to run the six miles back and was feeling progressively crappier with every stride.

So when I finally made it back to the hotel, I vomited spectacularly all over the shiny marble floor. Right in front of a group of fellow conference attendees that were gathered for a cocktail reception. Those delicious fish tacos I'd had for dinner last night? Not nearly as charming during the encore presentation. And although the chunk-blowing was probably from overexertion, my hypochondria tells me otherwise. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to die from tomato-induced salmonella before I get the chance to atone to MD and Spawn for my absence.

I hope that doesn't happen. I'd like to leave Spawn with some heartwarming moments of actual togetherness, rather the fading impression of my voice on the other end of a cell phone. Although MD should make out pretty well, thanks to a hefty payout from my life insurance. I'm sure he'll find himself a new gold-digging slut on Match.com in no time.

Spawn WILL like me again someday. Won't they?

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From The Department of "What The Hell Was I Thinking"

Last night's bedtime started out normally. After a dozen or so requests to the kids (at increasing volume levels) to start getting ready for bed, they finally got moving.

They schlumphed their way over to the stairs; crabbed the whole way up; bitched and moaned while putting on their pajamas; and complained during teeth brushing, which caused them to spray liquified toothpaste foam all over the freshly cleaning-ladied bathroom vanity.

In the middle of all of the complaining, we hear a "frapppffft" noise.

Manager Dad: "Boy, did you just have gas?"

The Boy: teeheeheehee

The Girl: hohohahaha

Me (to myself): Hey, this is my chance to be Fun Mom for a change! And so inspired by a weekend visit from my dad, I blurted out a rhyme that he used to recite to me when I was a kid. It goes a little something like this:

"A burp is a message from the heart. If it comes out the other end, it's called a fart."

I realized mid-sentence that putting this out there was probably a really bad idea. It was like a a party scene in a teen sex comedy where someone says something embarassing on the dance floor, and you hear that record needle scratching sound followed by dead silence while the crowd all looks at the speaker with a “who is that frigging loser moron?” kind of vibe.

The kids stared at me like I had sprouted a third eyeball, and then started screaming with laughter. And the same kids who have selective hearing and zero short-term memory when it comes to things I NEED them to do, of course IMMEDIATELY memorized this.

"A BURP IS A MESSAGE!" they kept yelling back and forth to each other at top volume, running up and down the hallway and cackling demonically. I started mentally composing one of my now-routine pre-emptive apology notes to their teachers about the poetry lesson the kids would undoubtedly be giving their friends the following day.

And during the next half hour, as we desperately tried to think of something that could get us back on the path to bedtime, MD muttered to me, "I bet you taught them that just so that you could blog about it later."

No, sweetie; I taught it to them because I really am just that stupid.

Thank GOD my dad never taught me "Milk, Milk, Lemonade."

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Of Breasts And Bacteria

Our family's long strep throatial nightmare is almost over.

The Boy has been on meds for a few days, and I have become more than a shade concerned about how much he likes them (especially given the "extracurricular activities" that I indulged in while I was in college).

He's a little cephalexin junkie, waking up and going straight to the refrigerator, where he pulls out the bottle and convulses his entire body trying to shake it up while shouting at me to hurry up and get the teaspoon, Mommy! I'm afraid that instead of adding the bubble gum taste that I'd requested, the pharmacist accidentally flavored it with crack.

But he's feeling much better; so much so that yesterday he slept in until a decadently late (for him) 6:45. I was already up and doing some work; after beelining to the fridge, he came into the office with his bottle to get his morning fix. He climbed into my lap, all sweaty and rumpled and blasting me with his surprisingly toxic morning breath, and was sort of snuggling the side of his head into my chest, which made him scrape his cheek on the zipper of my sweater.

After treating me to his angriest look (which always makes me burst out laughing because he looks so funny-cute, which pisses him off even more), he started yelling "I'm mad at your shirt" and yanking at the zipper, exposing the tank top I was wearing underneath. He stared at my chest for a moment, momentarily forgetting about the medicine, and said, "Mommy, what are your round parts called?"

Oh, frack. I was NOT prepared to have THAT conversation. Not at 6:45,and certainly not before liquid fortification. And even under optimal conditions, I completely suck at these types of sensitive conversations. I butchered The Talk with The Girl so badly that she still bursts into tears every time she sees a tampon box in our linen closet.

Since that train wreck, I tried to prepare for my next time in the hot seat through careful and extensive research (Ok, so it was only Googling 'talking to your kids about sex,' but I think that I should get SOME credit for effort) on the right way to handle the conversation. I only skimmed a few articles before I lost interest and decided I would just wing it; but I did manage to absorb three important knowledge nuggets:

1) Keep it simple and give only age appropriate information

2) Minimize your use of confusing sexual slang, no matter how personally entertaining you might find it

3) Try very hard to keep your fits of giggling under control

Armed and dangerous with my superficial knowledge, I took a deep breath and let it rip. "They're called breasts."

"Your breast-tes are small, Mommy. Why are they so small?"

Well, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious. Believe me, you're far from the only man in my life to ask me that question.

“Everybody's bodies are made differently." I replied. "For example, I have red hair. But Aunt Katie has yellow hair. But she has been pretending to be a natural blonde for at least ten years, although even Stevie Wonder could spot her dark brown roots. From a mile away. At midnight."

And I am pretty sure I only THOUGHT, but did not add, "Plus, there are some ladies that work at places with names like "Bada Bing" that realize that they'd make a lot more money if they bought themselves a pair with a size that starts and ends in the letter D."

For a minute, it seemed that my explanation had either satisfied or confused him enough where I could execute a swift change of subject.

But he regrouped. "Well, what are boobies, then?"

No fair. Now HE had just blown Rule #2, and the only anwers that I could think of would DEFINITELY cause me to violate either rule #1 or #3, if not both.

So I decided that the responsible thing to do would be to send him off to wake up Manager Dad to have HIM answer that particular question.

Call me old-fashioned, but I think if the boy is going to wind up going through life with some freaky breast fetish, it should come from his old man, not from me.

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Over The River And Up S&%$'s Creek

It's 6am on Sunday morning at Manager Grandmother's house.

Sunrise is touching the grey (factory smoke-filled) New Jersey skies; dewdrops are beginning to glisten on the (overmanicured suburban environmental nightmare of a) front lawn; and the sleepy-looking (registered sex offender) next door neighbor has just meandered down his driveway to pick up his Sunday newspaper.

I'm trying to write quickly, before the tranquility is shattered by the arousal of child and childlike (I refer to The Boy, The Girl, and yes, The Grandmother) and the subsequent elevation of the household noise level to DEFCON 5.

While I, of course, love my mother dearly, a visit to the MG means 48 hours of unending family togetherness. This has been known to induce a heightened state of stress, caused by a hat trick of physiological deficiencies: sleep deprivation, emotional defensiveness, and mental exhaustion, all rolled up into one messy burrito.

The Boy and The Girl feel no such ambivalence. When MG is in the house, we are shunted aside like so much dirty underwear. She showers them with presents and praise, and generous helping of junk foods somehow rationalized as good for you ("Well, ice cream with chocolate chips does have calcium, you know.") She laughs and tickles and teases and unabashedly burps out loud whenever the feeling strikes. She is their own personal walking, talking, one-woman Kids Choice Awards, and they utterly adore her.

Our visit this weekend was fraught with purpose: MG had gotten tickets to for the final weekend of the Star Wars exhibit at the Franklin Institute as a special treat for The Boy's birthday. He got so excited when I told him that I thought that his brain might actually melt. He implemented a minute-to-minute "how long until we leave?" countdown and insisted on packing his suitcase more than a week prior to our departure.

I must have been distracted by shiny things, because I forgot to double-check his packing job. Upon arrival, we discovered that aside from some action figures, Transformers comics, and random scraps of paper, The Boy had brought twelve pairs of mismatched socks, five pairs of pants, and his pajamas, but only a single pair of underwear and a lone t-shirt (Empire Strikes Back, to be worn at the exhibit). Plus the clothes on his back which emerged from the three-hour car ride stained with juice, covered in crumbs, and crusted with mucus from the occasional sneeze-n-wipe.

That's OK, I thought. It's only a two day visit, so I'll just wash his car outfit and he can wear it again on Sunday.

Cue the Irony Gods, who thought it might be funny to make The Boy have an enormous accident in the middle of the night. Said accident set in motion a chain of sponge baths and laundry, with the end result of him waking up the next morning with pretty much everything (clothes AND pajamas) either still damp with pee, or soaking wet in the washing machine. And it was 8am, with us looking at a half hour drive to try to make our a strict 9am admission time slot.

I searched for inspiration in the immortal words of the wise philosopher Tim Gunn: it was truly 'make it work time'. Seizing the only two pieces of available clean clothing, we got everyone dressed and the whole family piled into the car, where my shirtless-under-his-spring-jacket, commando-under-camouflage shorts son patiently endured ten minutes of chafing while I ran into Old Navy to buy him some clean underpants and a t-shirt.

We beat our cutoff time with nearly three full minutes to spare.

And so, although I look forward to these visits, I'm ready to go back to work and play at being a grownup, and enjoy some much-needed peace and quiet in the office. Damn... I forgot. There is no peace and quiet in the office anymore.

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And "Mother Of The Year" Goes To...

Today, I faced one of those no-win dilemmas that only a working mother can appreciate: what do you do with a child that’s slightly off, but not really sick? Do you miss yet another day of work, or Motrin him up and send him to day care?

I had inklings of trouble last night when the boy refused to eat more dinner than he normally does. Usually he'll grudgingly consume about 3/4 of a meal, but last night, after a few bites of home-cooked (actually, Boston Market-purchased) chicken, he threw in the fork. Not even the usual bribes of cornbread or sliced apples on the couch could entice him to eat more.

Much later, I was awakened from a dead sleep at 4am with the same child looming over me in the dark.

"Mommy," he said, "I'm either hungry, or I'm going to throw up."

Ever optimistic, I went with "hungry." Gave the kid two slices of toast and stuffed him back into bed. Tried to nap between his subsequent intermittent wanderings back into our room. So when it was time to actually get up, I was tired and short-tempered. I knew the kid wasn't quite right, but I had a lot of work to get done. And he seemed OK - no fever or other outward signs of illness, and when he started asking for chocolate milk and Munchkins I chalked up his droopy demeanor up to being tired. So Manager Dad and I made the executive decision to soldier on and take him to day care.

I telecommute on Fridays, and as I conducted my morning business, I kept a nervous surveillance eye on my cell phone. My paranoia was not unfounded as I received The Call at approximately 10am. I was most displeased to hear the voice of Nice Day Care Lady #1, aka The One Who Usually Calls If Your Child Is Sick Or Injured.

'Hello,' said NDCL#1, 'I am just calling you to let you know The Boy is not quite himself today.' 'What's wrong with said boy?' I asked. 'Well, he's kind of mopey,' was the answer. 'He's not participating in activities.'

Now, she didn't directly ASK me to come pick him up, but the sentiment was clearly there. I could feel a warm cloud of expectation wafting through the wireless spectrum as I questioned the situation more closely. 'Does The Boy have a fever? Is there coughing, sneezing, or sniffling? Is he expelling bodily fluids from any orifice at a more alarming velocity than normal?'

'No, he's just very quiet today,' she said. (Perceived subtext: ‘I can’t believe she’s not already on her way here.’)

Upon this confirmation, Mother of the Year (that's me, if you hadn't guessed) quickly said, 'OK then, call me back if any of those things happen.' And I unceremoniously hung up.

I am VERY protective of my telecommuting arrangement and don’t want to lose the privilege. I don't ever want people to think I'm not pulling my weight on my days from home. I am many things on my days from the home office (poorly groomed, a Peapodder, folder of laundry on conference calls, silent hostess of various repairpersons or cleaning ladies), but I am NOT a slacker.

So while on occasion I'll make quick stop at the horrible Grade A on Newfield (motto: We're Not Afraid To Sell You Rotten Produce") after kid dropoffs, my main indulgence is my hourlong lunchtime workout. For one glorious hour, I turn off the cell phone and squeeze in a good, hard run. I come back re-energized and smelly, and proceed to work furiously in a pool of my own sweat for the rest of the day. (I pray to the Cubicle Gods that cheap videoconferencing remains an elusive invention.)

If it's a nice day, I run outside - no problem. If it's a rainy or cold day, I have to go to the track at my gym. And my gym is where The Boy goes to day care. And I have to walk right by his classroom to get to the track.

Problem.

So I get dressed for my run and make the 2-minute drive over to the gym. I walk slowly into the building, willing myself to be invisible. I peer cautiously down the hallway - looks clear. I walk quickly through the Hot Zone - that bare stretch of hallway where there are no doorways or large plants under which to take cover.

I was just about home free, standing at the doorway to the gym, when I heard the cheery voice of Nice Day Care Lady #2, aka The One Who Usually Calls About Unpaid Bills and Unfilled-Out-Forms.

'Mother of The Boy!' she chirped.

Daaaaaaammmmmmmn.

I lifted my hand off the doorknob and took a deep breath. 'How is the boy in question?' I asked.

'Oh, he is really miserable. He's been lying on the couch all morning. I'm glad you came to get him.'

Guilt began to breech the Great Wall between my unconscious and conscious minds, because, well, I really hadn’t come for that particular reason. But as Mother of the Year, I gave it my best college try. 'Oh, yes, of course!' I said. ‘That is exactly why I’m here! Ahem, by the way, has he actually thrown up or gotten a fever yet?'

Puzzled, NDCL#2 said, 'No...but he's just really not himself.'

As an only child of divorced parents, I can be nothing if not self-centered. So I quickly came back with- 'OK – I’ll just do a quick workout, and I'll take him with me on the way home.'

Looking me straight in the eye, NDCL#2 said, (and honestly, it was without malice) 'Ok, I'll tell The Boy that you're in the building but won't be picking him up for another hour or so.'

Checkmate. Well played, NDCL.

And so, sufficiently infused with guilt, I begrudgingly slunk into the classroom to get The Boy. Who, by the way was napping peacefully.

So I woke him up, brought him home, and parked him on the couch, draping an array of towels in his immediate projectile area. (I have found this to be a primitive, yet effective, barf defense mechanism.) He then proceeded to watch two full-length movies (Ice Age and The Empire Strikes Back, if you are keeping score) consume one bagel, eight ounces of Fruit Punch Gatorade, and two bananas.

Nary a chunk was blown.

I, on the other hand, wound up tired, guilt-laden, unexercised, unshowered, with laundry unfolded, and I didn’t get any work done until the kids went to bed, so of course, I had to stay up late and will feel even worse tomorrow.

Of course, I don't want The Boy to REALLY be sick, but the fact that I brought him home when he was fine to stay at day care just makes me feel like a complete, 360-degree failure. Because I knew he wasn’t running at 100% and I made him go to day care anyway. And after all that, I STILL short-changed my work, and despite the fact that there was no malice in my interactions with the NDCLs today, I still feel like a complete dink.

Oh well. I might not be Mother of the Year, but luckily, The Boy has no other frame of reference. I’m the only mother that he has. And if nothing else, I got some Grade A snuggles and kisses. And I’m all caught up on on my Spongebob episodes.

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Revolting Excretions At A Low Low Price

I'm a classic Type A personality with a demanding job. I'm also the also mother of two children who think nothing of wandering into our bedroom at various times of the night, just to tell me that they're thirsty. No suprise then that I often have trouble sleeping. But one upside of the insomnia is my exposure to dozens of infomercials for a whole world of new, exciting products that are only available if you CALL NOW!!!

I've always had a weakness for the tempting promises of these miraculous products. At the least, they promise to streamline my life. Why have a colander AND a spaghetti pot if they can be combined into one? They also provide infantile self-entertainment (if you've ever seen a dog vacuumed with a Flo-Bee haircutting system, you'd know what I mean).

Sometimes they can even be life-altering. Why, if it wasn't for my Jack Lalanne Power Juicer, Manager Dad and I might not be married today. Back in the early 90's when we met (I was a DJ, he was a doorman at the cheesiest bar in all of Chicago), I lured him to my apartment with the promise of freshly made apple juice. I must have ground up at least three pounds of apples to get about two ounces of liquid, but he proved worth the investment.

But nothing can compare to the sheer, morbidly fascinating grossness of the Kinoki Foot Pad.

Not since they first introduced the Biore Pore Perfect blackhead strips have I ever coveted something so completely on first sight.

I don't feel toxic, mind you, but the idea of putting a nice clean white sheath on my foot at night and waking up to a mottled, greenish-black pad filled with micrometals and poisons from my body just sounded too good to pass up. And the prospect of having the fascinatingly repulsive visual evidence made it even better! All for only $19.95 plus shipping and handling! It's amazing how the receipt of one's annual bonus, coupled with a few glasses of wine, can help you rationalize that giving your credit card information to people who sell giant, charcoal-filled foot bandaids is a good idea.

I did my first set of pads last night. I could take a digital photo and show you, but I'm sure you'd rather trust me on how nasty they look. WOW. The way those pads looked, I am suprised that I have not been walking around emitting a constant nuclear glow. Do they really detoxify people? Who cares. What I know is, they are spectacularly yucky to look at.

I have to wait 48 hours before doing my next set of pads. I'll be looking for ways to continue detoxing. No Diet Wild Cherry Pepsis for me today - I'm all about the clean living.

Why, I might even slice up some fresh veggies with my Ginsu knives.

Read more about these ancient mystic Eastern herbal miracles for yourself at the kinoki website.

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