Bryan has been working a different kind of schedule lately. He has been gone for a week at a time, leaving me to be a single mom to our two youngsters. It is tiring. So last night, I collapsed into bed and noticed that I was feeling a little light-headed (probably from some serious chemical deficiency like potassium or chocolate). I thought, “Great, I’ll probably pass out in my sleep and Wesley won’t be able to wake me up in the morning.” And then I started thinking about what would happen if Wesley really couldn’t wake me up for some reason. I tried to imagine exactly what would happen and my little vision ended with Wesley wandering in the street until some neighbor found him…
Well, that whole experience made me realize that we have never discussed what to do if Mommy trips on a toy car, breaking all her limbs, and passes out from the pain. It’s not like the old days when we were taught to “dial 911.” It isn’t that easy anymore. I mean, I can’t even find my own stinking cell phone half the time – how would I expect my three year old to find it in an emergency?
I started the lesson by asking Wesley what he would do if Mommy couldn’t walk or talk and needed help. He just stared at me blankly – I could see that there were some ideas in his mind – ideas like climb up on the forbidden top bunk and play with the blender…so I tried to steer him in the right direction. I told him that he would need to call the police. Then I got my cell phone and gave him a lesson in how to dial 911 and hit “send.” It was complicated by the facts that he doesn’t know the number “9” yet and that he doesn’t really know which button is “send.” And that you can’t actually practice it or you call the police for real. Hmmmm.
I also tried to impress upon him the importance of NOT dialing this unless there is really an emergency. I told him if he called the number and there wasn’t an emergency, the police would come to our house. Telling him this was a bad idea. Three year old boys WANT the police to come to their house – the only thing better than the police at your house is a pet elephant that can tap dance. Which led to this conversation:
Wes: I need to use your phone a minute.
Me: Why?
Wes: I am going to call the police.
Me: Wes, remember, we don’t call them unless there is a real emergency.
Wes: I am going to tell them some bad news. That once a house was on fire somewhere. And that Wyatt hit me this morning with a block. It’s an emergency, Mommy.
Three and a half might have been too young for this lesson. Suddenly the vision of Wesley wandering in the street and a neighbor finding him doesn’t seem so bad.
Showing posts with label wes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wes. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Friday, July 3, 2009
can't wait for three!
Really, could I be any lazier about writing? Somebody slap me!
Wesley has been having a hard time lately. He’ll be three in August so he is in the midst of the “terrible twos.” And since he is so close to three now, I’m getting excited – because it will all get better on his birthday, right?
When he first turned two, I thought, “This isn’t so bad.” But like a fine wine, he has perfected the terrible part of terrible twos with time. I’m not trying to be negative about my son. I still love him ridiculous amounts and I realize that this behavior is normal. But sometimes the constant whining/crying/arguing/rascally behavior gets a little old. Yesterday, he had had a particularly rough day. It was almost bedtime and he was having a mini-meltdown about which pajamas to wear. Something like, Not THOSE pajamas. No, now I want them. But only the shirt. Wait, I want the pants too. Right now! Give. Me. Those. Pants.
Finally, I put the pants aside and told Wesley to come sit with me for a minute. I realized that this had nothing to do with pajama pants but more with two year old angst. I pulled him onto my lap, his underwear-clad bottom on my bare crossed legs. I was trying to have a tender “mommy loves you” moment but he wouldn’t hold still. I asked him, “What is wrong, Wes? Hold still and talk to Mommy.”
And he exclaimed, “I can’t! There’s crunchy things all over your legs!!!”
Those “crunchy things” would be a week’s worth of not having time to shave in case you were wondering. I couldn’t hold it in any longer – I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Crunchy leg hair saved the day. How cool is that?
Wesley has been having a hard time lately. He’ll be three in August so he is in the midst of the “terrible twos.” And since he is so close to three now, I’m getting excited – because it will all get better on his birthday, right?
When he first turned two, I thought, “This isn’t so bad.” But like a fine wine, he has perfected the terrible part of terrible twos with time. I’m not trying to be negative about my son. I still love him ridiculous amounts and I realize that this behavior is normal. But sometimes the constant whining/crying/arguing/rascally behavior gets a little old. Yesterday, he had had a particularly rough day. It was almost bedtime and he was having a mini-meltdown about which pajamas to wear. Something like, Not THOSE pajamas. No, now I want them. But only the shirt. Wait, I want the pants too. Right now! Give. Me. Those. Pants.
Finally, I put the pants aside and told Wesley to come sit with me for a minute. I realized that this had nothing to do with pajama pants but more with two year old angst. I pulled him onto my lap, his underwear-clad bottom on my bare crossed legs. I was trying to have a tender “mommy loves you” moment but he wouldn’t hold still. I asked him, “What is wrong, Wes? Hold still and talk to Mommy.”
And he exclaimed, “I can’t! There’s crunchy things all over your legs!!!”
Those “crunchy things” would be a week’s worth of not having time to shave in case you were wondering. I couldn’t hold it in any longer – I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Crunchy leg hair saved the day. How cool is that?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
this might be a true story
Once upon a time there was a mother who always tried to do her very best. And one day, she realized that her son was getting older and might be ready to reach a new milestone – potty training. The mother had never potty trained anyone before and wasn’t really sure what to do but she was confident that she could get the job done, especially with such a smart son. So the mother talked about potty training with her son and bought him underpants to get him excited and got a cool looking potty chair for him (can a potty chair look cool?) Anyway, the mother really talked it all up, as she tended to do, and picked a date to begin – the Monday after they returned from vacation: P-Day.
What the mother couldn’t foresee was that her other son would develop a terrible ear infection the night before P-Day. AND, the mother hadn’t even thought about the fact that she would also have five other kids to watch and care for while she was trying to teach this one to eliminate waste only on the potty chair. Adding to her misery, she also decided to begin a diet that same day.
By noon, this poor, poor mother had changed her son’s entire outfit four times. They were 0 and 4. The other five children could sense her weakness and circled around her head like turkey buzzards as she continued diligently to coax her son to “just make some potty, please.” As her blood pressure continued to rise, large amounts of milk were spilled on the floor, one child ate a handful of sand, and someone threw up in the living room (strangely, she never found out who…) That afternoon, her son managed to make, not even exaggerating, ONE drop of urine. It was a miracle that was immediately rewarded with two M & M s for the son and two Tylenol for the mother.
The next day, the potty chair was gone. And it wasn’t seen again for a long, long time.
What the mother couldn’t foresee was that her other son would develop a terrible ear infection the night before P-Day. AND, the mother hadn’t even thought about the fact that she would also have five other kids to watch and care for while she was trying to teach this one to eliminate waste only on the potty chair. Adding to her misery, she also decided to begin a diet that same day.
By noon, this poor, poor mother had changed her son’s entire outfit four times. They were 0 and 4. The other five children could sense her weakness and circled around her head like turkey buzzards as she continued diligently to coax her son to “just make some potty, please.” As her blood pressure continued to rise, large amounts of milk were spilled on the floor, one child ate a handful of sand, and someone threw up in the living room (strangely, she never found out who…) That afternoon, her son managed to make, not even exaggerating, ONE drop of urine. It was a miracle that was immediately rewarded with two M & M s for the son and two Tylenol for the mother.
The next day, the potty chair was gone. And it wasn’t seen again for a long, long time.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Urethra, I have found it!!!
Sorry, I had to quote Kelly Bundy from Married With Children for the title. I realize that the word should actually be “eureka.”
I have an idea for an invention and I’m going to share it with you.
This week both of our boys got some kind of virus. It has not been fun. It started on Tuesday. Wesley had to go back to the doctor’s office to have a repeat oxygen level test to make sure he is recovering from walking pneumonia (which means that last week was a giant ball of laughs, too.) He doesn’t like to go to the doctor so I knew he would put up a fight. He was very quiet and un-Wesley-like while we waited in the exam room. When we were finally finished, I took him out and loaded him into the car. They locked the door behind us since we were the last customers of the day. As soon as I buckled the straps, Wesley said in a really puny voice, “Mommy my tummy hurts. And my mouth hurts.” I figured it was because he had worked himself up so much about the doctor. I was wrong. He opened his mouth and puked all over his car seat and himself. I was torn – do I stick my hands under the fountain of puke and try to unbuckle him to get him out of the car or do I just wait for him to finish erupting? I decided to get him out. We went back to the doctor’s office and knocked on the now locked door. They were gracious enough to let us use the restroom. I stripped Wesley down to his diaper and tried my best to wipe him off. It was not a shining moment in my career as a mother.
There really is no worse sound to wake up to than that of a two year old ralphing in his own bed. Luckily, Wesley’s bout with the virus only lasted 12 hours. Unfortunately, I have about seventeen loads of laundry to help me remember each of those 12 painful hours. And then Wyatt got the bug.
Back to the invention. There are machines that help predict earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. There are even dogs that can warn people when they are about to have a seizure. I think what we need is this: some kind of device to predict when a little kid is about to throw up. It would need to give about a two minute warning so you could get said kid out of the car seat or off the couch or off grandma’s handmade rug imported from Turkey. I think a really good name for it would be the Puke Predictor. And we could get that Billy Mays guy who yells everything to do the commercial for it. “ARE YOU TIRED OF YOUR CHILD THROWING UP IN INCONVENIENT PLACES? THEN THE PUKE PREDICTOR IS FOR YOU!!” This invention would all but eliminate incidences of what I call PWAW – or puking without adequate warning.
Feel free to go ahead and actually create one of these devices. I only ask two things: when you make your millions, send me a free Puke Predictor, and when you get to go on Oprah to show off your clever invention, let me be in the studio audience. That seems fair, right?
I have an idea for an invention and I’m going to share it with you.
This week both of our boys got some kind of virus. It has not been fun. It started on Tuesday. Wesley had to go back to the doctor’s office to have a repeat oxygen level test to make sure he is recovering from walking pneumonia (which means that last week was a giant ball of laughs, too.) He doesn’t like to go to the doctor so I knew he would put up a fight. He was very quiet and un-Wesley-like while we waited in the exam room. When we were finally finished, I took him out and loaded him into the car. They locked the door behind us since we were the last customers of the day. As soon as I buckled the straps, Wesley said in a really puny voice, “Mommy my tummy hurts. And my mouth hurts.” I figured it was because he had worked himself up so much about the doctor. I was wrong. He opened his mouth and puked all over his car seat and himself. I was torn – do I stick my hands under the fountain of puke and try to unbuckle him to get him out of the car or do I just wait for him to finish erupting? I decided to get him out. We went back to the doctor’s office and knocked on the now locked door. They were gracious enough to let us use the restroom. I stripped Wesley down to his diaper and tried my best to wipe him off. It was not a shining moment in my career as a mother.
There really is no worse sound to wake up to than that of a two year old ralphing in his own bed. Luckily, Wesley’s bout with the virus only lasted 12 hours. Unfortunately, I have about seventeen loads of laundry to help me remember each of those 12 painful hours. And then Wyatt got the bug.
Back to the invention. There are machines that help predict earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. There are even dogs that can warn people when they are about to have a seizure. I think what we need is this: some kind of device to predict when a little kid is about to throw up. It would need to give about a two minute warning so you could get said kid out of the car seat or off the couch or off grandma’s handmade rug imported from Turkey. I think a really good name for it would be the Puke Predictor. And we could get that Billy Mays guy who yells everything to do the commercial for it. “ARE YOU TIRED OF YOUR CHILD THROWING UP IN INCONVENIENT PLACES? THEN THE PUKE PREDICTOR IS FOR YOU!!” This invention would all but eliminate incidences of what I call PWAW – or puking without adequate warning.
Feel free to go ahead and actually create one of these devices. I only ask two things: when you make your millions, send me a free Puke Predictor, and when you get to go on Oprah to show off your clever invention, let me be in the studio audience. That seems fair, right?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
perhaps he will become a sailor someday
This weekend, Bryan and I were sitting in the living room with our boys. I don’t remember what happened, but Wesley looked at me and said, laughing, “Mommy, you a dumb butt.”
I was a little surprised. I wanted to correct him and say, “No, Wesley, it’s ‘Mommy, you ARE a dumb butt’ – you forgot the verb.” But I knew that forgetting the verb wasn’t really the problem here – it was my two year old son calling me a dumb butt. Bryan and I told him that we don’t use that word and I gave him an alternate phrase: silly turkey (child development experts say you must give them an alternate word/phrase to use and luckily I just read that a few days ago…) He seemed to accept this idea, at least for the moment.
A few minutes later, the phone rang and Winnie barked at it. She doesn’t usually bark at the phone but that isn’t the point. The point is that Wesley laughed and said, “Damn it, dog.”
Okay, that one didn’t come from me. My eyes just about fell out of my head and I looked over at Bryan. But I don’t ever hear him say that either. Where is our precious little angel getting these words? What’s next – dropping the f-bomb to a little old lady in the church nursery?!? Cussing out the Easter Bunny? I don’t even want to think about it. And now that he knows he isn’t supposed to say those things, I often hear him chanting them to himself over and over like a little broken record.
It reminds me of when I was a young’un. I can almost taste the soap in my mouth now…
I was a little surprised. I wanted to correct him and say, “No, Wesley, it’s ‘Mommy, you ARE a dumb butt’ – you forgot the verb.” But I knew that forgetting the verb wasn’t really the problem here – it was my two year old son calling me a dumb butt. Bryan and I told him that we don’t use that word and I gave him an alternate phrase: silly turkey (child development experts say you must give them an alternate word/phrase to use and luckily I just read that a few days ago…) He seemed to accept this idea, at least for the moment.
A few minutes later, the phone rang and Winnie barked at it. She doesn’t usually bark at the phone but that isn’t the point. The point is that Wesley laughed and said, “Damn it, dog.”
Okay, that one didn’t come from me. My eyes just about fell out of my head and I looked over at Bryan. But I don’t ever hear him say that either. Where is our precious little angel getting these words? What’s next – dropping the f-bomb to a little old lady in the church nursery?!? Cussing out the Easter Bunny? I don’t even want to think about it. And now that he knows he isn’t supposed to say those things, I often hear him chanting them to himself over and over like a little broken record.
It reminds me of when I was a young’un. I can almost taste the soap in my mouth now…
Thursday, January 8, 2009
because they only take their first steps once
I was watching Oprah one afternoon and I saw something interesting. There was this guy who is the founder of an internet company. He makes gazillions of dollars but instead of having a big flashy office, he has a little cubicle with all the rest of the workers at his company. He was talking about how much he loves what he does. His advice to everyone was this: find a way to get paid to do what you love.
And so I started thinking…what do I love to do? Immediately I knew. But I couldn’t find anyone who wanted to pay me to sleep or watch TV. I know – isn’t that ridiculous?!?
Due to circumstances in life, I recently started a home daycare. If I said I love it, I would be lying. But I like kids and I have a strong desire to take care of my own boys (as opposed to putting them in daycare so I can work) so it seemed like the most logical choice.
I began the process of being licensed back in November. It was a long and painful process that involved speaking on the phone with numerous government workers who obviously hated their jobs and me for making them work.
I try to think positively about the whole situation, even when someone else’s child is handing me his booger. Which happens several times each day. And the most positive thing is that I do get to take care of my own kiddos, still. A few days ago, one of the little boys who stays with us was crying after his mom left. I was comforting him and Wesley wiggled up next to me. “Why is he crying, Mama?” he asked.
“He misses his Mommy. She had to go to work and that makes him sad. You know, Wesley, you are really lucky because your Mommy gets to stay with you all day long.”
But I know that I am still the lucky one because I don’t have to go flip burgers or type memos for some guy named Ed or floss other people’s teeth. I get to be with my boys and I don’t have to miss all the sweet things that they do and the milestones that only a Mommy can appreciate. Even if it means I have to wipe five other noses (and butts) each day, it’s what I want to do.
And so I started thinking…what do I love to do? Immediately I knew. But I couldn’t find anyone who wanted to pay me to sleep or watch TV. I know – isn’t that ridiculous?!?
Due to circumstances in life, I recently started a home daycare. If I said I love it, I would be lying. But I like kids and I have a strong desire to take care of my own boys (as opposed to putting them in daycare so I can work) so it seemed like the most logical choice.
I began the process of being licensed back in November. It was a long and painful process that involved speaking on the phone with numerous government workers who obviously hated their jobs and me for making them work.
I try to think positively about the whole situation, even when someone else’s child is handing me his booger. Which happens several times each day. And the most positive thing is that I do get to take care of my own kiddos, still. A few days ago, one of the little boys who stays with us was crying after his mom left. I was comforting him and Wesley wiggled up next to me. “Why is he crying, Mama?” he asked.
“He misses his Mommy. She had to go to work and that makes him sad. You know, Wesley, you are really lucky because your Mommy gets to stay with you all day long.”
But I know that I am still the lucky one because I don’t have to go flip burgers or type memos for some guy named Ed or floss other people’s teeth. I get to be with my boys and I don’t have to miss all the sweet things that they do and the milestones that only a Mommy can appreciate. Even if it means I have to wipe five other noses (and butts) each day, it’s what I want to do.
Friday, December 26, 2008
conversation with Wesley
Wesley and Wyatt were laying on my bed together this morning while I was drying my hair. It was so cute to see them cuddling that I had to put my hair dryer down and join them. We just spent a few days with my sister’s kids (there are five of them) and Wesley seemed to enjoy having so many kids to play with. So I asked him, “Wesley, do you think some day you would like to have another brother?”
His reply was a simple, “No.”
My next question, “What about a baby sister?”
Again, “No.”
He continued to tickle Wyatt and hand him toys. I persisted, “You love your little brother. Are you sure you don’t want a little baby brother again someday?”
He looked me straight in the eye, pointed his stubby little finger at Wyatt’s head and said,
“I didn’t even want this baby,” and then resumed his playing.
His reply was a simple, “No.”
My next question, “What about a baby sister?”
Again, “No.”
He continued to tickle Wyatt and hand him toys. I persisted, “You love your little brother. Are you sure you don’t want a little baby brother again someday?”
He looked me straight in the eye, pointed his stubby little finger at Wyatt’s head and said,
“I didn’t even want this baby,” and then resumed his playing.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
it makes me so mad!!!
Last weekend, I took a little trip all by myself to Austin, TX to visit my friend Sara. She is engaged to a man I had never met so I figured I had better meet him before the wedding. That way when the preacher says, "if there is anyone who knows of any reason these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace..." I could stand up if I needed to. Do they even say that at weddings anymore?
Anyway, it was a short but very nice trip. I got to sleep late, we took long walks, and I got to meet Sara's friends at an engagement party. It was such a nice and relaxing weekend that I felt completely unprepared for the cold shower of real life that I returned to. Apparently, Wesley was very sick with a high fever for most of the weekend. And you know what they say - sick baby, grumpy daddy.
I took Wes to the doctor first thing Monday morning and he tested very positive for strep FOR THE FIFTH TIME in five months. And as much as I have enjoyed living in a "den of illness" I told the doctor that I am tired of having a sick baby. He agreed and prescribed what I guess are the "big guns" of antibiotics.
This whole process of shooting medicine into a baby's mouth via a syringe has become second nature to me - like tying my shoe or cleaning mashed potatoes out of the dog's ear. So I was shocked when Wesley fought me so much on taking this particular medicine. The perscription said three times a day for ten days - 30 doses. By day two, I was having to pin him down on the floor to get the job done. By day three, he had perfected the art of spitting it out the side of his mouth. Day four, I decided to try bribes - take your medicine, get four chocolate chips. Deal or no deal?
No deal. Finally, I decided to taste this medicine myself - how bad could it be? Well, I didn't have to taste it - as the bottle got close to my face, the stench of a rotting animal carcass filled my nostrils. I almost threw up.
I took the bottle to Walgreens and begged them to flavor it with something even though they aren't supposed to after it has been taken out of the store. I must have been convincing (read: desparate) because they agreed to do it. The pharmacist read in the computer that this is one of the worst tasting medicines they sell and that grape or lemon flavoring would work best. At this point, she could have squirted Cheez Whiz into the bottle and I would've gone along with it because it certainly couldn't have come out tasting any worse. I chose grape.
My question is: why can't these gigantic pharmaceutical companies produce medicines that are both effective and tasty? Or at least that don't taste like rancid meat? And this is a medicine that is supposed to be specifically for babies!
But I am sure that the grape flavoring will make all the difference in the world. I mean, who wouldn't want some rotting meat with grape jelly on it? And maybe a side of poop-flavored licorice...
Anyway, it was a short but very nice trip. I got to sleep late, we took long walks, and I got to meet Sara's friends at an engagement party. It was such a nice and relaxing weekend that I felt completely unprepared for the cold shower of real life that I returned to. Apparently, Wesley was very sick with a high fever for most of the weekend. And you know what they say - sick baby, grumpy daddy.
I took Wes to the doctor first thing Monday morning and he tested very positive for strep FOR THE FIFTH TIME in five months. And as much as I have enjoyed living in a "den of illness" I told the doctor that I am tired of having a sick baby. He agreed and prescribed what I guess are the "big guns" of antibiotics.
This whole process of shooting medicine into a baby's mouth via a syringe has become second nature to me - like tying my shoe or cleaning mashed potatoes out of the dog's ear. So I was shocked when Wesley fought me so much on taking this particular medicine. The perscription said three times a day for ten days - 30 doses. By day two, I was having to pin him down on the floor to get the job done. By day three, he had perfected the art of spitting it out the side of his mouth. Day four, I decided to try bribes - take your medicine, get four chocolate chips. Deal or no deal?
No deal. Finally, I decided to taste this medicine myself - how bad could it be? Well, I didn't have to taste it - as the bottle got close to my face, the stench of a rotting animal carcass filled my nostrils. I almost threw up.
I took the bottle to Walgreens and begged them to flavor it with something even though they aren't supposed to after it has been taken out of the store. I must have been convincing (read: desparate) because they agreed to do it. The pharmacist read in the computer that this is one of the worst tasting medicines they sell and that grape or lemon flavoring would work best. At this point, she could have squirted Cheez Whiz into the bottle and I would've gone along with it because it certainly couldn't have come out tasting any worse. I chose grape.
My question is: why can't these gigantic pharmaceutical companies produce medicines that are both effective and tasty? Or at least that don't taste like rancid meat? And this is a medicine that is supposed to be specifically for babies!
But I am sure that the grape flavoring will make all the difference in the world. I mean, who wouldn't want some rotting meat with grape jelly on it? And maybe a side of poop-flavored licorice...
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