Sympathy and Compassion

In the comments attached to the last post, Preacher Mom asked me if taking allergy medications by mistake and suffering the fuzzy headed, drowsy, what’s-going-on effects of the drugs made me more sympathetic to the DH's plight as an allergy-ridden person.

The question was: am I now a more sympathetic person?

Let me think about that….hmmm. I like to think that in situations where I recognize the suffering, I am as sympathetic as one can be. Suffering I have experienced, like new motherhood, new motherhood of twins, new motherhood of twins and breastfeeding them through a six week nipple infection, will bring out the giving spirit in me. So, now am I more sympathetic to those suffering allergies? Well, yes. The mental stagnation I felt those days on Zyrtek-D is not to be willingly repeated. But am I more sympathetic in general to suffering that I have not experienced? Well, no. Does that mean I am a selfish and bitchy person? At times, yes, but that’s what y’all like about me, right? Hah!


I will freely admit that whilst in the midst of suffering and being thick headed and sleepy and runny-nosey, I was not really aware that I was suffering from reverse allergies. Therefore, I was not really paying attention to how it felt to have allergies, not being swift enough to analyze the situation. It is just too ironic that the reason I was not able to think about how I felt as someone who suffers allergies is because the medication made me too wooly brained to think that deeply into the situation. How crazy.

Therefore, I must admit to you, my gentle readers, that now I am “allergy free” I am, in some ways, back to my previous state of mild impatience with those who sniff instead of reaching for a tissue. Part of it goes back to my childhood with a parent who sniff, sniff, sniffed all freakin' day long, and another part is just an aversion to boogers. However, you poor dears who get the headaches, the drowsiness, and the what-day/time/week-is-it stupidity that can, unfortunately, go with the allergy pill…you have my deepest sympathy.

I’m still not going to let you drive my car; that bottle does suggest avoiding heavy machinery. I’m sympathetic, not dumb.

A day on my own and Zyrtek-D.

Well, it was really a day with 16 strangers and Brad Pitt. Well, I tried to spend time with Brad Pitt, but someone was offended by him, go figure, and I was made to switch to Sabrina. The remake. Ick.

In case you are wondering what in the name of all that is holy and I am rabbiting on about – here are the facts. I signed up for a product testing thing to make a little cash, for spinning classes, for mascara, for iced coffees, you know; fun money. One of the places I signed up with had a six-hour test for a moisturizer that paid $100 for 6 hours. The test was described thusly; wear our test moisturizer on your arms for 6 hours, and every 90 minutes we will check the PH and the hydration of your skin. You can watch a movie, read a book, do whatever, but you need to stay in the climate controlled test area.

“Okay!” I said, “I’m in.” So I packed a bag with Guy Ritchie’s film Snatch, which I think is too amusing, and my laptop, so I could work on a few things before watching a movie. When I got there, it took about an hour to get all 16 testers washed and greased up, into the room and settled down. It only took another hour for everyone lose their shyness and start bitching about the fact that the promised VCR and TV for our viewing pleasure was nowhere in evidence. I was not surprised by the lack of TV, nor the horrible “breakfast” provided (cheese Danish and Tang). Nor was I surprised by the obesity inducing lunch – pizza and root beer. Good thing I had the presence of mind to bring a sandwich and some raisins.

Anyway, once I had done what I wanted to do on the computer, I packed it up and went out to where the girlies in charge of the test were sitting, chatting and drinking coffee. I asked about the TV, and told them that I overheard several of the test subjects talking about how they had been promised a TV and VCR. They made abashed noises and scurried off to get them. I came back in the room and my, was I the heroine or what! The TV was greeted with cries of delight, and one of the girlies in charge said, “We didn’t know you wanted a TV! You should have spoken up sooner!” Since I had taken over as ringleader, I handed over the tape of Snatch and the film began. The test ladies immediately around me seemed interested and one exclaimed, “Hey! I saw this in the movie theater years ago! This is a good movie.” And we settle down to watch.

I haven’t seen it in a while, what with having toddlers and all, and I had actually forgotten how many times the characters say f**k, f**king, f**ker, f**kers, w*nkers, b*llocks, c**t, d*ck, s**t, GD, bl**dy hell, and so on. Really, every other word of dialogue was cursing. The film is hilarious and clever and well filmed and the music is great, but the fact that the story involves a jewel heist, murder and an unlicensed boxing ring run by a feller called Brick Top who graphically feeds his victims to his pigs to hide the bodies, meant that it was a touch offensive to some.

When the manager came in to stop the film, one of the characters was speaking the immortal lines, “A boxing match? Is there gambling involved? You're talking about Frankie -I've got a problem with gambling- F**king Four Fingers? You have any idea why they call him Frankie Four Fingers, Doug? Well, because he makes stupid bets with dangerous people. And when he doesn't pay, they give him the chop! And I'm not talking about his f**king foreskin either, Doug!”

I guess I really didn’t take the target audience into close consideration. Hey, I did pass around the VCR sleeve with all the reviewer’s tripe and a synopsis of the movie on it before I pressed play, but some one found the saga of Brad Pitt as a half-naked itinerant bare-knuckled boxing champion and Frankie Four Fingers a bit much. So, we wound up watching Sabrina, with Harrison Ford. Which wasn’t nearly as amusing.

Six hours later, I was free to go. I had my last PH and moisture level check, collected my bags and contentious VCR tape, and skedaddled. I got home to find the DH looking like a wet dishcloth and the boys absolutely delighted to see me. They literally pounced, and commenced to nursing. Which was fine by me, I was working on being a D cup by then.

The DH had had a full day planned. The plan was to go over to Preacher Mom’s house in the morning to cut down some shrubs and get the boys to play with her two little ones. I had suggested lunch together, then a nice half hour car ride, so they would sleep and give him some down time. I was going to be home by 3:00, so I could take over for a few hours before spinning. When I got home, naturally I asked how they were, and how the day had been. The shrub chopping was a success, the lunch eating was a bit of a frost and the napping, apart from 45 minutes for Baby B and 60 minutes for Baby A, really didn’t happen. I expressed my sympathy and asked how he felt. He said, “Oh, fine..”

When I came back from the gym at 7:00, judging by the low level of tolerance, zero patience, and general teeth gritting and you-need-to-go-to-bed-babies! he was showing, I could tell “fine” wasn’t all that accurate a description of how he was doing. I know what really what happened. The boys sucked the energy right outta the DH, like they do to me everyday, and he was a bit stunned by the mind-melting results.

Once the boys were asleep and we had a chance to chat, I said, “I am so tired today! In the test room I was yawning, and I still have a headache and feel really listless. I am glad I went to spin class tonight, but I still feel odd. And my nose is running!.” The DH thought it might have been the six hours in a hermetically sealed room with 16 exhaling strangers, but I discovered the truth this morning.

Each morning whoever is out of bed first leaves the vitamins and allergy pills and thyroid medication on the counter for the next person. I take a multi-vitamin; a vitamin C if I’m feeling run down, my Synthroid and a flax seed pill. The DH takes a multi, a Zyrtek-D allergy pill and either cod liver oil or flax seed, whichever is put there for him. Yesterday I took my pills and felt tired. This morning, after I took the pills, I was putting the tablets the DH forgot to take away. That’s when I noticed his allergy pill bottle. It was full of little white tablets, flat white tablets that look like vitamin C tablets. And there were no vitamin C tablets anywhere; not even an empty bottle. Yep, I took his Zyrtek–D, two days in a row. (D for decongestant! That explains the running nose.) I read the bottle; side effects are headache, drowsiness and a general feeling of being stupid.

Those side effects are really on the money. I wonder, has he’s been slipping me an allergy pill every day for the past two years?

A Smashing Good Time

Thanks to a beautiful and intelligent friend of mine (you know who you are!) my children got the idea to stand on chairs and dabble in the water as it runs from the kitchen tap. I thought, “Well, golly, I can get them to wash a dish or two and clean their hands at the same time, so what’s the harm?”

Fateful words…

A few days ago, I had planned a morning at the park, then an early afternoon game of Scrabble with another stay home parent pal. The DH gave the boys breakfast as I did my tired best to scrape together an outfit, wash the face and apply SPF 30 to every inch of exposed skin that might get a second of sunshine at some point during the morning. Once I was armed for the day, I got the DH out the door, with his ironed shirt on and his lunch is his hands, got the boys changed and dressed, and saw it was 8:30. I needed to find a way to amuse them, hands off, for about half an hour while I got the laundry on the line and the lunch/snack/sippy cup bag packed for us so we could leave the house by 9:00. I know! I'll let them play with the sink! So, I took off their clothes, except their tee shirts, and turned on the kitchen tap to a trickle. “Wash those plastic breakfast bowls and cups, fellas!” I invited, and they started splashing away.

While they were occupied I got the wash on the line and started getting the cups filled and the snacks packed. Suddenly I heard what sounded like a land mine detonating in the sink. I turned around and saw a glass, made of heavy, restaurant quality glass, had been overlooked on the dish rack. Baby B had reached for it, it had slipped from his grasp, hit the edge of the enamel sink, and had exploded all over the sink, the counter, the floor, the side of the cabinet, the baby’s bare limbs, bare feet and all over the floor. The glass literally smashed in a thousand teeny, tiny pieces.

I stood there for about one-tenth of a second and processed the situation – two babies, naked limbs, broken glass, wet floor, me alone, Sweet bearded Jesus - before my 21 months of mother emergency training kicked in. I grabbed my boys and the phone, hustled up to the bathroom, shut the door, rinsed Baby B’s limbs in the tub, swished the water hard down the drain to rinse away the glass, got the splinter out of his thumb, settled him in the tub with his shirt on (why not?) to play with the bathtub faucet, and checked Baby A for glass (all clear!) and nursed him, because he was crying and upset by my interruption of his games. All the while I was calling my two neighbors, my pal down the street and another lady I know who lives about five minutes drive away. All lines either went to voice mail, or were busy. Hmmmm... So I shut the boys in the bathroom, and went downstairs to get the mess condensed at least, so they could walk on the floor.

Baby A was not going to let that happen. While I was downstairs, I could hear him flinging his body against the bathroom door, howling like a pack of slavering wolves were going to gobble him up. I couldn’t think straight, so I called the DH, to get grounded.

DH: Hi Honey, how is everything?
Me: Oh, we’re fine. Except Baby B smashed a glass in the sink and the floor is covered in tiny bits of glass, the babies aren’t wearing any clothes, and the neighbors aren’t home to help me clean it up/keep the babies out of the kitchen. I’d do it all by myself, but Baby A is hysterical without me; I think he’s a little tired.
DH: Should I come home?

Bless him; I have the nicest, most helpful guy on the planet. Well, at least in this state and the neighboring ones. However, as we were on the phone, I realized I know someone who doesn’t go to work until 10:30. It was only 9:15 at this point, so I called her up. Busy signal. This time I didn’t look for another option; I called the Operator, asked her to interrupt the call, and then called back.

Lady: Hello? MOT? Are you okay?
Me: Oh, I’m fine and the boys are fine. Except Baby B smashed a glass in the sink and the floor is covered in tiny bits of glass, the babies aren’t wearing any clothes, and no one else seems to be home to help keep the babies out of the kitchen while I clean it up.
Lady: I’ll be over in five minutes.

Bless her! I have the nicest, most helpful friends and neighbors on the planet. This lady has three children of her own and four little grandchildren, ages 6 months to 3 years old, so she certainly understood the situation.

To bring a long story to a close, she came over and played with the boys in the tub, while I took the twenty minutes I needed to wash the counters, sink, floor, and cabinets; put all the plastic plates that were around into the dishwasher, put the dishcloths and the babies’ clothes into the washing machine, put the trash bag of broken glass into the garage, get new clothes and diapers ready, and go over the floor one more time to be safe. Then, and only then, could the two of us get the boys dressed and into the garden to play.

With a morning like that, I was a bit wary as to what the rest of the day would bring, but the rest of the day was great! They took nice, long naps and I won the Scrabble game by about 40 points! Since my opponent is a smart cookie, who has always won before, it wasn’t easy. Isn’t it amazing how a near death experience can sharpen your mind?

Just another day in the life of the MOT. How was your day?

A post about, well, really, nothing at all...

A friend of mine gave me a New York Times article the other day about a guy who did a guest blogging stint on a friend’s political blog. (Blogging, as in slogging, May 15 .) He wasn't much troubled by the fact that as a Liberal guest on a Conservative site he was bound to get some negative feedback. No, he found the real trouble to lie in the answer to the question - What do I write about? The conclusion he drew, after posting several times and getting several scathing responses, was - write about what you know best. Pick a pet topic and go into gory detail, the gorier the better. As a part of the admitted Navel Gazing Mommy Blogging Community, I was delighted to be able to think, "Well, I do have a pet topic (me and my life) and yep, some of them details is purty gory! I guess I am doing it right!"

Of course, I must assume that my audience is interested in my gory life and the details that go with it, but hell, who isn't interested in my tales of sound and fury? (Ann(e), who I met at the block yard sale today, you really were interested in chatting with a total stranger for twenty minutes, right? Or was it that Southern Hospitality you have acquired by osmosis? Sure is...) Recently my intelligent sister said “That blog by the Lady Miss Kier and her poodle is the worst case of navel gazing I have ever come across! And her writing! Yikes! Every time I read her blog…” Which I thought was interesting. I mean, if you think someone is self- centered and pathetic, why are you reading the blog? Apart from the fact that I’ve read it too and it’s so bad it’s funny.

No, the point of all this (apart from being pointless for the point of it), is that I really don’t ever find myself in the position Mister David Greenberg found himself in when he was asked to post on his pal Mister Dan Drezner’s political blog. Since my subject is me, a subject I find endlessly fascinating, I really don’t have much trouble in finding topics on which to post. Life as a mother, of twins or otherwise, is full of Excruciating Minutiae, and other mothers really do care. We understand that genius lies in the details. Case in point, the post you just read – interesting, and, dare I say it, well written, and really, about nothing at all.

How fascinating!

The Penis Post

Okay, for all of y'all who may be wondering what happened with Baby A’s wiener…

On Tuesday of that week, I noticed a slight cheesy odor and saw that his intact penis was a little swollen and red. My pal, Preacher Mom, had been through this with her own intact 3 year old. They had applied a topical anti-biotic for a few days, and the redness went away. Her son also took an oral anti-biotic, because the infection was almost to the urethra, and her pediatrician felt it necessary. Her boy is A-Ok now, and has no discomfort or trouble anymore. I asked her to look at Baby A’s wiener on Wednesday, and she said, yes, it looks a little infected. So on Thursday I brought him to the pediatrician, but was not able to see his regular doctor; we saw another pedi in the group. Well, it was a traumatic visit.

The partner, who seemed okay at first, quickly lost my respect when he a) tried to retract the baby’s foreskin, and b) gave me the bogus diagnosis of phimosis. Then he said, “We have to get in there and clean out the smegma. You are going to have to have him circumcised." What?! I come from a family of doctors (Yes, my sister is a doctor!) and I know how to think for myself, so I said, “Umm, NO WAY!” I know that phimosis is a bogus diagnosis because it means a foreskin that is too tight to retract. Um, Mister Doctor? Did you doze off in the penis portion of your gross anatomy class? Little boy's foreskins generally don’t retract until they are 4, 5 or even 6 years old. Since my baby isn’t even TWO, his foreskin isn’t going anywhere for at least another two years, so how can he have a condition defined by a foreskin that retracts badly when his doesn’t retract at all? It’s like telling a 5 year old she’s having cramps because of menstruation. (And then reccomending birth control pills to manage the cramps, right?)

I was extremely upset by all this and drove home, gnashing my teeth and muttering curses. Softly though, I didn’t want to wake up my sleeping, uncircumcised baby with the infected wiener. A recommendation of circumcision, I ask you! Upon getting home, I immediately settled the baby to sleep and I went to my old pal the Internet and did a little research. I also asked my sister, who, besides having a PHD (she is super smart), and a genius IQ (no joke), also has a wonderful group of pals she met on line when she was pregnant with her first child. Now, seven years later, they all still keep in touch, several of them have blogs, like the Fab-O Amy, and they are a real wealth of information.

Over the next few days I received several informative emails from my sister’s pals that all pretty much ran along the same lines. What I found on line at the Mothering Magazine site, at Baby Center and at Caring for Kids dot com was all consistent with their advice. I’ll jot down the basics here for y’all who might need this information for your own intact son’s penises:

An uncircumcised penis is easy to keep clean and requires no special care:

Keep your baby’s penis clean by gently washing the area during his bath. Do not try to pull back the foreskin. Usually, it is not fully retractable until a boy is 3 to 5 years old, or even until after puberty. Never force it.

When your son is old enough, teach him to keep his penis clean as you’re teaching him how to keep the rest of his body clean.

When the foreskin separates, skin cells will be shed and new ones will develop to replace them. These dead skin cells will work their way down the penis through the tip of the foreskin and may look like white, cheesy lumps. These are called smegma. If you see them under the skin, you don’t need to force them out. Just wipe them away once they come out.

When the foreskin is fully retractable, teach your son to wash underneath it each day

If an uncircumcised boy has a slightly red tip to his penis, leave it alone. Don’t retract the foreskin to try and clean out the smegma (isn’t that a hilarious word!!?) it’s fine; leave it alone.

If an uncircumcised boy has a slightly swollen penis, it could be a mild infection. Apply an antibiotic cream, change his diaper often, and then; leave it alone.

Pretty plain and simple, eh? I think part of the trouble was a bit a diaper rash that wound up on his wiener instead of his tushie. So, I have switched back to the luxurious Huggies brand diaper, instead of the cheapie Big-Y brand. Huggies are much more absorbent and he didn't have any problems before we switched. Baby B must have an iron foreskin; the cheap diapers don’t bother him at all. Good thing too, because I had just bought another two cases a few days before Baby A came down with his “trouble”.

I also think he might have been irritated by some sand in his shorts. We have been going to the beach lately, and also have a sandbox at home. That would explain his frequent episodes of hands-down-pants. I know little boys like to yankies on their wankies, but he might have also been itchy from the sand. Either that or, as the natural adhesions found in a natural intact penis release, as they naturally do over time, it may cause some itchiness. Naturally.

So naturally, I must conclude that the doctor who saw him and told him to have him snipped, didn’t know what he was talking about. But, like the quasi AP mother I am, I disregarded the snap diagnosis and violent and extreme recommendation, did some research on my own and found a gentle solution to protect my baby. I also asked my village of women what to do and they knew what to say and helped me beyond measure. Naturally.

Is the day over yet? Oh, damn it...it's only noon...

Today is one of those freakin’ days…and it’s only 12:30. I have been to the grocery store, to the Babies R Us extravaganza-mart, and have made an attempt to go to the Children’s Museum, but had to abort the mission because freakin Genghis Khan would not shut up and I was going to lose it.

We started our day pretty well; they got up at 7:00 and actually ate some cereal on their own, without having to be spoon-fed. Little did I know that would be the high point of the morning…

The DH left for work, Baby B saw him go through the door and let out this high-pitched scrrrreeeaaaammmmm that just went on and on and on. Even when I was holding him. So, I resorted to singing this Spanish song about leaping fish and prancing around the dining room to distract him from the loss of his father. That worked, as it always does, but as usual, little Genghis had to be picked up to dance too. Which is fine, except now after dancing with two 23-pound toddlers in my arms on a daily basis I have muscles like a freakin stevedore. (Yet I still have fat arms? Yes, they are fat; there is a weird fat roll on the top of each arm. Is there no justice in the world? No? Well, I didn’t think so.)

I managed to get each child into a fresh pair of underpants (as we so cunningly call diapers chez moi) and into two socks and two shoes each. I emphasize the fact they each had two each of shoe and sock when we left the house at 8:45 in the freakin am. We went to Trader Joe’s, a local crunchy yuppie market and Baby B kicked off a shoe in the parking lot. A woman getting into her car calls out, “Oh! He lost a shoe!” I said, “Thank you!” picked it up and as I was bending over his sweet little foot to fasten the Velcro straps tightly, he kicked me in the face. Now, y’all know how protective I am of my face, so I got a little mad. But I quickly let go of mad and got a grip instead, popped them, complaining, in a cart and into the store.

First stop, the chocolate sample bin. One candy in each mouth and hey presto! Like magic, we have Silence! Of course baby B practically swallowed his whole, and yelled “More! More!” as he sprayed chocolate spit on his outfit, formerly known as CLEAN CLOTHES, and kicked off his shoe again. I got another candy, unwrapped it, filled his gaping maw with chocolate, got another candy for Genghis, who, when he saw that his brother has a second piece, clearly thought, “Damn it, I need another one too!!! EEEEYYYAAA!” I unwrapped Baby A’s candy, gave it to him, put Baby B’s shoe back on and clunk. That was the sound of Genghis’ shoe hitting the floor. I said, “Yes, I saw that he’s missing a shoe” to the person who pointed to the sneaker on the floor, simply put the sneaker in the cart and kept on going.

You guessed it; Baby B had his other sneaker off two minutes later. I gave up on the shoes, and we left the store.

Next stop, Babies R Us, which I only visit when I absolutely must. Why? Because I always wind up getting bits of plastic junk that I don’t really need because It Looked so Useful/Fun/Interesting the Store. (Hi, My name is MOT, and I am a shopper. Hi, MOT!)

Anyway, at the BRU Mega Mart, I picked up the window shade we needed and two bath toys, which I thought we needed, but as it turns out, we really didn’t need them at all. We are in the checkout line and a woman points out that Baby B is only wearing one shoe. I say, “Thank you, I did notice.” She then says, “Oh! The other one (grrrr) is only wearing one shoe too! Hee hee!” I reply, “I can only afford one pair, so they have to share.” Hee hee right back at cha, you freakin’ cow.

We exit stage right, and get to the car. I give each baby a bath toy with which to amuse himself as we make the 30-minute drive to the Children’s Museum, and we take off. This is when it all falls apart.

It was about 11:00 at this point, and I was tired from a restless night and coffee deprived. Since I am also cash poor at the moment; I have plastic a-plenty, but no ATM nearby; I was not able to get a Double D cup. (Get it? Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Get? Double D? Har de har har, that’s some puerile nursing humor fir you.) I was also pissed off by the babies’ inability to keep more than one shoe on and angry at their habit of kicking me when I try to get the freakin shoes back on. I was also a bit annoyed by the comfort of strangers I had received. Yes, I know they aren’t wearing shoes! I am their mother! I do have eyes! I just don’t want to fight them anymore! Why don’t you mind yer own freakin business? Or, conversely, why don’t you pick up the little sneaker and hand it to me, instead of just sniggering and pointing to it on the floor and making me feel like a freakin irresponsible mother? It’s called helping. Yes, I was also feeling sensitive.

Taking the above into consideration put your self in my shoes (!!) and get on the highway with two toddlers and only one interesting bath toy. They fought over who got to hold the boat with the hippo in it, Baby B won, and when I handed over the squeaky rubber duck to Genghis, he threw it across the car. I did my best to get it from where it was lodged next to the car seat, but it was stuck and I was on the highway, with no shoulder. I tried to ply him with juice and music and mini red-waxed cheeses, but he (grrr) pulled off HIS other shoe and tried to toss it at my head. I got off at the next exit, and prepared to double back to the Baby store to get another freakin hippo boat to shut him up, but little Baby B, exhausted from his shoe-filled morning, fell asleep. I took the hippo boat away from Baby B and handed it over, but that too came flying across the car. I was not about to go back to the store with one freaking out baby and one sleeping baby, nor could I see us going to the children’s museum any time soon, so we just turned around again and headed for home.

Since we were out of the way, it took about 25 minutes to get home. Even with the hippo boat on his lap, Genghis was still mad/tired/agitated, so he screamed and whined all the way home. We pull into the garage and he really starts crying and waving his arms and pointing to the light in the garage. Now I know he loves having the lights turned on and off, but because he was being too impossible, I deliberately left the light off, and unloaded the car. He yelled and shrieked and said, “light! Light!” But mean mommy that I am, I put the groceries in the house, put the freakin bath toys away on a high shelf and had a glass of water before I got him out of the car seat and into the house.

Ooooh, was he pissed off! But after a diaper change, a sip of juice and a snuggled from Mommy Dearest, he feel asleep. I guess he was tired, eh?

I met a friend of mine at a playgroup the other day. She looked a little ashen and tired and said, in a whisper, “ I almost killed my child this morning.”

Me: Oh! Did he fall? Was he hurt? Any blood?
Friend: No! There was no accident. I mean, on purpose.
Me: Oh! Well, that’s okay then.

Anyone who thinks we are big blue meanies doesn’t have 20-month-old twin boys. And if you do have twins, you know exactly what we are freakin talking about.

EDITED TO ADD: Actually, if you have more than one child, in any combination of ages, you too deserve a martini. To drink right NOW.

A Cat Biologist

Yesterday morning, as we were getting up, my DH looks out of the window, at the sunshine and the blue sky, and comments:

"Wow. It's a great day to be a cat biologist."

He actually said it's a great day to be attacked by allergies, but we've had some fun with the cat remark.

Just so y'all know...

In spite of having intense arguments with my mother and a scare with Baby A's health (he may have an infection of the weiner) life is still richly full of humor and zip. Case in point:

I came home from the gym Tuesday night and a strange scorchy smell greeted me.

Me: “What’s that smell? Is that smoke?”
DH: “Yeah, there was some smoke when I made dinner for the boys."
Me: "Why didn't you put on the extractor fan?"
DH: "I was all confused! I didn’t know whether the smoke was from the burned grilled cheese or the burned Jell-O.”

I am sure you can imagine my expression.

Apparently Mister Toddler Attila, a.k.a. Baby B, had climbed on the counter and spilled the Jell-O from lunch over the stove. The DH cleaned it up as best he could, but when he put on the grilled cheese, the burner started smoking, confusing him with the odd smell and he got distracted and left the grilled cheese in the pan a smidge too long.

But they ate it up anyway, went to bed and just the perfume lingered in the air to confuse me in turn. I ask you! Burned Jell-O...

The Mother Shi*

Okay, here’s an update on the Mother Situation. Naturally, we are having a big fight right around Mother’s Day; it just seems to happen. Several years ago I gave her a Mother's Day card within which I wrote: Thanks to you, I am now completely crazy. This year, I will just send her flowers with the generic greeting the florist includes with the bouquet. I am not going to bother with a personalized greeting at all; I am afraid of either apologizing for something I should not feel apologetic for, or I am afraid I’ll work up the guts to write another nasty message, and then I’ll have to spend the summer making up for it. Which is a drag.

Why the necessity for a nasty message you may ask? Well, the fish (see previous post) was not the end of it. On Thursday (the Fishy Story happened on Tuesday) I went to my parents' house to have lunch with the Parents, the Brother, the SIL, and their 2 and a half year old boy, all here from California. My brother is a nice guy and all that, but he can be really irritating with his superiority complex he likes to trot out whenever I am around. In his, and his wife’s, company I always feel like a big, fat, dumb, totally unfashionable and ignorant moose. And now that we both have children, I also feel that he is looking at my boys developmental stages and at their clothing and finding them wanting. (Mene Mene Tekel Upharsim indeed.) Also, oh, yes, there’s more, when my brother and his family are around my parents ignore me even more than usual, so I generally leave the party feeling as if I had wasted a nice afternoon and would have been better off having a root canal. Without anesthesia. Just for fun.

So, I arrive at about 10:30, the Brother and SIL were due at 11:30. I came a little early to let the boys get settled with my parents and play around a bit before the Cousin arrived, at which point the babies would have been pushed aside for the favorite child’s only child. (Smell a little snarky sibling rivalry here? I am mature enough not to deny it, but immature enough to still indulge. Hmm. A quandry...) I pull up and my Mother comes out. She looks in the window of the car and says in this disappointed voice,

“Oh. They are both awake. What are you going to do with them? I must get the lasagna in the oven.”

Gee, I don’t know Mother…what CAN I do with them? Maybe, I can take care of them by myself like I do whether you are around or not! How’s that?

What she actually meant by "do with them" was that I was not allowed in the sitting room, the kitchen, the bedrooms or the pantry, because she had not done any adjustments for the babies arrival. Gosh, we only planned this about three weeks ago! No wonder you and your housekeeper didn’t get a chance to move a few plants! Of course, salted wound lover that I am, I was dying to pee, as only a mother of two who is trying to drink her 8 glasses of water a day can need to pee. I told my mother this, and she sighed and started jabbering about the lasagna again. I told her I’d just wait until my father turned up, and my bursting bladder and I sat in the dining room with the boys.

Now the dining room is a large room, about 40 feet by 20 feet, with six birdcages, standing lamps, a million plants and a lap pool in it. Yep, this is the safest room in the joint, according to the Mother. When I turned my back, fool that I am, on the boys for one minute, they had both climbed up onto the ledge of the pool and were jumping on the cover, laughing and shrieking faster than I could run to stop them. Fortunately, the pool cover is designed to hold up to 70 pounds, so they were okay, but I was kind of annoyed. And I had to pee. And I was alone with them. Because of the lasagna, you understand.

Then my father shows up from work, and he walks past me and goes to change. Goody! I think. He’s putting on his play-clothes and getting ready to come out to see the boys. Well, he was actually doing what a lot of guys need to do when they get home from work; he was settling into the house and frittering around. Girls call it nesting/organizing/getting things done. Guys call it unwinding. Whatever, it meant that I was still unassisted in a room with a lot of attractive hazards and no age appropriate toys. Well, Mother has some Lego and some noise making Little People farm animals for them, but the pickings are slim chez Granny, toy wise. The Father eventually comes in and I get to go to the bathroom, but I am feeling annoyed and upset, and I have only been there for half an hour.

To re-cap, my mother was disappointed the babies were awake, not because she wanted to spend some quality time with me alone, no because when they are awake she might have to deal with them. The babies are bored already and mad at me for not letting them play on the “trampoline” and we are all hungry. Oh, and I forgot to mention I only got about 3 hours sleep the night before, it was just one of those nights the night before.

Then my brother arrives. I know it is absolutely my own fault for finding him and the missus irritating and exasperating, but I ask you – he was wearing chinos, a purple and white striped shirt, a tan corduroy blazer, black socks and maroon leather Vans. The SIL was wearing white pajama pants, an orange tee shirt, a grey satin Cheong-sang jacket and men’s bedroom slippers in brown leather. I just looked and said, “Hi.”

We all went inside and the babies got re-acquainted and then we went outside to throw around a few kick balls. Naturally, the way this day was going, there were only two balls and three babies, so, well, you know. Don’t forget I am really tired.

Baby A starts really hollering and making a fuss, so I have to beg my mother for some food for them. She gets me a banana and puts on some tortellini. (No, she didn’t just offer to get them some food, she just doesn’t seem to see that the twins gets upset and tired more easily than adults do. And since I was not allowed in the kitchen, I couldn't do it myself.) Anyway, lunch was ready by this point and my babies ate some pasta, and had some juice. My father made another of his classic statements, "Hey!" he exclaims "This one likes lasagna! You need to stop feeding him that baby food. He wants REAL food!" Um, Father, he eats cheese, steak, veggies, minestrone soup, lentil soup, black bean soup, Annie's Mac and Cheese, croissants, cold cereal, hot cereal, warm cereal, apples, pears, banana, olives, strawberries, avocadoes, mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, boiled potatoes, Swedish meatballs, ice cream, and something else, I forget what. Father, he only eats applesauce because he likes it. I pointed this out, and I was LAUGHED at, as if I had made a joke. Because I was tired and feeling fragile, I didn’t push the issue, but dollop on another spoonful of annoyance in the mixing bowl of the MOT’s “Nice day” with her Family. Mix well, and add the next cup of piss me off.

After lunch, Mister Baby A needed to nurse and take a nap. I pointed out to the family that if I was sitting with one baby on my lap I really, really, really needed them to keep an eye on Mister Baby B, and they actually did watch him. Oh, he pulled up a few plants, trampled some bulbs and got all wet in a puddle. They didn’t STOP him, but they did WATCH him. Mister Baby A fell asleep and I went into the Forbidden City to put him on the sofa for his nap. Then I took Mister Baby B in the car to get him to nap; after a ten minute struggle I could see he wasn’t going for the nursing-to-sleep thing. I drove him for ten minutes, no longer, and came back. I was feeling very tired and crotchety by now; I had had to bolt my lasagna and now had a tummy ache. I drive up the driveway, and guess what I see? Baby A standing by the plants, as awake as you can be. Man, there is no rest for the wicked. By that, I mean no rest for ME!!! Grrrrrrr…..

So, I am now chasing around Baby A, and I went into the kitchen to get a paper to jot down the naps. The DH likes to know how long they have napped and at what time, so he can get a handle on what he has to deal with if I go out or to the gym. It’s a habit, writing down their naps, and besides, I tend to forget the details myself, being so freaking exhausted and all. I am scribbling - 12 to 12:30 Baby A - on this paper and the Mother leans over and says in this sarcastic VOICE:

“Do you HAVE to time EVERYTHING they do?”

It was as if she had stabbed me in the back with an ice pick. I literally saw red and turned to her and said in an equally nasty voice, “I write down their naps for the DH, so he knows what he’s dealing with if I am not around. Besides, I forget when they nap, and...” She totally interrupted me (I wasn’t being clever or funny or listening to her, so why should she stick around, right?) and walks off saying, “Oh! Don’t bite my head off! Dear, dear.” She goes into the dining room and stars telling my brother that I was rude to her for no reason, she said, "I just asked her - What are you writing?”

I stormed in and said, “NO, you were not asking me a question, you were teasing me, hassling me, making fun of me as usual and I won’t have it! Stop it! ! Stop it! ! Stop it!” I held up my hand like you do with a hysterical toddler and said "stop it" until she shut up so I could talk. I took a breath to explain exactly why I was writing down the naps and I had intended to tell her, yet again, how much it bothers me when she gets on my case like this, and she walks off again!

Then I realized, there is no way she is ever going to listen to me, no way she is ever going to stop making fun of me and my children, and there is no way I am going to take this lying down. I know it is my own fault for putting up with her baloney and mind games for so long without making too much of a fuss. I mean, you spend 35 enjoyable years smothering someone one day, ignoring them the next, telling them they are your favorite child because their college tution was the cheapest, then saying, "Well, you were supposed to be a boy, but we had to keep you! Ha ha!" and generally not treating that person as of they have any feelings, and I can imaging it’s pretty hard to stop. Have I told you about how she calls my children Trolls? I said exactly this, “Please don’t call them Trolls. I don’t like it, it’s insulting and it hurts my feelings.” She said, “But I like calling them Trolls.” In other words, “ But I like insulting you and hurting your feelings.”

Anyway, I got my things and I got ready to take the eff off. As I was leaving I said, “Mother, I am not going to bother to explain why I am so upset and angry, because you don’t hear me and you don’t listen.” She says, “Okay, byeee!” And I left.

We haven’t spoken since. Maybe I’ll send her a box of chocolate with the flowers on Sunday. Do you know if they make chocolate covered TROLLS?