Eating Bees . . . and other perils of Motherhood

A week after moving in, I decided to take a little break from opening boxes, signing up for utilities, and dealing with other new-home-ownership issues, and take the kids to our neighborhood pool.

First, I need to explain that this is no ordinary pool! It has a lap pool, a baby splash area, beach access kiddie area, deep end diving board area, and two amazing slides! It is gorgeously landscaped, and uses salt instead of chlorine. Needless to say this was a big selling point for moving here in the first place.

A downside to this pool is that it has a lot of bees. A few years ago it was yellow-jackets. This summer it is bees. 

Anyway, we had a great break, spent the latter half of the day splashing in the water and lounging in the sun. My mom even brought over root beer, ice, plastic cups, and snacks for us. Felt sort of like being in a resort. 

But don't ever let your guard down when you are a mom. By default, being a mom means you are usually doing 20 things simultaneously and have about 5% of your attention actually focused on any one of those things at any one time. (Did you follow my math there?)

We stayed til the pool closed. The process of corralling my children through any transition is never an easy one. I'm sure it has something to do with the number three. You get two together, the third has run off to find a missing floaty toy. You collect that one and now you've got a different set of two because the first one has run off when you weren't looking to check the lost and found for a "treasure." You get that one back to the fold and now the middle one has gone missing "just because."

At any rate, I spent about 20 minutes trying to coax Micky out of the pool while at the same time collecting the various towels, toys, flip-flops, snack leavings, extra clothes, and children. There was a tiny bit of root beer left in the bottom of my glass, so I decided to toss it back rather than throw it out into the trashcan . . . Mistake!

A rouge bee was waiting there, just for the right moment when I was not looking, when I was distracted, just tossing it back, to strike.

I felt the fuzzy bulk of the bee first, spat then looked down and the squirming yellow and black icky thing on cement pool deck. At about the same instant I realized I'd just spat out a bee, I began to feel the burn inside my mouth. I reach in my lower lip and pulled out the stinger (in my memory it was about 5 inches long, but I'm sure my memory is exaggerating) and thought "Crap! I've never been stung by a bee. I hope I'm not allergic!" At this point, two of the aforementioned kids seized their opportunity at my distraction and ran off in opposite directions.

I was now carrying an armload of wet towels, shoes, toys and clothes, while at the same time holding a piece of ice to my lip, silently praying I am NOT allergic, and mumbling loudly in my "serious" tone for my kids to "COME. ON. NOW!" so we could get home and I could get some antihistamine in my system. (And it also hurt like Hell and I was starting to get really irritable.)

Finally, I managed to get all three kids and all their gear back in the car and back to the house.  While I was busy applying more ice, taking a Benadryl, and breaking up a fight between my oldest two upstairs . . .

Micky decided to pee on the bathroom floor downstairs.

Eating a bee?  It's whatever.

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The Poop Goes Here, Micky . . .

The poop goes here Micky.

Yep.

Right here.



Why is this concept so difficult for my three-year old?  He's potty trained.  He's sleeping through the night and waking up clean and dry.  But he has not . . . ever . . . never . . . (okay, ONE time, by some accidental miracle) pooped in the toilet! 

He doesn't act scared.  He doesn't scream about it.  He just won't do it.  Not at school.  Not at home.  Not on the road.  In fact, he actually saves it up for as long as he can.  As evidenced by the MASSIVE size that when dumped from the pants, completely stops up the toilet, even without a scrap of toilet paper added.  Which, I would like to add, seems like a physical impossibility.  I mean, c'mon.  Look at the picture up there.  How does something come out of Micky but not go down that toilet?!?

Anyway, I have tried (as recommended by pediatricians and friends) fiber, laxatives, more water, less milk, treats, charts, pizza, movies.  NOTHING has motivated him to go in the toilet.  In fact, the more we try, the longer he simply holds it.  He knows how to NOT poop in his pants, just not how to get it in the toilet.

And the best part?  I always know when the accursed poop has finally made its way out of my poor little Micky.  He is hiding under the table in the playroom, or the kitchen, or behind the bunk beds in his room.  Without fail.  Accident = hide under a table or bed.

So I know Micky doesn't want to do this.  But how do I help him? 

I'm open to suggestions.

Please.

Poop in the toilet.

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Knocking on Wood

Micky - 1 year old - smearing applesauce
all over the table and (5 seconds later) his hair.

My youngest is an experiential child.  He loves to experience EVERYTHING!  And most of the time, he wants to experience EVERYTHING with EVERY ONE of his five senses.  If he were a super-hero, he’d be “sensory-man” for sure.  He’s also intense and expressive, so you will never be mistaken about whether he loves or hates what he’s experiencing.

This lovely trait makes life both exceptionally entertaining . . . and terribly frustrating.

One of Micky’s favorite ways to “experience” something is by rubbing it into his hair.  I don’t know exactly when or why this started, but he’s been doing it since he was a baby.  Food is a given.  There has been oatmeal, yogurt, mushy cheerios, orange juice, milk and on at least one occasion, all of these at the same time.  He has colored his hair with markers, crayons and paint, stuck tape in his hair, rubbed play dough and silly puddy in his hair, stickers and ribbons and toys have all had their moment of fame in Micky’s hair.

Ironically, Micky HATES to have his hair washed.  He cannot stand anything getting near his head if it involves water from a tap.  (I attribute this to the multiple ear-infections he suffered from before finally getting tubes put in his ears – he’s terrified of water getting in his ears).

Last night, while I was getting Renton and Emily sorted out before bed, Micky decided he wanted to brush his teeth by himself.  Triumphantly proud of this “big boy” step on Micky’s part, I let him do it.  While straightening pjs, and picking out bedtime books with my two oldest, the silence coming from the bathroom began to set off miniscule little alarms in my head.

Then Micky popped out of the bathroom with a great big grin on his face and his hair spiked up into a nearly perfect Mohawk.  “Look Mommy!  Me fix my hair!”  He beamed.

“That’s great Micky!” I complimented him, though now certain that the teeth brushing had likely NOT occurred.

Then I got a closer look at him.  There were shiny globs of glistening “stuff” around his eyebrows, and what I initially thought was just water in his hair began to show much more substance than a liquid alone would.  Then the scent hit me.  Unmistakable.  Minty fresh and sinus-opening.

Vapo-rub.

Micky had liberally applied nearly an entire jar of vapo-rub (infant type thank goodness) all over his hair and face.  Surprisingly, I didn’t even panic.  I just looked at him.  This was totally par for the course for my little Micky.

“We’re going to have to wash that out honey.”  (Oops.  I had said the dreaded word, “wash”.)

Twenty minutes, kicks, crying, water splashed bathroom mirror and faucet panic later, Micky’s face was clean (no traces in the eyes) and his hair was freshly washed and sticking up via water alone.  He climbed into my bed in his footsy jammies ready for his bedtime story, happy, content, trauma forgotten. 

And while a faint menthol aroma still floated in the air, Micky snuggled under my arm with his book,  and I happily thought to myself, at least it wasn’t poop.

(knock on wood)

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We All Need a Little Help Sometimes

So there's no doubt that when we are running late, it's usually my fault. You could probably wager your first born child that I stayed up too late writing, or reading, or sewing. (of course, when else is a mamma supposed to get in "me time"?) That was certainly the case last night.
And so when I stayed up til 1am last night, then hit snooze for an hour and a half this morning and finally woke up at 7 (when Emily cane in to ask if it was a stat at home day) it was a par-for-the-course-late-day.

Except THIS morning, Micky had decided to take off his pull up last night, so I found him face down SOAKED in pee from head to foot. So much pee, in fact, that it had soaked through my TWO layers of bedding (I double-make the kids' beds so if they have one if those late night accidents, I can strip one layer and immediately have a fresh one underneath).

Micky thrives on routine, and a bath at 7am when we're running late is decidedly not a part of it (or mine for that matter). As you can probably imagine, what followed was:
1. A fight over getting the drenched-in-urine night shirt off
2. A fight over getting in the tub
3. A fight over getting out of the tub
4. A fight over getting dried
5. A fight over getting new clothes on
6. A fight over putting clothes and sheets in the washer
7. A fight over fighting

Keep in mind that each one of these fights came pre-packaged with severe kicking, hitting, screaming (Micky, not me ;), and equal portions of:
1. "That's not acceptable Micky."
2. "One. Two. Three . . . Okay, I'm done."
3. And plenty of following through

It's hard to believe I'm actually getting better at that. I guess practice really does make . . . Well, "better" if not perfect.

As it turns out, Renton and Emily must have had a direct line to God's ear this morning, because while rubbing my back or holding my hand (they try to caretake when Micky is throwing a fit - I think they want to remind me that it is not THEM misbehaving) they both said to me, "I'm so sorry Micky is being difficult. I will pray for things to get easier for you."

Of course I told them not to worry about Mommy. That I was strong and I'd make it through. (all the while praying myself). And then . . . Micky's tantrum passed, the smiles returned, and we all managed to get breakfast, have plenty of laughs and hugs and silly songs, and even made it to school with time to spare!

I guess in the end, no matter how tough or weak we feel, we ALL need a little help sometimes.

Micky throwing a tantrum with his "Baby Jesus"

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Target is the Devil

Ask me how many times it’s going to take for me to get it through my thick skull that I should NOT take my kids to Target at lunch time on a Sunday after church.  Ask me.  Seriously.

Apparently, whatever that number is, I haven’t reached it yet because yesterday, at 12:30pm, directly following church, I decided that I just really, really, really needed some of those big Rubbermaid storage bins.  Oh, and some fingernail polish remover.  And apparently this need overrode my previous 500 horrible experiences with Micky in Target, because in we went.

Predictably, the entire experience went something like this:

Emily and Micky decided they wanted to get the really big cart with the two seats on the back.  Really???  Why do they even make that monstrosity?  I swear it was some single man who came up with that idea or some mom who has perfect, angelic kids.  Because that nightmare has been the downfall to nearly every trip I’ve taken to Target for the past three years!  It’s huge, bulky, impossible to maneuver, and the kids never stay in it!

In my defense, I said “No.”  But the look of impending mutiny that swept over Micky’s and Emily’s faces made me quickly change my mind.  “What harm could there be this time?” I naively ask myself.  “I’m only running in to get a few quick things.”  (Oh Lord – how I lie to myself.)

So, Emily crawls into the basket, Micky picks the seat that REEKS of urine and has a broken buckle.  Then I spot some things in the $1 bin that I could use for Micky’s upcoming Birthday party.  (Yep, serious mistake #1)  DAMN TARGET AND THEIR MARKETING!!!!

I took just long enough to pause and pull a few things out of the bins (probably 30 seconds) for Renton to being looking, then Emily and Micky decided they needed the freedom to look too.  Out they start to crawl.   “No! No! No!” I manage (desperately) trying to shove them back in.  “We’re going.  We’re going.  You don’t need to get out.”  Because I know, getting out will be the undoing of the entire trip.

Too late.  They’re out.

Now I’m on a mission, and more than the note will self-destruct in a matter of 10 seconds if I don’t get my things and get out QUICKLY.

But did I mention that Target is the Devil?  Because not only are my kids easily distracted in this store, so is their Mommy.  I SWEAR I had a very specific list when I went in: bins, nail polish remover.  But before I knew it I was looking at birthday invitations, bed pillows, and God knows what else because I was already getting the glazed over shopping syndrome and Emily and Micky had were running in and out of the isles, giggling and screaming with joy over their apparent freedom while Renton tried so hard to be good for me because all he wanted was to print out some pictures from his new camera at the Kodak kiosk.  Whose kids were these and do they pump crack into the air here or something???

When Micky started throwing every possible Toy Story 3 birthday item into the cart, I had to draw the line.  “No Micky” I tried firmly.  “We don’t need these.”  I took them out and threw them back onto the shelf, trying to make a quick getaway now.   

And then it happened.  I crossed the line.  I lost my window of opportunity.  I could see the checkout lines mere inches away, but it was too late.

“Micky BIRTHDAY!!!!!”  He started screaming and collapsed into a miserable pile of woefulness spread Eagle, face down on the floor, HUGE crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks. 

I only had myself to blame. 

Now the meltdown was official.  Micky had been “talked loud to” one too many times for his sensitivities.  He began pulling furiously at my clothes, screaming for chocolate milk, screaming for his "birthday”, screaming.

 I look up at the Pizza area of Target – completely full.  There is NO WAY I am going to attempt chocolate milk in there with Micky like this.  “No Micky.”  I reasoned through the screams and punches.  “No milk when you act like this.  We are going home.”

I made it through the checkout line fending off his kicks and attempts to rip my clothes then picked Micky up to head out.   What I got in return was a swift punch to the nose and throat, a kick to the ear, chin and chest, scratches down my cheek, and an attempt to rip out my earrings and necklace.  I wrapped my arms through his legs, up around his shoulders, hands on his wrists and pulled him in toward my chest (the only hold I know that works on him in this condition).  “Ok guys.” I said calmly (I think the calm was from the looniness setting in) “Let’s go.” 

But who was I kidding?  We weren’t going anywhere because remember that HUGE cart I had?  No way I was pushing that holding Micky the way I was.  We all just stood there while Micky screamed.  Not moving.  My brain had shut down.  Renton looked up at me and said “Mommy.  I’m going to cry.  This is so hard for you.”  And I seriously almost started crying myself.

Then a Dad stepped out and said, “Can I help you push your cart?”  I looked up and saw his wife behind him smiling sympathetically, nodding her head and mouthing, “We just did this yesterday with our son.”

Sure I said, thanks.

He pushed my cart all the way out and even loaded my car for me.  Meanwhile, Micky screamed, kicked, punched and scratched the entire way.  We spent another 15 minutes just sitting in the car while Micky finished his tantrum.

When he was done, he heaved a heavy sigh, wiped his tears away, grinned a huge Micky grin then asked in his sweetest voice, “Lollipop, Mommy?”

No lollipops, but I did take them to the park for a picnic and to let out a little steam.  They all played very nicely, probably the best they’ve played in a long time, actually.  It was almost redeeming.

Then Micky pooped in his pants.  We had no spare clothes.

I blame that on Target too.

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When Laundry Detergent Reminds You of Poop

I used to LOVE the smell of Gain. My friends and family were constantly telling me how great my clothes and house smelled - thanks to Gain.

But I hadn't been using it in a while because I'd found a new great eco-friendly detergent that I loved equally well. I can no longer get it through amazon.com, so I just went back to Gain - in a big way. Two HUGE containers.

The same day my Gain arrived on my door step in a big smiley box, Micky's teacher sent home some HORRIBLE, NUCLEAR poop filled clothes. :(. In all fairness, I should have just tossed them. I DON'T KNOW WHY I decided to wash them, but the second I opened the bag I nearly puked myself, so I threw them in without even looking and turned everything to the sanitation cycle. That should kill anything, right?

Two hours later, I opened the washer door to an oddly putrid Gainy smell . . . What? Started over with a second sanitation cycle.

Two hours later? Same yucky smell. Thank you Micky for having the most toxic poop on the planet!

Clothes ended up in the trash anyway. And now when I smell Gain I instantly feel like I want to puke. And I smell it everywhere because it's a crazy permeate-everything smell.

I'd love to insert a witty ending to my post here . . . but I have no words.

Damn shit.

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The Poop Monster Strikes Again!

[Photo purposely excluded] (You can thank me later. =)

Warning: if you're squeamish, stop reading now!

Last night was one of those nights . . . (Oh my gosh how many times have I started a post like this?!?!).

Left work a little later than usual, so didn't get to the kids' school til close to 6:30pm. Now you'd think they'd be happy to see me and anxious to leave. But as a testimony to the resiliency of kids, they've completely adapted to my new commute (resulting in picking them up late) and are as slow as ever in collecting themselves to go home. Not kidding. The process takes me at least a half hour!

So there's no food cooked at home, and I'd totally intended on fixing the pork loin in the fridge, but it would be at least an hour in prepping that - which would put dinner close to 8pm -and I just wasn't feeling that last night.

While I was lamenting the non-existance of home-cooked, Irish fast food, I suddenly remembered it was Tuesday night! Kids eat free at CiCi's! Yes! While it's not pot pies and casseroles and tea and brown bread on the go, it would suffice for tonight.

You may be asking yourself, "Where's the poop monster?!" Have patience my friends, he's coming.

In true Micky fashion, my eating machine managed to put away four slices of cheese pizza, a bowl of pasta, two cinnamon rolls and a large glass of lemonade. We even had to take a slice of pizza to go because we were all done and Micky still wanted to eat!

We made it home by 8pm and then I remembered it was bath night! Grrr. (No, I do NOT bathe the kids every night. If you've ever been present for any of the bath nights you'd understand. Plus, my pediatrician has always supported this idea; if they're not actually dirty, they don't need a bath every day. Dries out their skin.)

So . . . Got Micky done and out of the way first. Hurdle One triumphantly jumped. Got him in his pull-up (though potty trained, he still wears a pull-up at night) and new footsie pajamas (that he also happened to insist I wearing over his clothes to school that morning). Then sent him downstairs to play while Renton took his bath.

After much reminding that it was "quick bath" not "play bath" tonight (now 8:45) I finally heard Renton pull the plug and get out of the tub. Now to round up Emily . . .

While I'm coaxing her away from her toys, I hear Micky in the bathroom shout out "Ooooh! Gross!" I laugh a little to myself thinking how much Micky's speech has been improving lately.

Then I hear Emily shout from the bathroom, "Oh no!!! Disgusting!!! Micky!!!"

My heart sinks.

This cannot be good.

And it wasn't.

I run into the bathroom to find Micky, standing in the middle of his half unzipped diahrreah-filled footsie jammies, holding a diahhreah-filled pull-up, pooped smeared all over his backside and down his legs, and under his feet, quick-dry poop smeared on and cemented to all levels of the toilet seat and bathroom floor, WADS of poop-covered toilet paper filling the bowl and squished in his little hands, while he innocently looks up at me and proclaims, beaming a proud smile, "It ok Mamma. I clean it!"

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Wonder Woman - Not!

I was feeling pretty proud of myself yesterday.  A bit like Wonder Woman, in fact.  And no, there is absolutely no physical resemblance.

After rushing home from my new work location in Springfield (can you say "hello 1-1/2 hour commute?!") and picking up the kids from school, I managed to squeeze in the following during the 1 hour between getting home and needing to leave again to take the kids to Tae Kwon Do:

1. clean the kitchen
2. help Renton with his homework
3. help Emily with her Lego creation
4. help Micky stay out of everyone elses everything else
5. make Pierogi Casserole, Spaghetti and Meatballs, a meatloaf, AND fishsticks and applesauce for dinner (only the fishsticks and applesauce were for dinner - the rest was for lunches and meals the rest of the week)

Then, as quickly as Wonder Woman could dispatch her magic lasso, I was brought back to reality.

Micky proudly announced from the bathroom (where he was still fully clothed) that he had pooped . . . in his pants.

Wonder Woman?  Nope.  Just plain Mommy.

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Get Off the Pot!

Micky Potty Training - he has no problem taking his time.

So we've all been there.  After having kids, the days of going to the bathroom solo are a thing of the past.  I've read some hilarious posts about trying to use the bathroom with little ones running in to show you their new favorite doll, talk to you about the bully who tied their shoe laces together at recess that day, pounding on the door if you managed to close and lock it in the first place, because they NEED to tell you that they love you face-to-face.  And I've been there, way more often than I'd like to talk about.

But last night, something different happened and it was sort of a wake up call.  After rushing home from work, picking the kids up, taking them to CCD, living through a handful of totally-typical-but-always-frustrating-tantrums, we'd finally made it home.  And boy did I have to go!  It was one of those days that when I finally stopped to breathe, I realized I hadn't used the bathroom all day!  So here was my chance.  I dropped everything and rushed upstairs.

And as I sat there . . . well let's just say this was just one more thing that wasn't coming easily to me that day.  I tried reading a magazine, I tried breathing slowly in and out.  Nothing.  Then I actually got mad at myself and shouted outloud, "Come on already!  Do it!  I don't have time for this!  I have to fix the kids dinner!"  Then I stopped.

Are you kidding me?!  I looked around.  I was completely alone.  None of my kids had come in to ask me to help brush their babydoll's teeth, or find a missing .5mm clear lego peice, or turn all their socks right-side out again.  In fact, the house was eerily quiet.  Straining a bit, I could hear them playing nicely together down the hall in their bedrooms.

I finally had my chance to have a normal human bodily function IN PRIVATE and in MY OWN TIME, and I was rushing myself!  Not only rushing myself, but giving myself a guilt-complex at the same time.  I had actually told myself, outloud, that making dinner for my kids was more important than my eliminating waste.  (Ok, I know that's a gross combination of thoughts).  And the worst part was, it wasn't an expectation anyone else had put on me (at least not that day).  It was totally self-induced.  So I took one more deep breath, looked at my daily reminder on my bathroom mirror . . . and relaxed.


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Childhood

My Micky Moo on the soccer field.

I just love this picture of Micky.  The sun was setting right behind him and sort of washed out the colors, but it almost gives the whole look a soft glow.  Reminds me of all the washed out pictures of my childhood and the 70s.  Anyway, just a simple thought for today.

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Say it Now, Mean it Later – A Lesson in Contrition



An apology is the superglue of life. 
It can repair just about anything. 
~Lynn Johnston


This morning was a particularly (though quite normal) crazy morning in the Plummer house with three little ones trying to get dressed, fed and out the door to school in less than 30 minutes.  I had overslept, myself, so when I came downstairs I found Renton and Emily re-packing their school snack bags (adding more fruit snacks and yogurt) - and Micky trying to eat everything out of his right then and there.  There was going to be little time for breakfast and I think the kids knew it.

I scooped them up and announced cheerily that we’d have breakfast at the school coffee bar that morning as a treat!   (Hoping to spur them to move a little faster out the door).  Everyone went happily to the car and it even looked like Micky was going to get in his own carseat without any complaints.  (The usual process is he sits in Emily’s seat til she drags or screams him out of it, then he sits in Renton’s screaming himself as Renton tries to coax him out, then he plays alternating limp noodle/stiff-as-a-board as I try to pick him up from the back of a three-row SUV and get him into his own seat in the front and buckled in without getting kicked in the face or jewelry or clothes ripped off in the process.)  Then Micky spotted one of his school drawings in the back of the car and made a beeline for it.  No Micky!  In your seat.  “No, Mommy!”  Was the confident, determined, defiant, challenging . . . (you get the idea) reply I got and I knew all hope was lost.

Let’s just fast-forward through the part where I had to force-buckle Micky into his seat then carry him kicking and screaming to his pre-school room where a quick peck on the check and “I love you Micky Moo” earned  me a slap in the face.

Yes, let’s just skip right to the calm breakfast of home-made apple struedel and Horizon milk for the kids and me enjoying a small coffee in the serene Elim café. . . . Ah . . . I feel more relaxed already. 

Okay, back to reality.  Emily decided she wanted a bottle of water instead of the milk.  She had a re-useable bottle of water in her snack bag so I suggested she drink that rather than me paying a dollar for a tiny bottle of water from the café.  Wasn’t going to fly.  The lip curled.  The tears began to well.  “Emily,” I said.  “That’s not how you get what you want.  Try breathing it out and we can talk about it some more.” 

(“Breathing it out” is a technique I learned to combat my own anxiety attacks and I have found it works WONDERS with forestalling or shortening full-blown meltdowns with the kids too!  Here’s how it works:  Take in a REALLY deep breath just through your nose, then blow out like you’re blowing out candles on a birthday cake.  The breathing out is the key – the louder the better!  Instant relaxation.  Try it – it works – I promise you.)

So, Emily had to “breathe it out” a few times, but she finally calmed down enough to explain she wanted to save her water in her water bottle for class when she couldn’t get to the water fountain.  Fair enough – I got her the water.

By now, the kids were running late and had about 2 minutes to get from the café to their rooms upstairs.  Normally, Tuesday is the dropping-off-Emily-first day.   But today we were running late and we were getting ready to pass Renton’s classroom first.  “Renton, we’re going to have to drop you off first today, honey.”

“What?!?!”  he shouted.  Oh boy, I thought to myself, here we go again.  “Renton, we’ll drop Emily off first the next two days to make up for it, okay?  You’re late this morning so we’re making an exception to the rule.”  Before I knew it, he’d turned his back to me, slipped in through a side door and disappeared, without so much as a “Good-Bye.”

Emily and I passed the second door to his classroom as Renton was hanging up his bookbag.  When he saw us he started to close that door too, making sure I saw the very serious scowl on his face.  I stopped and motioned for him to come outside.

I squatted down so that I was eye-to-eye on his level, placed my hand gently on his arm, and said to him calmly but seriously, “Renton, it is not okay to act like that to your Mom.  You need to apologize right now.” 

Renton just looked at me, waiting. Emily was watching intently, too.

I continued, undaunted, “Renton, you can mean it later, but you’re going to say it right now.”

Renton took a deep breath in and breathed it out.  Then he gave me a big hug and said, “I’m sorry, Mommy," and ran back into his room.

I think he may even have actually meant it.

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Micky's Bilateral Tympanostomy

Micky in his yellow jammies right before anesthesia . . .

What?  Don't worry, he just got tubes put in his ears.  :)

If you are a parent, you've probably suffered through your share of ear infections; fevers, runny noses, screaming, tugging on ears, not eating.  If you haven't, then count yourself lucky.  When Micky had his sixth ear infection in less than 9 months, and an equal amount of antibiotic episodes, the doctors finally said enough (thank you!) and recommended having tubes put in his ears.  Having suffered from ear infections myself throughout my childhood thanks to painfully narrow Eustachian tubes (had tubes placed three times) and all through college, I knew what this was all about. 

But if you have been following ANY of my writings about Micky, then also know how much I dreaded the prospect of putting Micky through any type of surgery.  Heck, I dreaded just the idea of walking anywhere within a 10 mile radius of a hospital!

Anyway, I am happy to say that Micky was a complete angel for the entire procedure and the nurses even asked if they could keep him!  (Saying "yes" ever so briefly crossed my mind . . . :)  We made it into the hospital by 6am, Micky sat in my lap in his fuzzy yellow hospital jammies and watched Super Why on WETA on the hospital tv, five different nurses and doctors came in to talk to us and explain every part of the procedure, at 7:15 the anesthesiologist's nurse picked Micky up wrapped in his blankets and he went (without even a peep!) to go get drugged up . . . 15 minutes later the doctor came out to let me know the entire procedure was over and Micky would be waking up in about another 20 minutes and we'd be able to go home within a half hour.

Probably the easiest thing I've ever done with Micky!  As I always say, I will take miracles whenever and wherever I can find them, and this certainly was one of those times. 

We were out of the hospital by 8:30am, just in time to meet my Mom (who had come up from NC just to help me by taking Renton and Emily into school in the morning so I could take Micky to the hospital) at Shoes Cup and Cork Club in downtown Leesburg for some coffee!

All in all it was an easy procedure, Micky was great, had a nice morning with my mom and today Micky is recovering nicely and has been extra sweet to everyone. 

Eartubes?  I highly recommend!  :)

Some helpful websites:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tu1d3a0tPg&feature=relmfu
http://www.entnet.org/HealthInformation/Ear-Tubes.cfm

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Seriously . . . I mean it. Seriously

Micky being . . . well, Micky

I just had to share this picture because seriously

. . . does it even need an explanation? :)

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Murphy's Law of Clean Sheets



Micky (and his sloither) in my freshly laundered bed.

 So . . . Spent most of Saturday washing all my bedding, including starching and ironing my sheets in preparation for my parent's visit in a few days. It's a king sized bed and I have three blankets and lots of pillows, so it's a monster to do. . .

But, Micky was such a sweetheart yesterday I thought we could have a movie night and let him sleep with me as a reward.

During the movie we snuggled up together on the couch and ate popcorn and drank lemonade. So nice. However, Micky drank THREE. BIG. GLASSES. (Mistake #1)

At bedtime, Micky insisted on "Diego!" (his pull-ups) and "not Monkeys!" (regular pamper). As we all know, pull-ups do not hold a whole lot - not a good bedtime choice. (Mistake #2) BUT in all fairness to me, Micky's been clean and dry every morning for the past month.

Now having said all this, sleeping with Micky in the same bed is always a challenge to begin with. This little boy makes a king sized bed feel like an army cot in a blender. I don't know what he's fighting in his sleep, but I'm pretty sure he's winning. (Mistake #3)

He was diagonal, vertical, perpendicular, kicking, punching, flailing. I picked him up and moved him back to "his side" about 20 times between 9pm and 3am. At 4am, Micky rolled over and announced, "Mommy, potty."

Noooooo! I reached over and felt under him - TOTALLY soaked. Of course.

So the only upside to changing an entire king sized bed at 4am after having been beaten and mauled all night - Micky very sweetly went back to bed in his own room and I had a very nice 1-1/2 hours of sleep.

Good morning Monday.

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Cici's Pizza Rocks! (when you only have one kid)

So after coming home from two hours at the pool this afternoon, Micky actually took a 2-1/2 hour nap today! (Can I get an Amen?!). During that time I was able to put a third coat of paint on the boys' bookcase, a second coat on the legs of the end-of-bed table for the guest room, transplant some petunias, water the lawn, and pick out some 1940s patterns for a new project! Whew!

In celebration of this fact, when Micky came downstairs starving and screaming for cereal and goldfish (what, those aren't one of the food groups???) I informed him we could have pizza for dinner. Hooray!!! (yah, I know, not really a step up from cereal and goldfish.)

Had a coupon expiring tomorrow for a free adult meal, too, so "cha-ching!" got all our dinner and drinks for only $3.40. Now you tell me if that's not an awesome deal? On top of that, Micky eats three times the amount if food I do, and - what an angel - he ate all his pizza before even touching the brownie sitting on his plate.





Bonus: not one meltdown the entire meal. (okay, well a small one as we were leaving because Micky insisted on being the one to push open the two-ton door all by himself - but all things considered, that hardly counts. ;)

A fantastic end to a great summer Saturday!

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