The Funny Things They Say

Important Editor's Note: This post, originally scheduled for Thursday, was unavoidably delayed by a certain fourteen month old baby, who shall remain nameless.  Said toddler is determined that he can no longer sleep unless he is draped all over his mother and nursing at 45 minute intervals all. night. long.  This has, understandably, put a crimp in the writer's blogging, which inevitably happens at 11:30 at night.  We appreciate your understanding, and we now return you to yesterday's regularly scheduled blog post. 

Heard today from my adorable heathens children:

Ashlynn (age 6) upon coming home from school:  "Mom!  It stinks so bad outside!  It's like someone farted all over the entire world!"

Yes, she is my child.  Because after all, at our house, farts are nothing if not both hysterically funny and incredibly stinky.

Abby (age 8) in the middle of an argument while practicing the violin: "MOM!  (stomp foot.) I know you're right! (Huff, puff, roll eyes.)  I just,  (weeping and wailing,) don't want, (gnashing of teeth)  to admit it!"

Well,  at least she's learning the important lessons early in life.

Max (age 14 months): "Ball!  Ball!  BallballballballballballballballballballballBALL!"  (Hey cut him some slack, he's only fourteen months, and only has about 6 words.  But it was pretty funny watching him throw the ball around the kitchen then run and pick it up, only to throw it again.)

I love my crazies.

Note to Self

Dear Self-

Next time, when you check the weather forecast, and the National Weather Service warns you that not only is there a major snowstorm coming, but heaviest snow is going to be from approximately 6-7am and center right on the highway you drive on at 7am on your way to violin lessons, do youself a favor:

BELIEVE THEM!

Stay home, tucked safely in your bed, away from all things violin, music, and anything with the words "Parley's Canyon" and snow in them.  You will save yourself a five hour round trip with cranky kids, sore hands from squeezing the steering wheel to within an inch of its life, and several years' worth of twitching from PTSD any time the weather forecast has snow in it. 

(Is it spring yet?)

Signed,
Yourself

Wonders Never Cease

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, I present to you my first ever pie made with homemade pie crust.  That's right.  I made a blueberry pie, including a crust from scratch.

I must be channeling my mom or something, because not only did I make a pie that would have made Betty Crocker weep because it was so good, but I also taught four violin lessons, practiced with my own daughter, (who is sounding pretty darn amazing on the Vivaldi concerto she's working on), did two loads of laundry, cleaned out my refrigerator, made a complete nutritionally balanced dinner, and prepped and taught Family Home Evening. 

Yes, it's a good thing I had that Diet Coke, or I'd be translated right about now.

And I fully expect to wear my pajamas, eat leftover pie for breakfast and not do a single productive thing for the entire rest of the week. 

Writer's Block

You know how some people have songs that get stuck in their head and no matter what they do they can't get rid of them?  I have things that I need to write that are not leaving me alone. 

I hesitate to even talk about it, because it's so cliched.  You know, the stay at home mom who turns into a casual blogger, who then decides she's a brilliant writer and wants to write the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL and land a huge book contract.  I don't think that I'm a brilliant writer, although I have fun blogging.  I don't intend to write a novel, at least at this point.  But I do have ideas and part of articles that are bouncing around my brain, tormenting me.

So I think the only thing to do is sit down and write them.  I have at least three articles I need to write, all very differnt, all three are outlined and taking shape.  I know exactly where I'm going to submit them, and had a very emotional, spiritual experience that told me I need to write one of them as soon as possible.

But I have a million excuses.

I have no time.  (Of course I have time.  I have time to sit and waste on Facebook...)

I have a baby who doesn't let me use the computer without screaming.  (OK, this part is true.  But he takes a long nap in the afternoons and sleeps at night.  Once again, this speaks to my lack of time management skills!)

I have nothing unique to say. (Maybe, maybe not.  Except if that were the truth, I don't think that I would be feeling so strongly about it.)

I think what it comes down to is that I'm a little nervous.

All right fine.  I'm scared stiff.

Scared to put myself out there.  Scared to be rejected.  Scared of the sheer amount of work it will take with little to no reward. 

But maybe if I start getting all of this out on paper it will stop tormenting me and let me sleep at night.  

So here's to writing.  And a brand new kind of adventure. 

Oh, and a minor update.  (Because I know you were all sitting around holding your breath wanting to know the health status of my family.) Everyone is well. The viscious stomach flu made it's rounds through our house, sparing no one.  We each took our turns laying around the house moaning for 24 hours or so, then we were done.  And there's a strange kind of relief in knowing that all five of us were sick, and now there's nothing else that nasty flu bug can do to us!  And as a bonus, there were no trips to the Dr, urgent care or ER. Hah!  (And if I'm back in 6-8 hours to amend that, you have my permission to mercilessly rub it in my face.)

Spoke Too Soon...

Yeah.  Remember a few hours ago when I said this: "My girls seem to never get sick."  Well, you should never, ever, ever say stuff like that out loud.  Or type in it your blog.  Because I'm convinced the Gods of Irony (you know, they're the ones that make up the word "poopie" for word verification when you're commenting on someone's post about potty training) are sitting around just waiting for someone to make a rash statement like that so they can proceed to work their evil magic and then sit around and have a hearty laugh at your expense. 

I bet the conversation went something like this:

Irony God #1: "Hey guys, did you see what Stacy just wrote on her blog?"
Irony God #2: "Heh, heh.  She said her girls never get sick."
Irony God #3: "Well, you know what would be really funny?  If both her girls got sick at the same time."
Irony God #4 "Oh! Oh!  And they should get sick after they both go to a party full of first and second graders and eat roughly their body weight in Oreos and popcorn."

So we're now the proud (?) parents of two more barfers.  Although to look on the bright side, we've only had to strip one bed so far.  At least my girls are old enough to understand "If you're gonna do it, do it in the bucket." 

And Tom and I are wondering how long it will be before we're the barfers.

What, me worry?

Warning: this blog entry contains graphic descriptions of motherhood that may or may not result in a desire to cover your eyes, lose your lunch, or swear off having children forever.  Read at your own risk.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

Before Max was born, I had very little experience with sick kids.  My girls seem to never get sick.  (Quick!  Where is some wood when I need it to knock on?)  Sure, we had our share of sniffles and even an ear infection or two, but if they get sick, it seems to always be minor and over within a day or two. 

Then there's Max, who possesses a great gift for the dramatic.  He's never met a cold, sniffles, ear infection or flu that he didn't like and didn't have to have.  And because it's Max, and because he has a history of having his head cut open,  spending weeks in the PICU, and every medical test known to man, I tend to overreact when he gets sick.

So yesterday, I notice that after a brief two or three respite without snot pouring continously out of his nose, that he is, once again, snotting like a fountain.  I immediately imagined the ear infection that was sure to follow, which would lead to the bad reaction to antibiotics,  resulting to the rushing to the ER in the middle of the night, etc. etc.  (What was that I said about a gift for the dramatic?)  After a few deep breathing excercises, I calmed myself down by thinking that maybe this time, a snotty nose would just be a snotty nose. 

Except this is Max.  And me.  So it's never really that simple.  It all started about 11 am.  Fountains of vomit.  All over me, all over him, all over the carpet.  I changed him, I changed me, I tried not to lose it myself.  Then as I was trying to save the carpet, he filled his diaper.  So I changed him again.  As soon as I got him dressed, his timer went off.  (Because of course, he couldn't possibly time it so that I didn't have to change everything again!) More vomit.  More clothes changes.  More carpet scrubbing.  You would think at this point I would be smart and put him either in the bath or on the hardwood floor.   Unfortunately, it takes a little while (and apparently three rounds of puking, clothes changing and carpet scrubbing) before I get the picture.

He proceeded to throw up three more times while in the bath.  At this point, my panic button was fully pressed.  It didn't help when I called the pediatrician and her advice was to rush him right in.  I was imagining the possibility of dehydration from all the vomiting, the possibility that he once again swallowed something that was poisoning him, or worst of all, the possibility that his intercranial pressure had spiked and we were going to have to be rushed into surgery.  (I'm telling you, this boy has completely messed with my head and my confidence in dealing with simple illnesses!)  I was about to cancel my whole life and rush to the Doctor's office when he started spitting bathwater at me and giggling.  I figured if he was still laughing, he wasn't too terribly sick.

I proceeded to grow at least 15 new gray hairs when, after I got him out of the bathtub and dressed in his 4th change of clothes of the day, he proceeded to curl up on the floor and fall fast asleep.  Anyone who knows me and knows my kids know that normally it takes nursing, rocking, singing, bribing, fake sleeping, standing on my head and an engraved invitation from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir before my babies decide to go to sleep.  So the fact that he just decided to fall asleep like, say, a normal baby had me all manner of concerned.  Then he proceeded to sleep for four hours.  It was all I could do not to wake him up every 20 minutes to check his vitals.  Every crazy possibility there was cycled through my head, and I was convinced we were going to be spending the night in the hospital.

Except then he woke up at 5:00, begged for his sippy cup, nursed like a fiend, ate a huge amount of pasta for dinner, and has been fine (and destroying the house) ever since.  As long as you don't count the ever-present fountain-o-snot.   Stinker.

So today, I resolve to stay in my pajamas as long as possible, take a morning nap, not clean up any vomit, and not envision hospital stays for snotty noses.  Might be a resolution I can keep.

Very Important Questions

We interrupt this regularly scheduled "New Year's Resolution" or "Year in Review" or "My favorite posts of 2009" post to bring you these very important questions. 

First: Why is it that, despite a wide range of beautiful, age appropriate, developmentally stimulating toys that we have all over the house to entertain the baby boy, he only wants to play with the things that aren't toys?   Maybe I need a good cardboard box to distract him from the iphone, the Blackberry, the laptop and the remote control!

Second, and most important: Why do my Rice Krispie treats always turn out hard and stale instead of soft and gooey?  I follow the recipe exactly, and as soon as they cool, they taste like cardboard.  I can make gourmet 4-course meals out of virtually nothing for my family, but I can't make soft Rice Krispie treats.  (And I really, really wanted some...)

Okay, I know there's some seriously smart people out there.  Someone needs to save me from a lifetime of stale rice krispie treats and hiding the remote control from the baby. Who's day is it to know everything?