Oh deer

I know I promised this story a little while back, but I was still too emotionally connected to be able to write it. Thus, I will share it with you now, as I’ve stopped thinking about this poor little deer on a day-to-day basis, wondering where it is or if it’s eating little deer cookies in deer heaven.

The day after the wedding, Sept. 18

On Sept. 18 at 6:00, I was ready to divorce John. It had been a long 24 hours, what can I say? Okay, Sweetie, since I know you’re reading this, really I wasn’t. I was just a little harried, that’s all.

On Saturday night, the plan was to spend time with family and friends at a relaxing dinner, which we did, but getting ready for it was one of the most unorganized two hours of my life. John had gone to the hotel early, justifiably, to spend time with his family because he doesn’t have the option I do of seeing his family every day. Or every few months for that matter.

While I tried to get dressed up and keep the boys looking half clean, they managed to:

1. Get a hold of John’s aftershave and spread it on the carpet and sofa to say nothing of their outfits
2. Poop. (By the way, is there some prophecy out don’t know about that when you’re getting ready to go, your kids will poop?)
3. And spray hairspray all over the living room (I was just thankful that this didn’t get in their eyes).

My mom saved the day by coming over to drop off something from the wedding site and deciding to stick with me to help me get the boys in coats, etc. and out the door.

On our way to dinner, just where Hwy 5 meets 35, I heard my mom say, “Sweetie, there’s a deer behind that column.”

At this point, both boys were singing “Wheels on the Bus” in the backseat, I was wearing a dress and heels, and the last thing I was thinking about was a deer.

The deer apparently wasn’t thinking about me either.

She dashed in front of the car and slammed on the brakes (thank God no one was behind me) and we caught the poor things’ rumpus right on our hood.

“Keep driving, you did a good job,” my mom said as my hands shook and I tried to drive 70 to move in with traffic and the boys continued to sing, “The wheels  on the bus.” Thank God for Britax car seats by the way.

“Ummmm …,” I said intelligently. All I could see was that poor deer flying into the underbrush of the bypass, lying in pain or saying, “Thank God for that ghetto booty.” I really hoped it was the latter.

And then my mom said something that made me think – no wonder I turned out so crazy.

“I always wondered what it would be like to hit a deer.”

I looked at her, incredulous. “Really? That’s what you're thinking right now?”

She patted my hand and looked hopeful. “Don't worry, Sweetie. I think that deer may have made it.”

Well, I hope so, but if you did Bambi, you owe me a deductible.

Sink or Swim

Sully has turned into Lassie in the past few days. It would be incredibly cute if it weren't followed by something incredibly (insert dangerous, expensive, or grotesque here).

On Sunday, for instance, while I was drawing a bath for the boys, trying to encourage William not to splash all of the water onto the floor and grabbing two pairs of pajamas, Sully tugged on my sleeve, looked at me with big brown eyes and said, "Mama."

I know the drill now, so I followed his little footsteps into the bathroom and crossed my fingers he was about to show me something he'd put in the bathtub (for instance, last week's "Mama" led me to a bathtub full of our pots and pans). But that's okay. In instances like this, I've lucked out, because all it takes is a little cleaning time and we're back to normal.

This wasn't one of those times.

I sighed, looked down at Sully's little finger pointing straight at the toilet and groaned. He opened the lid slowly, as if to say, "You won't believe this, Mama. This is something amazing."

"Ooooh," he said as he opened the lid, eyes on me. Look Mom. Magic.

And he revealed his Sleep Sheep sound machine. Sitting at the bottom of the toilet. The only toy that has helped me gain sanity in moments of craziness was sitting like a stone in toilet water. The only sign of life, little bubbles that floated to the top until -

My son reached in and grabbed it and held it out for me like a prize. "Mama," he said again and I groaned ... again. I put the machine on a towel because I couldn't bear with the thought of throwing it in the trash just yet -- the only toy that made a sound that didn't make me crazy.

In case you're wondering about what items sink and what items swim, thus far we have discovered that bottles swim, sound machines sink, Neosporin swims, and toilet paper, well, toilet paper clogs.

Stay tuned for future episodes of Lassie. Until tomorrow ...

Poop. Poop. Poop.

I have a friend who has hated the word poop ever since we were in fifth grade and she moved here from Michigan. Melissa, if you're reading this - yes, I still remember your hatred for the word poop. She has since had two children and had to deal with more than her fair share of poo I'm sure (see Melissa - I called it poo just for you!) - and I got more than my fair share of poop (trust me, this happening deserves the extra "p") last night.

Oh.

My.

So last night the boys were crawling on my legs as I tried to get one minute to eat a snack before taking them on their walk. I thought, heck, we'll give you some juice and head on our walk. But they drank them down right away. Why you little guys are dead thirsty, I thought, and refilled their cups. I knew this was more juice than they normally have in a day, much more, but thought, well, you're thirsty and we need to go. Here we go.

About halfway through our walk they started getting very cranky, and by the time we got home, they were really cranky. Cranky, cranky, cranky. I was losing my mind. John was being patient dad thank God because all I seemed able to say was, "Eek is it just me or are they going nuts? I'm going nuts!"

Some days, I go nuts.

I gave up on getting them to eat and John and I decided we would just feed them a quick tub of fruit.

That's when it all started.

Probably I should have heard many bells going off - fire alarms actually - at this stage, but I didn't. I didn't notice anything was wrong at all, until I looked down.

And saw a puddle.

Of poop.

On the floor.

Under Sully's highchair.

Horrified, I followed the poop puddle trail up the highchair leg, up my son's leg, and into his shorts.

"Ummmm," I said.

By now, you guys know I hate poop. I'm flu queen. I handle puke. I hate, hate, hate, poop. It's beyond gross.

"Well!" John said, "get him in the bath."

I was frozen for a minute. Eeeeeew. Poop!

"Okay," I said and went into action.

I held Sully with as few fingers as possible and ran him back to the bathroom and he kept whining holding his fingers out to me that still had food chunks from the dinner he only played with covering his fingers.

Really kid, I thought, you're choosing THAT to whine about right now? You have a mile of poop running down your leg.

I filled the bath, plopped him in and meanwhile cleaned up his now poopy brother and plopped him in the bath, too.

And then the bath water filled with diarrhea.

And then I watched my children grab the plastic cup and fill it up and pour it out with diarrhea water while I started emptying the tub, telling them, "Eeew! No! Guys - stop it!"

And they giggled.

Sigh.

Then Will decided he might drink some diarrhea water and I moved with what I thought was Olympic speed and grabbed the cup and thought, "2 tickets to the Bahamas are sounding really nice right now." Note to self:
Get rich, call travel agent.

Somehow, an hour later, two more poops later, and a lot of diapers and a LOT of wipes, we had two clean boys ready for bed.

Thank goodness.

This morning on my way to work I called my sister and told her the story.

"You do know you're supposed to dilute the juice, right?" she asked. "Half water, half juice."

"What?! Why don't people tell me these things?" I said.


My poor children. I honestly feel bad. I need a Motherhood book for Dummies. Poop. I tell you.

The end.

Until tomorrow ...