My beautiful first born child just told me some little girl at school likes him. His conversation about it started off as, "Amanda teases me."
To which I replied, "Why does she tease you?" My ears are all perked up. I'm ready to go and break little Amanda's face for making my boy uncomfortable at school.
And he says with a cute little grin on his face, "Because she likes me. She plays with me everyday."
My heart sank in my chest as my son went back to face diving in the bath water his brother probably urinated in. He's sputtering and spitting water out of face with his little brother and I am having visions of him holding hands and making kissy faces at this little girl. Today, she likes him...tomorrow she may want to play Doctor...next week I may be getting a call from the school that they were caught in the bathroom feeling each other up. They're only 5 but my mind ran away with it.
My first thought was, "This is my baby!" My second thought was, "I need to meet this girl."
And yes, I am being extra dramatic about it. I want to know her entire government name...social security number, date and place of birth. I want to know her family history going back atleast 3 generations. Everything my son knows about her, I want to know. And I am serious about the drug test, blood test...she needs to piss in a cup and complete a psych eval. I want genetic testing too.
I really don't think the boy even thinks about it like that. I just watched him play smacking asses with his baby brother and strum his own penis like a guitar. I just watched him try and spit bath water up in my ceiling. He was squeezing on my backside when he was "hugging" me when I came home from work. He got yelled at by his daddy for doing back flips off the couch again. This is the same boy that told me he won't have a girlfriend or a wife because he has to focus on being a "Chief Man" in the Army.
But one day, I know when the hormones start releasing themselves into his system...and he starts sprouting hairs in weird places, that he is really going to think about some girl. It may not be Amanda, but I'm putting together my kit now so that I know what I'm dealing with.
I didn't say much about the information he gave me. I didn't tell him to stay away from her or that girls have cooties or anything stupid and juvenile like that. I want him to feel comfortable spilling the beans to his loving mother. Because in the back of my mind, while he's giving me the "scoop", I am mentally taking inventory of the things I will need to stalk little Amanda and make sure she is worthy of MY first born son.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
I Ain't No Cream Puff
Yesterday I fell. And I hurt my knee. But I didn't just fall...oh no. Just tripping and falling is almost never how things happen for me. Case in point...a few months ago, the baby boy decided that going to the toilet was overrated and pooped in his underwear. The child then proceeded to sit and smoosh the poo so that it oozed down his leg...and wanted to whine about it. I had no clue this is what he did when I heard him whining. I just thought he had gotten something on his leg or his leg was hurting. I touched him to check him. My hand landed in the poo. The look of anger made him cringe and start crying.
Ladies and gentlemen...I believe in capitol punshiment and he knew he had one coming.
So I'm pissed to the highest level of piss-tivity. I just stuck my hands in poo and when we get upstairs there are still chunks in his drawers! I take the clothing into the basement to rinse them out. Lo and behold, on my angry way back up the stairs, I trip. But I don't just trip...I bang my leg on the edge of the tiled steps and slide back down the tiled steps, scraping off about 18 inches of skin in the process on the tiled steps.
So I didn't just fall yesterday. I was trying to have a joyous experience of walking the boy to school. I have the baby on my back and we're racing up the street. And the boy is in front, little legs pumping hard because he is winning. It's all fun and games until I get close to him. And then he just suddenly stops....and puts his hands out. I have too much forward momentum going with the little one on my back to stop or really maneuver around him. We collide and I try and turn my body so that I don't fall on him. And I land, knee first, on the curb, right in the middle of Wilkens Ave, during morning rush hour traffic.
We all know the first thing that came to mind, "Did anybody see me just fall like that?" And then the blinding pain as I feel the baby sliding down my body and landing with a gentle plop on his butt. And then he gets angry because his mommy is writhing on the ground in pain...not knowing whether the hand scraps or the knee hurts more. And he squares his little shoulders and charges at his brother ready to kick his ass. The boy is profusely apologizing and I'm hurt...making ouch noises like a sissy.
I get myself up and get the boy dropped off to school. The little one and I walk back home and I feel fine by the time we make it back. I go through my day, class and everything, and I forget all about my knee being hurt. What I do remember is the embarrassment of the fall.
And then I go to work. The good old Night Shift. The moment I start racing around the unit trying to get things accomplished, I feel it start to happen. My leg feels tight. I see it getting puffy. By 10pm it's full on swollen and I'm limping. But I didn't ask to go home. The thought didn't cross my mind. I still did my thing, pulling and turning people up in bed, running...or rather limping...to get supplies, helping clean up backside blowouts. Even willing to step in and do compressions during a code. I'm supposed to be sitting in between, icing my knee but guess what...I ain't no cream puff.
So we'll see what happens over the next few days. There will be ice and NSAIDS in my future. I plan to go to work tonight. I plan to do pilates and dance on Monday. We're learning Thriller for crying in the mud! This delayed reaction isn't going to stop me from making my money or enjoying my few pleasures in life. I ain't no cream puff.
Ladies and gentlemen...I believe in capitol punshiment and he knew he had one coming.
So I'm pissed to the highest level of piss-tivity. I just stuck my hands in poo and when we get upstairs there are still chunks in his drawers! I take the clothing into the basement to rinse them out. Lo and behold, on my angry way back up the stairs, I trip. But I don't just trip...I bang my leg on the edge of the tiled steps and slide back down the tiled steps, scraping off about 18 inches of skin in the process on the tiled steps.
So I didn't just fall yesterday. I was trying to have a joyous experience of walking the boy to school. I have the baby on my back and we're racing up the street. And the boy is in front, little legs pumping hard because he is winning. It's all fun and games until I get close to him. And then he just suddenly stops....and puts his hands out. I have too much forward momentum going with the little one on my back to stop or really maneuver around him. We collide and I try and turn my body so that I don't fall on him. And I land, knee first, on the curb, right in the middle of Wilkens Ave, during morning rush hour traffic.
We all know the first thing that came to mind, "Did anybody see me just fall like that?" And then the blinding pain as I feel the baby sliding down my body and landing with a gentle plop on his butt. And then he gets angry because his mommy is writhing on the ground in pain...not knowing whether the hand scraps or the knee hurts more. And he squares his little shoulders and charges at his brother ready to kick his ass. The boy is profusely apologizing and I'm hurt...making ouch noises like a sissy.
I get myself up and get the boy dropped off to school. The little one and I walk back home and I feel fine by the time we make it back. I go through my day, class and everything, and I forget all about my knee being hurt. What I do remember is the embarrassment of the fall.
And then I go to work. The good old Night Shift. The moment I start racing around the unit trying to get things accomplished, I feel it start to happen. My leg feels tight. I see it getting puffy. By 10pm it's full on swollen and I'm limping. But I didn't ask to go home. The thought didn't cross my mind. I still did my thing, pulling and turning people up in bed, running...or rather limping...to get supplies, helping clean up backside blowouts. Even willing to step in and do compressions during a code. I'm supposed to be sitting in between, icing my knee but guess what...I ain't no cream puff.
So we'll see what happens over the next few days. There will be ice and NSAIDS in my future. I plan to go to work tonight. I plan to do pilates and dance on Monday. We're learning Thriller for crying in the mud! This delayed reaction isn't going to stop me from making my money or enjoying my few pleasures in life. I ain't no cream puff.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Bathroom Capers
Who does not like to commune with the commode or sing loudly under running water or have a luxurious soak in a moist mound of bubbles? God knows I L-O-V-E to do these things. When I was single and had my own apartment, it was the highlight of my day to have "bathroom time". It was an escape where I could light scented candles, read books and run cheap beer over my immature, alcoholic pallet.
And then I got married...
And I got pregnant...
And I had, not one, but two children...
The getting married part was not so bad. The husband respected my need to lock myself in the bathroom while I did my business. He found it strange that I thought urinating in front of him was a no-no, especially since I had NO problem letting loose from the caboose. (We all have our strange insecurities.)
Pregnancy gave me a new found respect for indoor plumbing. You hear stories about having to pee every 5-15 mins...and then you find out the stories are real. And then you hate life for stealing that small pleasure of alone time when you pee because you go so often. And you gain a new appreciation for the older generation and their high fiber, high water diet because sometimes, just because you feel like you need to do #2 doesn't always mean it's going to be a quick drop in the bucket and moving on with your day. Oh no...having a bowel movement becomes an EVENT when you are pregnant. Hormones do a number on you.
The children. I love them. They love me. They love me SO much that the thought of being separated by both a door and a curtain sends them into a panick so bad that they have to poop. There is nothing like a nippy autumn morning, after I've gotten the boys cleaned and dressed and seated at the table with breakfast, where I think I have just enough time to get in a shower. It is like my own reprieve from this cold cruel world, a small slice of bliss to make life more bearable. I close the door and turn on the water. I get the bathroom all nice and steamed up. The air is made warm by the heat of the water so when I get out I don't have to rush to lotion up. I get in and let the water beat down on me. I am greatful to the husband for installing the new wider shower head so that my entire back is being soothed by the heat and gentle pounding of the water.
But then I hear it. I hear the stomps coming up the stairs...the badoomp, badoomp of someone whose legs are too short to really run up the stairs. I know where those footsteps are heading, but I am praying to whatever god will listen to me that those steps aren't really heading in my direction. I can hear the panting as the steps get closer. And in the warm comfy confounds of my shower comes a thick blast of cold air followed by a, "MOMMY! I HAVE TO POOP!" And my first born child stands in the doorway, letting out all of my beautiful warm steam, waiting for me to give him permission to have a bowel movement. Who am I to say no? Especially after everything that made the moment so tender and sweet has just left in a puff out the door and down the steps where his side kick is still in La-La Land enjoying his toaster waffle.
I really don't think 15 minutes is a long time. It's not like I was shampooing my hair. It was really a quick and simple cleansing of the body. I want to shed a tear for my stolen moment. But my big baby has to take a dump with great urgency...with the door open...and I can hear him making his deposit in the commode.
So I get out. I turn off the water and get out of the shower. And I secretely hate my life as I feel the rush of cold air on my wet, naked backside...as my son, my first born son, giggles and exclaims how he can see my butt. He says it only in the way that immature boys can, as he stands there, with toilet paper hand, examining whatever came out of his own backside.
This happens frequently. Sometimes he wants to have a full converstion while doing his business. Sometimes, he brings the little one along...and they come with toys and books like I need a personal guard. Sometimes they fight over who needs to poop first. I don't care about none of it. All I think about is how I am being punished for doing the same stupid stuff to my mother. And sometimes I call her and apologize because, dammit, I didn't know! I...did...not...know...
And then I got married...
And I got pregnant...
And I had, not one, but two children...
The getting married part was not so bad. The husband respected my need to lock myself in the bathroom while I did my business. He found it strange that I thought urinating in front of him was a no-no, especially since I had NO problem letting loose from the caboose. (We all have our strange insecurities.)
Pregnancy gave me a new found respect for indoor plumbing. You hear stories about having to pee every 5-15 mins...and then you find out the stories are real. And then you hate life for stealing that small pleasure of alone time when you pee because you go so often. And you gain a new appreciation for the older generation and their high fiber, high water diet because sometimes, just because you feel like you need to do #2 doesn't always mean it's going to be a quick drop in the bucket and moving on with your day. Oh no...having a bowel movement becomes an EVENT when you are pregnant. Hormones do a number on you.
The children. I love them. They love me. They love me SO much that the thought of being separated by both a door and a curtain sends them into a panick so bad that they have to poop. There is nothing like a nippy autumn morning, after I've gotten the boys cleaned and dressed and seated at the table with breakfast, where I think I have just enough time to get in a shower. It is like my own reprieve from this cold cruel world, a small slice of bliss to make life more bearable. I close the door and turn on the water. I get the bathroom all nice and steamed up. The air is made warm by the heat of the water so when I get out I don't have to rush to lotion up. I get in and let the water beat down on me. I am greatful to the husband for installing the new wider shower head so that my entire back is being soothed by the heat and gentle pounding of the water.
But then I hear it. I hear the stomps coming up the stairs...the badoomp, badoomp of someone whose legs are too short to really run up the stairs. I know where those footsteps are heading, but I am praying to whatever god will listen to me that those steps aren't really heading in my direction. I can hear the panting as the steps get closer. And in the warm comfy confounds of my shower comes a thick blast of cold air followed by a, "MOMMY! I HAVE TO POOP!" And my first born child stands in the doorway, letting out all of my beautiful warm steam, waiting for me to give him permission to have a bowel movement. Who am I to say no? Especially after everything that made the moment so tender and sweet has just left in a puff out the door and down the steps where his side kick is still in La-La Land enjoying his toaster waffle.
I really don't think 15 minutes is a long time. It's not like I was shampooing my hair. It was really a quick and simple cleansing of the body. I want to shed a tear for my stolen moment. But my big baby has to take a dump with great urgency...with the door open...and I can hear him making his deposit in the commode.
So I get out. I turn off the water and get out of the shower. And I secretely hate my life as I feel the rush of cold air on my wet, naked backside...as my son, my first born son, giggles and exclaims how he can see my butt. He says it only in the way that immature boys can, as he stands there, with toilet paper hand, examining whatever came out of his own backside.
This happens frequently. Sometimes he wants to have a full converstion while doing his business. Sometimes, he brings the little one along...and they come with toys and books like I need a personal guard. Sometimes they fight over who needs to poop first. I don't care about none of it. All I think about is how I am being punished for doing the same stupid stuff to my mother. And sometimes I call her and apologize because, dammit, I didn't know! I...did...not...know...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)