Tag Archives: boys

Poop, Croup & Spiders

That would be a succinct description of my day. When my week gets chaotic — as it has this past week — you might notice I don’t post for a few days. Or a week. Or more. Just trying to keep the fires out. Or at least at a slow burn.

And then I’ll have a day like today and know if I don’t find an immediate, albeit civil, forum for venting, my head will explode. (Has anyone studied whether or not the incidence of spontaneous combustion has decreased as blogging has gone on the rise? I think there’s a Nobel Prize in there somewhere.)

We started off the day with a thunderstorm. No problem there, except that it prompted a curious discovery: apparently, when ordering our phone service, I forgot to specify we needed the kind of phone service that works in the rain. Silly rabbit.

I also nearly destroyed our nice French-door refrigerator, which I adore, by pulling out a freezer tray too far and getting it jammed. As in jammed open, with fifty pounds of frozen food weighing it down and making it next to impossible for Miss Flabby Arms to lift and line up the right gizmos to slide it back into place. I got it fixed in the end. And if we had a cuss pot in our house, I’d be broke.

None of which has anything to do with the title. But venting is somewhat stream of consciousness, so just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

Speaking of panties. Poop. Ah yes, poop. Our stock in trade. I will spare you the gory details (or photos) and put it this way. In our family annals of potty training history: “This is a day that will live in infamy.”

As far as the croup goes, one week ago, I took Tristan into the doctor’s office with a suspected ear infection. The symptoms weren’t glaring, just mild fever and not-so-mild irritability — to the point that the nurses gave me that “see-the-crazy-over-protective-mother” look. But I know my boy. Lo and behold: an ear infection.

Fast forward to Saturday: suddenly, the mild fever spikes to real fever. I took him back to the doctor on Tuesday, whereupon I was told he must have picked up a virus after coming in for the ear infection. (What are the chances he picked up said virus at the pediatrician’s office? Hmmmm. No comment.)

This morning, we aspired to labored breathing, barking cough and irritability with extreme prejudice. Back to the doctor we go. It’s croup —which every authority will tell you is supposed to get worse at night — but in some sort of crazy daytime version that allows my boy to sleep like a log but turn into Mr. Hyde during the day. Can we conclude my youngest son is a wee bit contrary?

As for the trifecta of my Wednesday, I vaguely remember a time when I wasn’t freaked out by spiders or insects. And I have no idea what happened. I guess I got old. And creepy-crawlies were a casualty of aging. Hate. Them.

Ewww. Yuck. Gag. Shiver. Retch.

I’m sure when they recruit people to go live in Antarctic scientific colonies, that’s a big selling point. On one hand: subzero temperatures. On the other: no bugs. Tempting, very tempting.

Oh, and I didn’t get a shower today.

Yet again.

Will somebody please call the wah-mbulance and give them my address? My phone’s still not working.

New Feature?

I’m thinking of adding a new weekly feature to my blog.

Perhaps — in deference to the latest crazy sweeping Facebook, Twitter and the web — I’ll call it: Sh*t My Kids Broke.

On second thought, I’d better make it a daily feature.

I have two sons. Precious, adorable, cherubic children. They are my daily delight. I love them more than life itself. But.

For starters, they’re two-and-a-half years apart in age. They have no older sisters. They have no sisters, period. They like to wrestle. They are mechanically-inclined. They are obsessed with kitchen utensils. They are currently under contract to the CIA for their preternatural ability to bypass the most advanced security systems known to man.

Take a moment and peruse these “During” photos of my home. Note the dearth of accessories, knick-knacks and objects d’art.

I possess such things. I just can’t display them.

Those of you who have boys — and I do mean to make that plural — will understand. Those of you with girls, or even one solitary prince sandwiched between your princesses, won’t understand the breadth of destruction which can be wreaked by the combined exertions of “the heir and the spare.”

I don’t make empty accusations. Let me give you a “for instance.”

My husband is gracious enough to shoulder several duties in preparing our home for visitors. Standing Order Numero Uno is: put the toilet paper holders back where they belong.

Oh, yes. My sons’ favorite sport is ripping the toilet paper holders off the walls.

Would your daughters ever even think of such a bizarre act of destruction?


Did I mention I’m outnumbered three-to-one in this house?

The toilet paper holder thing is not the worst they’ve done, and some other day, I will post a photo essay to account for more extreme examples of their destructive tendencies. For now, I will just stick to the issue at hand.

Remember this?

Now it looks like this:

They “somehow” (meaning I have a pretty good idea exactly how they did it but have no actual proof…) managed to snap this bolt supporting the chandelier.

I found the whole fixture dangling three feet lower than usual and supported only by the wiring. Yippy.

Word to the wise: If you are considering having children, forget Lamaze class and take a shop course at your local trade school. Plumbing, Electrical, General Contracting, whatever you can squeeze in. You won’t regret it.

I managed to locate the breaker box, find the right switch for the dining room and turn off the power, unwire the very heavy chandelier and stash it away until hubby can weld it to the ceiling.

I’m developing a greater understand of the phrase “driven to drink” every day.

Boys, I love you. But you should know I’ve been keeping each of you a running tab.

Hey, what comes after “trillion”? Anyone?


Your loving Mama

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