Thanksgiving Too Shall Pass

Not being the parental/maternal/mommy type, when my kid gets sick, it's the end of the world. You might be the parental/maternal/mommy type and when your kid gets sick, it could be the end of your world. You can write about that in your blog. But this is my blog and it's about me and the people I know, and the mothers I do know seem to handle their children getting sick just fine. For me, however, it has ruined my Thanksgiving. My first born is experiencing his first real-hardcore-snot-and-fever-fiesta-type virus.

Thank you, preschool. Or the zoo. Or the playground.

He even looks weird - like he's been mainlining Benadryl nonstop for 72 hours. His eyes are all droopy and he's just been in the craziest mood - erratically mellow, but then erratically cuckoo. The worst part of it is that although normally, his screams are incredibly piercing and awful, his screams now are muted and bizarre. It has come to this - I miss his shrieking. If he could scream like he did last week, at least I would know that he was normal again. He also looks thinner, which is bad since he's already a scrawny dude.

There is no middle ground when I worry about something. I've managed to convince myself he has the plague and if he overcomes this, it will be with less brain cells, or impaired vision, or a complete defiance towards afternoon naps. There will be a scar and it will be permanent.

Let's discuss Thanksgiving. No one died. We still have a roof over our head. There was no great tragedy other than the fact that I only ate half a plate of food and no dessert (not by choice, although I'm sure it didn't hurt me).

The first part of Thanksgiving was at my in-laws. That sucked because that's when I first noticed he looked high! He was in a crappy mood and didn't want to eat. He wanted to go play in the next room and I had to be the bouncer that made sure he and his cousins didn't terrorize each other. (Is it possible for three-year-olds to coexist harmoniously???)

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner.

We left before dessert to squeeze in a nap before having to go to my mom's. I hoped he would just sleep it off and be fine when he woke up. He slept for a little while, or I did while I laid next to him. I'm not exactly sure if he got any sleep, but I got in about 45 minutes. That's the only good thing about the kid getting sick. It sort of justifies falling asleep in his bed with him ("I'm monitoring the fever"). Then at my mom's house, just as we were sitting down to eat, the housekeeper said, "He's got a fever."

Ugh.

We bust out the thermometer and it's 102. Ugh ugh ugh. Off to Wal-mart to buy drugs and Gatorade. I'm shoveling food in my mouth as we're packing the dudes up.

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner as well.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It is the day when, as far as I'm concerned, the best food is cooked and the best company is kept at my mother's house. However, I realized at 10PM last night as John and I were peacefully eating leftovers that my mom sent us, we are about five years away from being able to enjoy a peaceful and fun Thanksgiving. If it's not a sickness that throws a monkey wrench into the festivities, it'll be a bedtime, or boredom, or some other crazy thing that infects those little maniacs we call toddlers.

The doorbell rang this afternoon. There were flowers at my door. Made my Thanksgiving and my year. The note said, "This too shall pass." Thank you, Amy.

Scream if you're done with screams

One of my best friends is having a baby tomorrow. We know this because it's a planned c-section but it's made me a bit nostalgic about #2's birth, because it was more recent than #1's and because it was sort of documented on Facebook so I could keep clicking the Older Posts link to find the magical day. I don't think I was hip on the 'book when #1 hit us like a ton of jagged bricks.

Anyway, we're wrapping up year one with #2. This is a graduation of sorts for us. No more stupid Dr. Brown bottles with a million components, no more formula (although since we went all Up and Up on that shiznit, it's not such a hit to the wallet), no more awkward infant car seat, but best of all, no more BABIES!!!

I'm ashamed to say I don't remember too much about it, only because mostly what I can recall of this year is #1's high pitched screams. 2010 was definitely the year of the scream. Will 2011 hold the same fate for us? Let's hope not, since we've pretty much adopted a zero tolerance policy for screaming.

And this is how much I've changed since I became a parent. No longer am I embarrassed by #1's screams. He can scream all the way to the ENT to check the nodule that I'm sure is imminent, and I will remain calm and unfazed. And what's more, when homeboy is screaming in public that he wants an ice cream or cookie, I ignore him until we get to the car and then I take great pleasure in saying, "Remember what we talked about earlier today at Target? Remember quid pro quo? Yeah, no cookie or ice cream for you!" And more screaming ensues. From him, not me.

But at the end of the day, the monster (again, him not me) goes away and #1 becomes the super cool little dude that I adore. Is this what this parenting scam is? It's strange and exhausting 85% of the time and platinum 15% of the time. Pure, premium, platinum. I guess I'm a sucker for precious metals.

My Scream King

One of my personality traits is that I have incredibly high expectations of the people I surround myself with. I know that it is sometimes difficult to be my friend, but it is probably even more difficult to be my child. No one is perfect and it disappoints me to know how easily I forget that. #1 is two years and eight months old. He is right in the thick of things as far as toddler insanity goes. He can be set off by the word "NO" or just enjoy the random Code Red, Hurricane Level 4 tantrum.

Up until a few days ago, I started wondering if there was something psychologically wrong with him. Then I talked to some people at work. It's normal. This crazy, irrational behavior is totally normal - which makes me feel like an asshole because when people ask how the boys are doing, I say the baby is awesome (I cannot imagine a better baby) and the older one is like a little terrorist. You cannot reason with a terrorist.

Truth of the matter is that while #1 certainly throws his share of tantrums and has the kind of piercing scream that can make dogs within a three mile radius vacate, he is a beautiful, sensitive little dude. He's never tried to beat up or bite his little brother. He has a wonderful sense of humor. He's incredibly logical and strategic. His passion is not Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba - it's the Von Roll Type 101. He's goddamn brilliant. I need to remember this when we're at Walmart and he wants to go right when we need to go left and the screaming ensues (my little Scream King).

This too shall pass.

Intervention: It begins TODAY

As much as I love the A&E show, this post is not about the season premiere. After suffering a HELLISH weekend with my beloved toddler, John and I have decided to stage an intervention.

First, let me give you some backstory, #1 SUCKS at eating. He didn't use to. He used to be the awesome kid who would eat all the fruits and veggies you pureed for him. At eighteen months, he staged his first food revolt. It's been a downward spiral ever since.

I wish I could say, "At least he eats chicken McNuggets." No, he does not. He doesn't like Chicken McNuggets. (What kid on planet Earth does not like Chicken McNuggets??? Yes, I know Chicken McNuggets are shit. BUT at least they have *some* protein. We can all agree that some of it does come from a chicken, right?)

Oh sure, give him cookies and cake and he's king. Until he turns into a little psycho that is reminiscent of Regan from The Exorcist. I don't think it's the sugar fallout that makes him go nuts. I think it's the fact that he won't eat anything else.

Forgive me if I'd rather let my child starve than nourish him with cookies and ice cream.

We had a great week last week. He was eating his food. He was super well behaved. Then we went to a birthday party on Friday night. Fruit punch, cookies, cake. You name it. Saturday was ok. Sunday was a disaster. In between his bouts of psychosis -the only substantial piece of food he ingested yesterday was half a banana.

We used tough love and strategy to get the dudes to sleep through the night at three months. It's time to stage an intervention and get this kid on track. I'll keep you posted on how it goes.

Wish me luck.

Public Service Announcement

Now see here, pregnant woman, or someday pregnant woman, learn from this. I wish someone had told me how smug I was. It's too late for me. But you can still be saved.

On the Record

Check this out. A few months ago, we took #2 to the doc. It was a late afternoon appointment. Normally I keep all doc-related things in a special briefcase-like contraption, but this time, since I had all this stuff to carry, including #1, I just put everything in my purse - brilliant move. Of course, the inevitable happened. The immunization record got lost. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The next appointment rolls around and I cannot find the stupid card. At the doc's office, I do the whole, "Oh shoot, I forgot it!" Well knowing, nope, didn't forget it. Intentionally didn't bring it because it's lost. But it was the nurse who was asking for it. Then the doc comes in, sees the kid, yada, yada. Before he leaves he says, "We'll just update the shot record at your next visit." DAMN. I was hoping he wouldn't find out. I realized then that I have this fear of disappointing the doc - the doc who I love and is pretty much the only reason I endured sharing a room after delivery of #2. I could have changed my insurance but I said, "No way, man. I love our pediatrician." (I also feel like somewhat of an elitist because he's not taking any new patients.)

Then I had to clean out my car. I found the shot record under the driver's seat. Yippee! Everyone rejoice!

So #2's appointment is this morning. Ask me. Go ahead. Do you have your shot record?

Here we go again. Cleaning out my car is something I rarely do. I had to be designated driver for some dinner party so I figured I might as well give the passenger a lesser-gross experience. Thing is, I was hurrying up and then running late so in my haste, I cannot, for the life of me, remember where I put the goddamn shot record.

Of course, I spent all of last night looking for it, trying to visualize my steps that night, everything - to no avail. I'm ready to throw in the towel, get a new shot record card, and never lose it again. You have my word in writing.

I googled what to do if you lose the shot record. Apparently it's not that big a deal if you've had the same doc - which we do since the dude has only been around for four months. I found myself on eHow reading about it. Then I glanced down at the article of the day. How to Work Through Feelings of Social Isolation. Was this all an elaborate ruse courtesy of the universe to get me to learn how to make friends?

Universe, the jig is up. Please give me my shot record card back.

Update: It really isn't a big deal to get a new shot record. I envisioned a smack down from the nurse, or at the very least, a disappointed frown. When I told her it was lost, she nodded and said, "OK, I'll get you a new one." The card stock is not the same caliber as the original but it's yellow and up to date. It'll do.

The Pot Calling the Kettle Black?

So I was messing around on the World Wide Web looking at other people's blogs about their families. They were pretty boring. I want to say that people should only write about their kids if they have funny stories about puke, or their kids shoplifting, or how they think the urge to have children was a momentary lapse in good judgement. But these boring blogs are strangely fascinating.

I was reading this one blog where the mom was talking about the kid's baptism. Who cares? Does anyone really care (aside from the numbers people at the Catholic Church who are worried about a drop in, well, numbers). I'm fascinated by the fact that this lady thinks people care, or more so, the possibility that some people do read and do care. And what about the jerks like me? People who don't care and read ONLY to make fun of others. I know, fucked up, right?

Here's more fucked up stuff. They had all these pics of the kids on the blog. The kids were ugly. I'm sure they'll grow up to be incredibly handsome, bright human beings, but they're just not enjoying their most photogenic years so far. So how fucked up is that? Some complete stranger/asshole (me) is looking at their blog, making mean-spirited remarks, and posting it on her blog. Where's the humanity in that?

(This is precisely why I don't have any pics of my kids on this blog. I am afraid of Internet Deviants who will Photoshop mustaches and devil horns on my kids.)

P.S. I know, I know. To each his own. Lord knows people don't need to read about my IUD or how I'm short-changing #2 with generic baby products.