Cloth Diaper Confessions

I pretend to be disgusted when Mabel eats the fecal matter out of Baby JAR's dirty diapers. I just stand there and act like I'm frozen with horror and outrage. But really, I want to give her time to finish the job so I don't have to dunk it in the toilet.

Anthropomorphism Makes Me Smile

There are two types of people in this world--those who enjoy imagining their pets in clothing and those who don't. I am a member of the first group. Nothing tickles me quite as much as imagining Marley and Mabel dressed as people.

Mabel

I enjoy picturing Mabel in a snug sweatsuit. The sweatshirt features a picture of an orange kitten and has one of those attached collars, creating an illusion of layers. She wears plastic barrettes on her ears. This particular visual will have me doubled over with laughter, wiping the away the tears. Then I have to give Mabel a hug because she looks so dumb in my head and I really like it. 

Marley

Marley carries himself with a bit more grace than Mabel, so naturally I picture him in a smoking jacket with a pair of wire rimmed glasses. He reads The New Yorker and has earnest, but slightly superior conversations with people about technology and the death of print and human relationships. This image will have me giggling uncontrollably. Then I have to spoon Marley on the sectional and call him a prince, because he is.

The Very Expensive Stomach Flu, or I Swear I Don't Have Munchausen Syndrome

Last Tuesday Baby JAR and I took an ambulance ride to the emergency room. That was so much fun we went again the next day.

"Oh no!" You might exclaim. "Whatever for? Probably something terrible and life threatening, right?"

Well, sure. It was vomit. We went to the ER twice for vomit. My insurance is billing us hundreds of dollars for vomit.

The Beginning of This Ridiculous Story: 

Baby JAR was toddling around Tuesday morning and smacked his head on the coffee table. It was a good, loud thunk. He cried. I kissed it and said to my husband, "that was a bad one."

A few hours later Baby JAR begins to vomit.

Now I am a conscientious, slightly neurotic parent. So I read tons of books and hang first aid leaflets on the walls. Sometimes I stand in front of said leaflets, with a blank expression on my face, desperately trying to remember my purpose in life. Sometimes I read the leaflets. And it clearly states, "Call the pediatrician for a child with a head injury and any of the following: persistent headache or vomiting."

So I call the pediatrician and they tell us to come in. Long story short, the pediatrician says that while Baby JAR seems completely healthy (excluding vomit stains down shirt), he should have his brain "imaged" at the ER because he may have a bleed which could cause his brain to swell and kill him. (Not a direct quote.)

Now I am hysterical. I went in looking for reassurance and left clutching directions to the children's hospital emergency department.

So of course my son begins to vomit profusely in his carseat. His very safe and expensive rear facing convertible carseat. I can't see him or reach him. I'm the only adult in the car. It's rush hour. I am imagining swollen brain tissue, seizures, and vomit aspiration. So what do I do? Roll down my window, scream at the other cars to get the f--- out of my way, pull into a Hyundai dealership, and call 911.

By the time the paramedics arrive (which wasn't long), Baby JAR is smiling at car salesmen, making vrroooommm noises, and blowing kisses. He is clearly in need of professional medical support. They transport us to the ER. The paramedic tells me that when people drive in my state (i.e. full-blown hysteria due to over-active imagination), "accidents happen" (direct quote).

So we go the ER, get checked out and get sent home. The doctor says that the vomiting may be related to fall, but either way, it had been long enough without any other symptoms. Whoosh, what relief! My baby is fine and my husband and I have something interesting to discuss over dinner.

The next day he starts vomiting again. He won't eat. He won't play. I call the pediatrician and they send me back to the ER. Again.

I manage to get us there without calling 911, but of course Baby JAR throws up all over the car. Again.

They ask us all of the same questions at the ER:
Any fever or other symptoms of illness? No.
Anyone else in the family throwing up? No.
Is he eating? No.
Etc, etc, etc.

They decide to give him anti-nausea medicine and see if he can keep any food down. If he can't, they'll proceed with a CT scan.

At this point, Big JAR arrives. He had just talked to his friend--whose family we spent the previous weekend with--and it turns out they all have the stomach flu. Really. This is information I would have welcomed Tuesday morning. 

Less than one minute later, Baby JAR bends over and fills his diaper with a sick, viscous substance. This kid definitely does not have a brain injury--he has the flu! I am elated, overcome, slightly queasy with... joy. Yes, joy.

We are sent home with a popsicle and promises of an astronomical medical bill.

Big JAR and I spend the next three days violently ejecting all fluids from our bodies. We cannot do anything but lie on the floor and cry for the end. The dogs took care of Baby JAR a la Good Dog Carl. We threw them a box of Cheerios and wished them the best.

Slack Jawed in the Looking Glass

Have you ever let your face go completely slack while looking in the mirror? Eyes glazed, cheeks drooping, and mouth partially open? I tried it recently and was astonished with the results. So that's what I look like when I'm really tired, deep in thought, or imagining a feather bed and a platter of roast chicken enveloping me in deliciousness. Interesting... It's not a particularly attractive look. I tend to pose and preen at the mirror, so I appreciated the contrast. It's like when I try on an outfit in front of the full length mirror. I stand up straight, pull my navel into my spine and lift my boobs to the ceiling. This is silly, because I never carry myself like that away from the mirror. I typically drop the boobs and throw that navel as far from my spine as physically possible.

There is no message or moral to this story. Candid mirror glimpses are an informative way to while away the hours on a summer afternoon. Possibly more productive to floss or strengthen pelvic floor via kegel exercises. Hmmmm...

Cows Have Four Stomachs

Sitting at the dinner table watching Baby JAR chew bites of chicken and then spit them out. Over and over and over again.

Big JAR: "It's amazing how little food he actually consumes."

Me: "He's like a cow, just chewing his cud."

Baby JAR: "Moooo."

Memories for Mother's Day

My top memories for Mother's Day...

5. You know that boy I fell madly in love with in high school? The free spirit that eschews conformity and now lives on a bus (or so I've heard)? Well, remember when he ditched me on prom night to go hang out with his new girlfriend? You and dad were out of town that night. I had strict instructions to spend the night with a friend and her physically present parents. But I skipped out on the adult supervision and went back to our empty house to sob and watch "Who's the Boss" reruns on TBS. You came home earlier than expected and I was sure that I'd be in trouble. Instead you took one look at my face and just gave me a hug. Thanks mom. 

4. One time--during my "Bread and Jam for Frances" phase--you let me make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no peanut butter and ALL jelly. That was awesome.

3. You pretended not to notice all those nights I stayed up past my bedtime to read books by my nightlight.

2. You and dad kissing and dancing in the kitchen, walks around Green Lake, toys that encouraged imaginary play, bike rides around the neighborhood, no more than 30 minutes of PBS after school, vegetables with every dinner, no sugar cereal or soda, limits, high expectations, three amazing sisters for playmates, consistency, and unconditional love. Because of you I had an amazing childhood.

1. Remember when I gave birth to my son? He came out red-faced, screaming, and completely perfect? The nurse whisked him away to be weighed, swaddled, etc. Everyone ran off to admire that amazing little baby. Except you. You stayed next to me and held my hand while the midwife put me back together. I love you, mom.

Penny Got Knocked Up By Robby the Creep--What?

Dirty Dancing really spoke to my third grade soul. I never understood what was going on with that Penny character, but I can't say that I cared. I only had eyes for Baby. I  pretended that my Payless canvas knock-offs were real Keds. I put on my denim shorts and tied my white mandarin collared blouse from China (thanks Gramps!) in a knot above my bellybutton. I dreamed of a boy lifting me in the air by my delicate waist. I forced my youngest sister to watch me dance gracefully to "The Time of My Life" and cheer at all the dramatic pauses. I persuaded the neighbor boy to meet me in the hedge. I kissed him. He screamed and ran away. Johnny he was most decidedly not.