Does that kid have a boner?

While in the car this weekend, the following conversation took place:

Seth (spotting the stick people family bumper sticker on a minivan ahead of us):  Can we agree to never get those stick people bumper stickers on our car?

Erin:  No, I am not agreeing to that.  I'm not saying we should, but I think they're kinda cute.

Seth (as we are getting closer to the minivan with stick people plastered on the rear window):  What's up with that kid in the middle?  I think he has a boner.

Erin (speeding up to get a better look):  No way.  No way!  That kid totally has a boner!

Seth:  That. Is. Awesome.

Erin:  A boner!

Seth:  (from his new vantage point, now 2 feet from the bumper of the boner car):  Nope, it's tree.  He's doing yoga.

Word to the wise.  Do not make your teenage stick figure bumper sticker boy do yoga.  From afar, it looks like he's pitching a tent.

Boner Boy

If you can't see it, walk across the room, away from your computer, and take another gander...

The Peanut Buttery Knife

I wrote this two years ago, when LL was still a breastfed baby.  I haven't changed a bit.  Neither has Seth...

Photo credit:  Todd Hoort

So last night I was rushing to get LL down for bed as well as finish making dinner, etc.  And I was starving.  So I hurried LL through her night time feed and tried to put her down for bed, but of course that didn't work, so I came out of the nursery, with LL in my arms and said to my husband "OK, well...I need to eat.  I can't feed her and try to get her down until I eat or I'm going to pass out."  He said fine, and we ate a lovely chicken dish that I'd prepared (which was rare...usually Seth cooked).

Which I pretty much just swallowed in 3 seconds, forgetting to enjoy.

So then I say, OK...just take LL and give me a second to clean up the kitchen.  Blah blah blah...we have a discussion about maybe I should have put the baby to bed and let him do the dishes, since he can't feed her, but he can do the dishes.  I agree, maybe that would have been a better idea, but I just wanted the kitchen to be clean (Erin clean, not Seth clean) and it took less than 15 minutes, and I just wanted to be able to wake up and NOT do dishes first thing in the morning.  But I really should have put the baby down first, he was right about that.

So I putzed around some more, cleaned and picked up here and there, and went into my clean kitchen, and he'd already eaten a sandwich and left his peanut-buttery knife all up in the sink.  The clean sink.  That I had just cleaned.  And now there was a dirty and peanut buttery knife in there!!  So I went into the living room and I said, "Honey...guess what?" And he knows me and he can see the big daggers shooting out of my eyeballs (and I said nothing else) and he said "I know, I left a knife in the sink" (yeah, he knows me pretty well) and then I said "Dishwasher, Seth.  It better be in the dishwasher" (God, it must really suck to live with me sometimes). 

And later, I went to get a piece of string cheese out of the refrigerator and guess what I found???  That peanut buttery knife.  In the refrigerator!  NOT the dishwasher.  Doesn't it take EXACTLY the same amount of time and effort to open and place a knife in the refrigerator as it does the dishwasher??? 

Then I found it back in the sink.  Still not the dishwasher.

The Marriott Travel Size Heist.

Word to the wise:  Bed, Bath and Beyond has a killer selection!

I am an aficionado of all things trial size.  I love trial size.  I love teeny shampoo and conditioner bottles, and little face washes, and mini body washes.  I love tiny mouth washes and hand sanitizers, and toothpaste tubes so small they can fit in your pocket.  Travel size toiletries make me happy in the same way that watching Roseanne while wearing Smartwool's makes me happy.  Pure.  Joy.

My trial size fascination began long ago when, as a kid, our family stayed in a hotel, a rare event.  I remember the desperate need to be the first of the five of us to get in the bathroom, so I could see the little V-shape the maid made with the toilet paper roll, and be the first to rip the wrapper off the one ounce soap bar.  I loved the way the little lotion and shampoo bottles were neatly lined up on the long vanity counter, sometimes on a plastic tray, like little soldiers waiting for action.

Only, here's the even more weird thing.  I really didn't want anyone to actually use these products.  I wanted to just stuff them in my backpack, and save them for a special time.  I was thrilled when, upon leaving, I was the only one that noticed (or cared) that there was a drop of shampoo left in the bottle in the shower, and I'd greedily snatch it and hide it amongst my belongings.

My treasure trove of embarrassment.

You know how when you were a kid, and you got a little pocket change, you could hardly wait to mount your bike and go rip roaring toward the candy store?  And you'd study the gum and the candy rings and the sweet-tart necklaces and the Laughy Taffy and the Willy Wonka Fun Dip, your mouth watering, and you'd figure out just exactly how much you could get with your $0.75? 

Now swap high end, as in Paul Mitchell, travel size products for the candy in the above example, and trade tingling hair follicles in lieu of mouth watering, and sub-in $110.00 for $0.75 , and you've got me, in a Marriott, plotting and scheming, hatching plan after plan to get my hands on as many of those Paul Mitchell products as possible, legally or not.

I worked out a fail proof strategy to stock my tote with trial size treasures the last time I stayed at the Marriott.  I was laying on the crisp white sheets of the king size bed and watching Roseanne while Lakeland painted on the hotel desk, when the best idea ever washed over me.  I quickly threw bathing suits on LL and myself, and marched to the front desk.  "Hi, how are you?" I said sweetly, then asked if I could get a couple of extra shampoo and conditioner bottles, presumably for showering after swimming in the pool.  Score!  I got 2 of each, plus 2 travel size baby shampoos.  Then, I waited until the shift change at 10:00pm, and went back to the front desk and asked the new person for a couple of extra bottles.  And it totally worked!!!  Five bottles of each travel size offering from the Marriott were now in my possession.  After resting for the night, it was time to implement Phase II, which involved rising early and sneaking out into the hallway, in my pajamas, to outright steal from the maid's cart.  Then, to go back to the front desk and ask the morning shift person for an additional supply, while also arranging for late checkout, in case Roseanne aired in the late morning. 

This is despicable, I know.  I alone probably drove the costs of staying at the Marriott above market rate.  But, it's also awesome.  Because, A.  I have supplied my gym bag for several months.  And B.  Who else would think of a shift change as an opportune time to scam more shampoo?

Now that I'm a "grown up", I actually use these products, with just a hint of remorse.  (Not for stealing them, but because I'm not sure when the next time I'll be able to stay in a Marriott and steal more will be.)  And yes, I know that I could just buy regular size Paul Mitchell products for $30.00 instead of stealing tiny ones for $110.00/night, but buying doesn't come with a bed I didn't have to make, and a bathroom I don't have to wash, and a big ol' TV.  Or the satisfaction of acquiring, however it happens, a huge supply of trial size bottles.

Awry. All of it. Awry.

Notice, not even Scotchgard protecting the rug.

You know that terrifying silence you awake to, knowing that you overslept?  That nothingness you hear the second before you go from prone to standing, frantically looking for the time on your alarm clock?

Replace that silence with the sound of a two year old vomiting, and you'll be right where I was at 5 o'clock this morning.  Confused.  Frantic.  Irrational. 

See that teeny pitcher?  I tripped on it rushing toward LL with a towel.

Thankfully, there was a bath towel on the floor near Lakeland, which was quickly swooped up and held near her face. 
Woefully, the towel served as a mere prop as she emptied her guts under, over and beside it.  This whole scene was about to become a seven hour dramedy, in which I played the part of a one-man assembly line, an incompetent nurse, a poorly trained maid, and a frazzled first time mom, and Lakeland played the part of 2 year old with the stomach flu. 

Let's start with the towel.  A towel.  For catching barf.  Why, why, why, did I choose a towel over say, a bucket?  Or a pan?  Or a bowl?  It's not like I have some distant memory of my mom running toward me with a towel when I was sick as a child.  She was a normal mom that brought me a normal bucket to puke in, while sitting next to me on the bathroom floor.  All very normal.

But normal didn't happen over here in "Erin panicked and could not properly use her brain" land.  This is a land where, if a fire were to break out and someone yelled for me to get some water, I would quickly run and fetch the nearest colander.

Warning:  One tablespoon of Gatorade = 1 quart of vomit

Poor Lakeland.  She was so, so sick.  And stuck here with a novice nurse. The first few times she vomited, she had a rather juvenile warning system in place.   She'd whimper, then make that herking noise that dogs and cats make before barfing, which would give me just enough time to run and grab a TOWEL to shove in her face.  Each time, the episode concluded with the towel, the kid, the furniture, the leased carpet and the mom, all covered in vomit.  And I'd just sit there like a mannequin, a very dumb and ditzy mannequin that should have been in the tiled bathroom, and wonder what I should do next.

Fighting every one of my natural instincts to start cleaning the carpet, I lovingly cooed to Lakeland that she was so so brave, while taking her vile clothing off and and putting her in the tub.  And each and every time I removed her from the tub and wrapped her in one of our clean, but diminishing supply of towels, she'd poop.  Everywhere.

All I could think of was the growing list of stuff that needed to be cleaned, and after getting her diapered and re-pajama-ed,  I'd stick her in front of the TV with a Gatorade and some crackers.  Then I'd turn all ping pong ball and run crazily from the bathroom to the washing machine to the puke/poop-carpet to the bathroom, over and over again, double fisting bottles of cleansers, while accomplishing nothing.


I finally came up with a method that I'll not describe it here, as it is disgusting and you might never want to step foot in my home, but suffice it to say, I would have made Eli Whitney and Henry Ford proud with my swift methods. 

By noon, Lakeland was in her 5th (and original) set of pajamas, and I was experiencing the natural high that some runners describe:  a euphoria that I'd reached my maximum potential on a biological and psychological level.  As a barf cleaner.  Though it's more likely that I had spent nearly 7 hours awash in the fumes of OxyClean, Woolite carpet cleaner, Arm and Hammer detergent and Ms. Meyers, all mixed with that vinegary vomit smell, that was making me feel so high.

Kinda bad news, or really bad news?

Here's what happened on my last night of kickball.

Yeah, I played kickball, and I got on base.  Once.  The entire season.  Count it!

The one time I got on base was the time that Seth and Lakeland came to cheer me on.  Just before I got up to bat, my cheering squad took off for a quick diaper change.  And that's when I kicked a heater right down the third base line, which is exactly what I'd tried to do every other time I was up to bat (and popped out to the pitcher). 

Anyway...they were gone a looooong time, and when they returned, Lakeland was not wearing the perfect kickball-watching outfit I had picked out for her.  She was in fact, not wearing anything at all.  Except her diaper. 

It's not abnormal, though, for Seth to change a diaper and not bother with redressing the child.  However, this being a public place, outdoors, I don't know...would he really do that?

Quizzically, I looked at my husband, who was slowly shaking his head from side to side as he shuffled toward me.  Here's what he had to say:

"So, do you want to hear the kinda bad news, or the really bad news?"

I was still on a high from getting on base.  How bad could this news really be? 

It turned out that Lakeland was unclothed for two reasons. 

#1:  She pooped through her diaper and onto her shirt and her pants.  Seth claimed no fault of his own.  He said (God, how many women have heard this??) "Babe, I think Lakeland must be sick or something.  That was NOT a normal diaper.  There was poop everywhere.  Her shirt and her pants are covered.

OK, how does this always happen?  I can change a shitty diaper, while Lakeland is squirming ON MY LAP, in a moving bus.  A moving bus that is going over speed bumps.  At 90 miles per hour.  And still not get poop anywhere it's not supposed to be.   

#2:  Somewhere in the process of flinging the dirty diaper round and round his head and then squashing it into her clothing (it's seriously the only way I can think of that poop got all over the inside and outside of the car, including a trail of chunks in the parking lot) Seth closed all of the doors, then picked up an unclad Lakeland, who had been playing with the car keys, from the back of the truck.  Then shut the door...the locked door...keys quietly lying on the floor inside, right where Lakeland left them. 

And this was the really bad news.

Mom wars are bullshit.

All I had to do was Google "mommy wars", and, oh, about 19 million websites popped up, referring me to various books and articles written about the "war".  Who started the "war", what fueled the  "war", feminism concepts and anthropological issues related to the "war"... I can go on...and on...and on.  Everyone else certainly has.

This idea of stay at home moms standing off against working moms has been discussed ad nauseum.  No.  Seriously.  I hear about it so often it makes me puke.  So earlier this week, when I was driving LL around in a gigantic thunderstorm (she was tired, I was bitchy...the situational details are boring), NPR was reporting about a college professor who breast-fed her baby during class.  And of course, the highly educated, bright, and accomplished women who made up the discussion panel brought up the ol' mommy war issue.  And I puked.

I also decided to share with you the life of a "stay-at-home-working-mother".  What?  You've never heard of us?  That's because we don't have time to argue about fabricated situations that will never benefit anyone.  We are too busy wiping orange juice from our work papers and scraping oatmeal off our laptop screens to weigh in on non-issues that, in the long run, don't really accomplish anything.

A "stay-at-home-working-mother", hereafter referred to as a "NoBS", is a woman who stays at home and raises the kid/kids while simultaneously maintaining gainful employment from her home office.  A NoBS usually has a pretty cool boss, somewhat flexible hours, tolerant co-workers, and super special abilities.  I can pretty much boil these special abilities down to two things.

1. Must be proficient at ignoring your child.  In infancy, this means typing, answering the phone, and doing other things work related, while breast/bottle-feeding.  In later years, it means being able to concentrate while there is a toddler sitting on your lap, with her face two inches from yours, saying "Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy?  Mommy.  Mommy!  Can you HEAR ME?  Mommy!!!".
2. Must be able to work in a chaotic environment.  And by chaotic, I mean that your office floor (most likely your kitchen) is basically a fucking vat of crunched up cheerios, and sometimes you have to reply to emails while folding laundry, preparing snacks, or singing Itsy Bitsy Spider.  

It's really just multi-tasking.  It's doing two jobs at once.  Like driving a cab while editing a manuscript.  Or constructing a building while doling out financial advice.  It takes practice, but it's totally doable. 

A NoBS gets to experience all of the wonders and joys of full time motherhood.  She gets to take her kid to the park, go grocery shopping during off hours, and rock her baby to sleep.  She doesn't get stuck in rush hour traffic.  She knows exactly what and how much her child eats, because she prepares the meals and dines with the child.  She knows all the little daily details, and it really is magical and she really is grateful.

Of course, she hasn't had a haircut in 8 months, and hasn't been alone, even in the bathroom, for 68 days straight, and she has to take her kid with her to the dentist, and oh, right...she has a DEADLINE LOOMING.

When her kid is napping, a NoBS is working frantically, using that precious hour and a half to get as much done as humanly possible.  And after a 12 hour day of domestic bliss, when the kid is finally asleep, she still has 3 hours of business to conduct.  

I like to think we are all in the same proverbial boat.  We moms wake up in the morning with a long list of shit we have to do.  We do that shit and cross it off our list, hoping that we got enough shit done until it's time to do more shit tomorrow.  Why give two shits about who got what done on somebody else's list?  That's just another thing to write down on your list.  (#483:  Check to make sure Jenna helped her kids brush their teeth.)  Do we really need a longer to-do list?

Here's a little pictorial about my life as a NoBS. 

The situation:   I have to edit a transcription of a financial call, in real-time.  Meaning, I have to listen and read and make corrections super fast, and I have to do it for about an hour, and I can't stop or pause.  No. Matter. What.

Oh, and I have to entertain a toddler, so I come up with a "fun project" for her to do while I'm working.  I give her a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels right before my call starts, and hope for the best.  For the first 5 minutes of my call, I think how clever I am, getting her to clean for me.  She quickly humbles me by pooping her pants which, for the next 55 minutes, I can do nothing about except to breathe through my mouth. 

The situation:  Payroll is due and many emails need to be sent to get the numbers in order.
I figure I'll give Lakeland a snack, and she'll be trapped in her chair, rendering me capable of finishing my duties.  Within minutes, everything in her vicinity is caked in yogurt, and she is squirming to get down.  I can't stop the payroll process, and I can't have a yogurt-baby running around the house.  What to do?

Oh, I know.  I will just take my mobile office to the bathroom, throw her in the tub, sit backward on the toilet lid, and use a box of tampons for a mouse pad.  Done.

The point is this.  I'm thankful to have the opportunity to concurrently reach professional and domestic goals.  I get offered jelly beans by a two year old when I tinkle on the potty, and I get congratulated for a job well done by my boss.  My lunch buddy thanks cows for making cheese for her, and I get to learn about the quarterly financials and impacts of global companies.

I support every woman's right to choose her own path and do what works best for her, and for her family.  And for women that don't have a choice, and trust me, I realize there are many, I admire you.

Super special bed

This morning, as I was arranging my dish towel so that it lined up precisely with the edge of the counter, so I could start doing the dishes, I was simultaneously prepping Lakeland for naptime.

Prepping consists of me saying stuff like, "Hey LL, when you wake up from your nap, do you want to go to the park, or the pool?"

Today, she yelled out "POOL", then paused briefly before launching into a long diatribe about how she can't sleep, mommy, can't sleep, no, no, not tired, etc.

And then, because I like to try to reason with her, because I like to talk in circles and then pull my hair right out of my head, I asked her why she couldn't sleep.

Her response, simply put, was "I don't like my bed."

In a moment of brilliance, or stunning stupidity, I told her that I could fix that problem for her, and make her a super special bed.  Then, as I had no way to back up this remark, and no clever ideas in my back pocket, I wished I would think before making empty promises.  She was halfway down the hall, waiting expectantly for me to transform her bed, as I was reached for a spontaneous, miraculous plan.

Stalling for just a moment, I sat Lakeland down on my bed and told her I had to get her surprise ready, then grabbed a stack of tissue paper and a roll of tape from my closet before pulling the door closed behind me.

Low and behold, in 3 minutes, I had tissue papered the rails of her bed, creating not only a "Hey, it's like a giant present that you get to sleep in" bed, but also the ideal environment for a toddler to make a gigantic, ripped into tiny shreds, paper mess.  But as I sit here, writing and drinking coffee, I feel quite sure that I created for my daughter her own little miracle.  And if not, who cares?  I'm sitting here in quiet, writing and drinking coffee.

Now, if I could just figure out where she's getting all of these weird OCD tendencies and odd neuroses...