Welcome to the SuperMax

Posted on January 31, 2011 by Meghan

Yesterday my son overheard me confiding to a friend that I feel like I got hit by a truck. He asked, “Why did the truck hit you, Mommy?” And I explained that it was not a real truck, it was a metaphorical truck. Near as I can tell he knows what a metaphor is… so, rather than ask what a metaphor is, he replied, “Oh. Was I driving it?” YES. You were. This truck has your name ALL OVER IT. And I think it hit Danette, too.

As a result, my darling child who captivated the checker at Home Depot with your beautiful sea-gray eyes today, welcome to life in the supermax facility. I’ve locked the meds up in a heavy-duty toolbox with a padlock. And I HID the key. I’ve also ordered a magnetic lock for the cabinet where the toolbox is kept, purchased a new keyed doorknob for the bathroom door, and ordered a 95db alarm for the bathroom door- which can only be deactivated with a key. And I’m going to hide THAT key, too. (My poor husband might be a wee bit overwhelmed by all this. He asked if we could just get a combination lock, and write the combination on the outside of the med box. HAVE WE LEARNED NOTHING? NO!!!)

Then I ordered 125db alarms for all our exterior doors, and I’m busy researching pool enclosure alarms for the back gates. Some of them have had iffy reviews, and I need one that works so well people in the next county get worried and hit the brakes when my kid eventually breaks out of the yard and heads toward the road.

I know you are thinking, “whoa, this dame has crossed over into paranoid la-la land!” Well, enjoy the ride, because there’s more.

I’ve never felt the need to purchase anti-burglar devices to deter, you know, burglars, but I was at Home Depot today shopping for them to keep my kid in bounds. I spent a long time at the biometric safe display and checked out a couple motion sensor systems. Then, I told off some middle aged contractor dude… for touching my cart. Ian was sitting in it and that guy was moving it without even looking to see if he had his hands in. So, for your amusement, I am now that woman who gives total strangers a ticking off if they come too near her child.

I cannot WAIT to hear what kind of therapy Ian needs as an adult. And I hope he and Sophie get married and have TWINS. Because Danette and I want to LAUGH AT THEM. Daily. In the meantime, I’ll be self medicating with ice cream. Because it works. My OB promised me at my appointment on Thursday morning that I would NOT gain another 9 pounds next month. I should have asked her to put money on that.

(Oh yeah… I almost forgot, I did have an OB appointment on Thursday. It seems so long ago… the baby’s doing great, my blood pressure is great. I feel enormous because I have gained 18 pounds, 9 of them in the last four weeks. What can I say, I’m an overachiever. I plan to amaze you all with the size of my rear by the time this kid takes his first breath.)

Truly a banner day…

Posted on January 29, 2011 by Meghan

Yep, they make gowns that small.

Those of you who know and love my son will be amazed that it took us 43 months to get here, but we have now “enjoyed” Ian’s first ER trip. We arrived at the ER at 3:30 pm on Thursday, January 27.

It turns out that not only is Ian tall enough to remove Mommy’s vitamins and OTC meds from the second shelf of the cabinet over the toilet, he is also quite adept at opening “child proof” caps. And that his best partner in crime, Sophie, may not be tall enough to share in the opening-and-dumping fun, but she is not above eating pills off the bathroom floor. (For the record, the penalty for these high crimes is 10.5 hours in the ER, half an hour in an ambulance, and a sleepover at Fairfax Hospital with your partner in crime, followed by an afternoon playing in the snow with Raba and being spoiled by Rama. Oh, and as many hours in a hard chair for Mommy and next to no sleep for both your parents, but who cares about that.)

In case you are thinking of asking about how any of this happened, please see the FAQ I have compiled, below.

1. How did they get the tops off?

Quickly and cleverly. They opened three pill bottles in less time than it would take an adult to read the directions on the lids. From the looks of it, they were thinking that it was pretty fun to watch the pills bounce around when you pour them from up high. The evidence of my own ears tells me that this makes a LOT less noise than you think it would. We caught them before they had time to work on bottle number 4.

“But, Mommy, I don’t LIKE that.”

2. How many did they eat?

Well, when was the last time YOU counted the contents of an OTC medicine? I’ve no idea how many were in there to start with, and rather than kneel on the bathroom floor counting pills (which, by the way, were soaking in a puddle of pee… not sure what mischief led to THAT little detail) I was busy- talking to poison control, cramming boots onto little feet and bodies into tiny jackets, and disregarding Braxton Hicks while I RAN to the car to put little butts into car seats. Yes, folks, I was running like my tail was on fire. I know some of you would have paid to see that.

My first x-ray

3. Can’t you estimate how many they might have swallowed?

See 2.

4. How long did you leave them alone?

See 1. They were quiet for less than five minutes before we caught them in the act and we know EXACTLY what they were up to until they got too quiet. They were never more than 20 feet away from us at any time.

5. What were you doing while they were doing this?

Puking charcoal so hard it comes out your nose takes it out of you.

Well, right BEFORE this happened, I was cleaning up in the kitchen, telling Ian to put pants on and not run around naked, speculating about whether Sophie would decide that Ian being naked would mean SHE was supposed to be naked, and telling baby Jonathan how cute he was. Then I said, “You know, they are really, really quiet all of a sudden.” And I listened to Danette walk the 20 feet to check on them and heard “no. NO.” Then, please see 2.

“I want a cheese sandwich. And fries.”

I can honestly tell you that over the last two days I’ve been scared witless, anxious, stressed, tired, and high on adrenaline.

What I did NOT feel was resentment toward the social worker who inspected my son for bruises and signs of abuse before signing off on his release, defensive when asked to tell the story of how they got the pills 500 times in 24 hours, or judged and found wanting as a mom. Maybe people WERE judging and finding my parenting lacking, but all I can say about that is that what separates me from them is that nothing has happened to their kid… yet. I’m GLAD that showing up at the ER with two kids who may have overdosed on not one but three kinds of pills means that people pay attention and look for warning signs. I hope that it means that some kid who really needs help doesn’t slip through the cracks. And I hope you are ordering a burglar alarm for your medicine cabinet right now.

(By the way… the social worker recommends I “increase supervision” of my child. Near as I can figure, I am never to eat, sleep, or go to the bathroom again. And one of the ER nurses apparently recommends that we not let Sophie play together with Ian any more… I infer that this is based on the theory that my son is a hardened juvenile delinquent at the age of three and a half and is an intractable bad influence. You’ve all been warned.)

Ambulance ride

In fact, other than wanting to slap the tech who lied and told Ian that having his blood drawn would be “fun,” then flubbed it the first time, meaning that a now hysterically screaming Ian had to be forcibly held to the bed while they successfully inserted the port, then told me to calm down when I started to cry after several minutes of listening to my son screaming for Mommy to make them stop because it was “OUCHY, MOMMY NO!” I can sincerely say that mostly what I felt was gratitude.

Finally succumbed: Passed out right in Mommy’s lap.

I was grateful for the high quality of care both kids received (and I did NOT beat that tech, even though he should have shut it before telling me to calm down because *I* was supposedly upsetting my baby when HE was the clumsy dude with the needle). I was grateful that Silver Diner is open late and my husband was able to get us dinner at midnight. I was grateful that Ian is a good kid who mostly cooperated with everything he was told to do- even drinking the charcoal, not pulling on the port in his arm, and leaving his leads on, which meant holding relatively still- not his strongest skill. I was grateful, above all things, that I had insurance and was able to focus on what my kid needed and not how we would pay for it. I was grateful that I have family in the area and that we were able to go spend the afternoon with a couple of loving adults who were there to pick us up from the hospital, spoil Ian, let me take a quick nap, wash the vomit out of my winter coat, and feed us all a good dinner instead of the PB&Js I’d have thrown together for us at home in my sleep deprived state.

Last but not least, I am incredibly grateful that all’s well that ends well. Both kids are fine. And I told Ian and Sophie that the NEXT time they want to have a sleepover, to please just tell me and I’ll arrange for us all to go to the beach… it’ll be cheaper, not to mention much easier on Mommy’s nerves.

You Look Like An Angel, But I Got Wise

Posted on September 21, 2010 by Meghan

Abandon ship! It’s every man for himself!

Between the automatic flush mechanisms most of them sport and the ever so much more fascinating things going on outside them, it’s not unusual for Ian to refuse to go potty in public restrooms. Today, in fact, was such a day. He was having trouble walking he was trying to “hold it” so hard. And Mommy foolishly, oh SO foolishly, insisted it was time to go to the bathroom.

You’ll be needing that fire truck, bucko.

Please take note of this moment, for in it was authored Mommy’s Waterloo. Trust me, I went down in flames. Big, hot, scary ones. I promise you, from now on, I will just let him wet his pants. And if there doesn’t happen to be an acceptable change of clothing on board, or if his shoes are so full of pee that we have to evacuate, I’ll rest easy in the knowledge that it could be so much worse.

MAYDAY! MAYDAY! We’re going down!

He cried all the way to the bathroom, insisting he didn’t have to go. He was clutching my hand in his right hand, and his penis with his left. Pardon me for not believing him. If only, OH IF ONLY I had said, “Oh, okay then!” and let him keep playing. But no, I just continued to usher him to the restroom while repeating encouraging things about how much better he’d feel after he went. (Lies, if only I’d known.)


It wasn’t all bad.
Guess who’s tall enough to reach the overhead bars now?

We arrived at the restroom with my child now shrieking that he did NOT have to go potty. I’m talking about those “I would like the ground to open and swallow me so all the people staring at us will not realize I am your mother” type shrieking. Of course, he was also crossing his legs and bending double, so again, I allowed this opportunity to escape my fate pass me by. Instead, I helped him off with his shoes and continued to be encouraging as I got his pants halfway down.

Friends will rescue you after the shipwreck

At this point, still shrieking “I DO NOT HAVE TO GO POTTY!” over and over and over and OVER again, my son began to urinate. I am still amazed that a 30 pound person is capable of containing this much urine. It was unbelievable. Picture an out of control fire hose with no one to turn it off. He peed on the walls. He peed on his pants, his boots, the snack bag, Mommy’s water cup, Mommy’s leg, and Mommy’s foot. He peed on the floor. He may have, purely by accident, hit the toilet once or twice. At about the point where he peed down my leg, I lost it. Suddenly, I was the one shrieking those “if only the ground would swallow me” embarrassments. “IAN! THIS IS WHY WE DO NOT TRY TO HOLD IT! YES, I CAN TELL YOU DON’T NEED TO GO POTTY! THAT’S WHY YOU’RE GOING POTTY ALL OVER THE WALLS!” At which point Ian switched from screaming, “I DO NOT HAVE TO GO POTTY” to “MOMMY! I AM HAVING AN ACCIDENT!” Sadly, Mommy did not calm down and respond to this declaration appropriately. Instead, I screamed back, “YOU ARE D**N RIGHT YOU ARE HAVING AN ACCIDENT!”

Obviously at this point I was well able to identify not only that I had lost it, but that this was all my own fault. I sat my half naked, wailing child on the bench while I ran all our pee-soaked belongings under the sink faucet. Then I carried him, still half naked, along with an additional 15 pounds of urine soaked STUFF to the car. Thankfully there was an appropriate change of clothing for him in there, and just as thankfully he had only peed on the outside of his shoes, because as soon as I’d changed him into clean clothing I frog-marched him to my nearest friend and told her I needed her to take him for 10 minutes so I could get my s*** together. Okay, I didn’t use that word in front of the kids, but she knew I was thinking it. Then I went back to the restroom where I was, at least, spared having anyone witness the coup de grace of my humiliation- me standing at the sink in my underpants while I washed pee out of my jeans.

Clear sailing again at last

So, just in case you’re wondering, the other 23 hours and 55 minutes of this day were beautiful. Ian was charming, sweet, polite, and adorable. He said “excuse me” when he walked in front of another patron at the store without being prompted. He had a nice lunch and a lovely afternoon with Rama and Raba. He loved running around the “road” at the playground. So Mommy isn’t fired after all.

"Sorry, Mommy!"

Posted on September 18, 2010 by Meghan

So, we were barely two hours into our second Daddy-less weekend IN A ROW and I was doing something incredibly unimportant while not watching my son. You know, something like going to the bathroom or fixing his dinner. It’s all a blur. And I hear from another room, “Sorry, Mommy,” followed by a pause in which Mommy did not answer and then, louder, “I’m REALLY sorry, Mommy.”

Hmm, this seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Why WOULDN’T Mommy want this wagon in her bed?

So I answered, “Yes, honey, I understand you are sorry.” Ian was apparently reassured by this response because he promptly appeared in front of me and made no further reference to the incident until he went to bed. At which point Busy Mommy started trying to Get Things Done, still wondering what had prompted the “Sorry Mommy” episode.

Well, now we know. In case you are wondering, the last time I’d seen my room, the bed was tidily made up. It was, at that time, accessorized with one fairly large, dedicated Daddy who got up at 5 am to spend time with his son before his trip and then decided to catch a quick morning nap before the long drive. So I wasn’t expecting to find my room exactly as I’d left it, but I can tell you I wasn’t expecting what I did find.

Whoops, guess that thing was full of sand… uh, “Sorry Mommy!”

For all our sakes, I hope I can see the funny side of this by 5:00 tomorrow morning.

Mommy’s Crew

Posted on August 27, 2010 by Meghan

Each with a potty bag, all set to go!

Today we went to the hardware store, where my two helpers aided me in choosing paint samples, a new toilet seat, and some door knobs. The door knobs are needed because our intrepid gang can no longer be deterred with knob covers or other “childproofing” devices, and I have fished them out of my bed one too many times. (Yeah, I hear you snickering. YOU see how you feel about pulling a half dozen pairs of toddler shoes out of your bed two or three times a week. You’ll be washing a lot of sheets.)

The smudges came at no extra charge.

So we installed some brandy-new door knobs with key holes. I made sure they are all keyed alike so you can use one key to open them all. I realized I need one more for the bathroom- in case they lock us out of it (again) it will be easier to open from the outside with the “master key” instead of the screwdriver.

I’m sure some future resident of my home will be wondering exactly WHY I have exterior doorknobs on all of my interior doors, but as far as I’m concerned, that just adds to the fun. Plus they’ll be no more bumfuzzled than we were when we realized you could only lock our bedroom door from the OUTSIDE when we moved in. Naturally, Ian has already become adept at locking and unlocking them from the inside, which is good because I don’t want him stuck in there in a blind panic.

Home Grown Modern Art

Next, we went downstairs to put up our sample paint colors. I liked the orangier color at the store and upstairs, but in the basement I was not completely surprised to discover I like the more yellow tone. I think I may need to try a lighter blue, too. The blue is going in the powder room and the yellow/orange is for the main part of the room. We are getting ever closer to “playroom” status down there.

Ian and his adorable playmate used a couple of (un-loaded) paint rollers to “paint” the carpet while I put up the sample swatches. I look forward to completing this project with their help. Ian also begged for and received permission to help with one of the sample swatches, then immediately rubbed paint on his pants. Mommy confiscated the paint and the pants and that is all I have to say about that.

For those who are coming in late (since, ha ha, this is the first I’ve mentioned it here on the Blog) I’ve been working my metaphorical fingers to the bone on trying to clean, rearrange, and refurbish our until now un-used basement into a fun playroom space for the kids before autumn brings the deluge. For the most part it involves a deep cleaning like nothing you’ve ever seen before, some child-proofing, and some upgrades to the bathroom.

Some of the mechanical systems needed some help, too, so we do have a new dehumidifier that has been working hard for the last week or so. It took several days, but we have now progressed from the initial humidity reading of muggier than a Florida swamp to hovering around 50%, which is HUGE. The humidity down there was creating a whole category of issues that I’ll leave to your imagination. It took the better part of a week to get to this point, probably because we’re talking about a room nearly the size of the footprint of our whole house and because, if I’m honest, dumping huge amounts of water on the carpet to steam clean it is not the best way to reduce the relative humidity.

Caught!

Posted on July 25, 2010 by Meghan

We took the drop side off of Ian’s crib today, because now that he’s potty independent he needs to be able to get out so he can “go.” He was so, so excited about the idea of getting a “big boy bed,” that I thought this would be the ideal way to try it out without scaring the bejeezus out of Mommy. After all, we could always put it back, right? Not to mention, this crib is one of several million that have been recalled because the drop side was unsafe.

So I popped it right off- it actually disturbed me a bit how easy it was- and took off the protruding metal track from the bottom. Ian said he wanted me to take off the plastic track from the top, but I said no, I wanted to leave it for a while.

Well, apparently I did not secure the screwdriver, because I heard a suspicious noise a short time later. When I went to investigate, I found him in the act of removing the last of the six screws holding the plastic tracks onto the crib. He even stacked the removed hardware tidily on the dresser, just the way Raba would have done it.

I guess we’re committed to this whole “big boy bed” thing.

Up to our elbows in oatmeal

Posted on March 28, 2010 by Meghan

Okay, it takes a lot to make Mommy completely flip her lid. No, really. Stop laughing. I’m not joking, it really takes a lot, on the average day, to push me over the edge with these kids. In fact, it’s a serious issue in this house that I have to make sure Ian doesn’t get away with everything just because his dimples are so dang cute.

Yep, those are the ones.

On this particular Thursday afternoon, the little darlings were having a lovely time playing together while their mamas tried to get some knitting done. (More on how hard it is to make a crocheted peach that looks like a peach and not a strange and possibly naughty stuffed object later.) Just before the first mama took her leave, we heard The Boy announce that he was “making oatmeal.”

Jamie came back into the room laughing about how cute it was that they were “pretending” to cook oatmeal in the play kitchen. Heh. After a request from me, she stuck her head back in and reported that they did, indeed have the oatmeal out, but that it was “not that bad.” The oatmeal is normally stored three shelves above the ground at my own eye level in the pantry. Climbing in the pantry is on a list of Major No-Nos, so it only happens once or twice a day.

This should have been my cue to imitate an Olympic hurdler on the way to the dining room. But, because I’m very, very foolish, I spent about 60 seconds to get to a good stopping point and then walked the few short steps to the dining room. Big Mistake. Huge. Epic Mommy Fail.

The entire neighborhood heard the screams of “What are you doing in here? NO, this is Very, Very Naughty! What were you thinking? AND WHERE IS THE G^$-D@#&ED CAMERA?” (Okay, so I owe them a penny.)

The children were, of course, appropriately cowed, and showed their embarrassment by grinning, grabbing double fist-fulls of oatmeal, and throwing it up into the air. Then they giggled maniacally. At least they Fear My Wrath.

Everyone except She Most In Need of One (Mommy) got a short time out and then “helped” with cleaning up the oatmeal. Yes, that is approximately 3 pounds of oats scattered all over the dining room. I estimate that my child’s child will still be finding oatmeal in the crevices after I die. While us mamas were policing the last of the mess, the three miniature stooges snuck off into the living room, where they got into all of the knitting bags and pulled apart at least two projects and tangled at least one more.

“THAT’S IT! OUT! Everyone OUTSIDE! I don’t care if you live here or not, YOU’RE ALL GOING OUT!”

While the short people ran circles in the driveway (Ian was shouting, “It’s Raining, Monster Max is pouring,” apropos of I have no idea what), I remarked, “well, I suppose I should just be glad he didn’t decide to make eggs.”