I have barely had time to see my friends lately. Life has been insane and I am so grateful for the quiet after this incredible journey. After Macon Bibb County honored Rick with RICK DEVENS DAY (isn’t that crazy?), I took Jack to our friends’ house to play for the first time in a long time. Amyre and I were talking and totally ignoring the boys (something we used to do regularly) and at 9pm they came into our room and told us it was time to go home and go to bed. They were right. Jack PASSED OUT on the 5 minute drive home and I feel like things are finally settling down. I used to practically live at Amyre’s house. Both of us have been very busy with work lately and then of course SURVIVOR. Being able to hang out and relax and fall into our old groove has reminded me so much of the peace of our normal lives. Continue reading
So, remember a week or so ago when I told you about my weird day leading me to my grandparents’ old house and then to their graves? And remember when the really nice people who own it now, Tami and Patrick, invited me to come see it? Well, today was the day! My dad and I, along with my mom and stepdad swung by the old place today where we were graciously welcomed by the “new” homeowners. They’ve actually owned the house for three years now, so while it isn’t new for them anymore, being there without my grandparents was very, very new. The main word that comes to mind when I think of our visit today is closure. I was worried I’d leave their home with sad memories, but instead I felt overjoyed. Let me tell you why…. Continue reading
This morning, as I was clearing the counter off, I asked Rick while picking up random items, “Is this trash?” (It’s super weird the things that AREN’T trash, so I’ve learned to ask.) Anyway, today, he says, “I always write trash on items that are trash. If it isn’t marked, it isn’t trash.” Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that this idea would be absolutely ridiculous. Choosing to write “trash” on something takes more time than throwing the trash in…the trash-but Rick is a man of his word. I watched him from the living room as he finished the last of the milk, opened the drawer, pulled out a permanent marker, and wrote “TRASH” on the milk jug, setting it back on the counter. All while complaining that it’s not easy that he has to write “trash” on all of his trash. I guess the point of this little story is to let you know that my husband is weird. Like…really weird. He’s so weird that I am in awe of the creativity required to carry out this weirdness in a hilarious manner. Continue reading
In case you missed the 291 photos I posted to Facebook of Jack’s 2nd birthday party, I’ll give you a little recap. Jack turned two, and we had a Chugga Chugga TWO TWO party for him. I know. SO LAME. My twenty two year old self is hardcore eye-rolling right now, but she also doesn’t have a beautiful munchkin nugget whose birth must be celebrated by the masses. When deciding which theme to choose, I laid out options for Jack. We were going to have a Ball Party or a Choo Choo Party or a SHOES Party. In Jack’s very long two years, these are the things he holds most dear. So, I put a ball, a shoe, and a choo choo on the floor in front of him and asked which one he wanted as his party theme. I’ve already given away his decision. He picked up the train and to Amazon Prime we went. Continue reading
A few weeks ago, my husband got a very, very unexpected phone call. His parents said that they were in the hospital having some tests run because his mother had some unresolved heartburn. It turns out, she had a heart attack. She had two major blockages in her heart. One of them was so large, it required two stents to repair. When Rick hung up the phone he said, “Mom doesn’t deserve a heart attack.” What he meant by that was that some people overeat, smoke, or have sedentary lifestyles, but not her. She hadn’t done anything to warrant a heart attack. She is young (63) and active with good cholesterol levels and has no history of heart disease in her family-until now. She sent me a recap of her story. As she went into depth of her experiences leading up to and after her heart attack, it was clear to me that her symptoms had been there already for months, perhaps years-lingering. Waiting for the moment to pounce and say, “YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GO TO THE ER, LADY! I AM DONE PLAYING AROUND!” Continue reading
You think you know poop? You might-but I. Know. Poop. I was even a poop expert pre-baby. As a nurse, I can tell alot by your poop. What medications you take, whether you drink enough water, and-any nurse will agree-whether or not you have C-diff. I’m not kidding. I can seriously smell C-diff. NURSES CAN TELL YOU IF YOU HAVE C-DIFF. They won’t, though. Because they aren’t supposed to-but they totally know.
I know what you’re thinking. “THIS IS DISGUSTING WHY IS SHE TELLING ME THIS?!” Because I want to warn you. The story I’m about to share with you is all about poop. Duh.
At home, I am in charge of the cat’s litter box (on weekdays) and of course, my son’s glorious little diaper gifts. I take the dogs out once or twice a day. **I feel like my husband will want you to know that he takes the dogs to the park every day-and that I never take them to the park. Ever. And that usually, the dogs are with him when they poop.** Still, they poop sometimes with me. I am often the one (due to my husband’s weird sleeping schedule) to clean up animal vomit and what-not.
So, here is what went down yesterday. I brought my one year old son home from a very long car trip to a restaurant (50 miles away) and then to another restaurant (20 miles away) because the former was closed. I got the pot roast and for the first time EVER it was awful. I sent it back for some fried chicken that wasn’t ready until we were about to leave. The point is, it had been a long day.
I get home and put my son down to get things in the house. I’ve already given him a bath before dinner in hopes that he would be asleep when we get home. Nope. He starts to play and then suddenly stops. Completely frozen in his familiar “I’m taking a giant dump” pose. I wait. As I am changing him, I notice his cute little tushy is a bit red. I decide to let it air out a little before I put some cream on it and get him ready for bed.
This is when I notice that in the other room, the litter box has been removed 15 feet from its original location. It is overturned, lid off, and the carpet is covered in poop-filled litter. There is literally NO litter in the damned box. We have wooden floors, but of course, as is my dog’s want, all of the litter and its contents are directly on top of the only rug in the entire stupid room. Instead of getting insanely agitated, I decide to just go in there and clean it up before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes, when I have to clean up a mess like this, I get angry with the entire world. Like God told the dog to go dump out the litter box because I deserve punishment for cursing at the lady who wouldn’t get out of the fast lane yesterday.
So, I clean it up. Scoop the poop. Throw it out. Sweep the room. Vacuum the rug. Return the litter box. Then, I go back to the den to get my baby ready for bed so I can CHILL THE HELL OUT.
As I walk into the den, I notice a familiar smell. I wonder, “Is that just because I just scooped poop? Nope. That is definitely toddler poop. Perhaps, it is from the diaper I changed when we got home.” (Yes. I really do wonder to myself like that.) NOPE. My sweet little angel has just had diarrhea in two separate locations of the room. The fully carpeted room. The child, who JUST took a dump and usually doesn’t take another dump immediately after, has pooped ALL OVER THE CARPET. Oh, well. This one is totally on me. I’ll just throw a diaper on him, put his PJs on and off to bed he goes while I clean this up. Right? NOPE.
First, I wipe his precious little behind, then I slap a diaper on him, and as I pick him up to put his pajamas on him, I notice the bottom of his feet. Both of them. You’ll never guess what it was. Kidding. You will. It was poop. MORE POOP. At this point, it is on baby AND mommy. To the bath we go.
Thirty minutes later, we are both clean and ready for bed. I put him in his crib and thank you JESUS he immediately lays down like “Thanks, Mom. Today was exhausting. Holla.”
I’m feeling a little better. Calmer. Cleaner. I walk back into the den ready to relax when something mushy and wet on the bottom of my foot quietly reminded me that “UM. DUH. THE WHOLE REASON YOU JUST TOOK A BATH WITH YOUR BABY IS BECAUSE HE DROPPED A MAJOR DEUCE ON YOUR DEN FLOOR .” I wash my feet. I clean the carpet. I am done for the day. I finally give up on life and go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day-and hey-shit happens.
Today was crazy. I ran pretty much every errand on my list. Sent cards. Went to bank. Purchased and wrapped wedding gifts. Got ten dollar Target gift card for buying two boxes of diapers. (Woot!) Bought Maya Angelou stamps. (Double woot!) As Jack and I were exiting our car at Target, the sky fell upon us and soaked us completely. It was almost nice, as the air conditioned building helped us survive the record breaking heat that has kept us from going anywhere outdoors this week. The best part of my day may have been when my dog puked up hamburger grease on the carpet. Or maybe it was a few hours later when she did it again, but I didn’t notice-until my baby slipped in it-requiring an immediate tiny human rinse off/carpet cleaning combo. Actually, it might even be about an hour ago, when my husband woke me up in the middle of the night to find his car keys that I lost. It’s hard to believe that only a few days ago, we were living it up in Kansas City. Already, we are back to the real world of annoying my husband and bathing my puke covered toddler. Continue reading
My day today-and most days this week:
Mommy: Do you want up? Say, “Up!” and I’ll pick you up. Say, “Up!”
Jack: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA YOU ARE THE WORST PARENT EVER!
Mommy: Say, “Up!” As soon as you say it, I’ll pick you up.
Jack: WAAAAAAAAAAA WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?!
REPEAT. Five hundred times. Continue reading
Every day, as I prepare a meal for my one year old, I think of my dad. Especially when I’m cutting his sandwiches into perfect little squares so his squishy fingers can shove bite-sized pieces into his mouth. It reminds me of the meals my dad used to make me. Peanut butter and jelly was my fav. Four perfect squares, hold the crust. Cheese toast was second best. These bits were even smaller. Tiny individual toasts with melted cheddar. Another frequent request was “pink pink”, my word for scrambled eggs. Dad isn’t quite sure where that came from, but we think I called it that because the eggs came in a pink carton. I didn’t call scrambled eggs anything, but “pink pink” until I was embarrassingly old. When I am cutting Jack’s sandwiches up for him, I think of my dad and all the fun we had growing up. All the weird and unique things I did with just my dad and no one else. Here are just a few of the things that I flashback to while cutting sandwiches: Continue reading
Today, as Jack and Myles were playing in their car, I overheard something that you might not believe. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Myles likes to hit the car really hard and run away while Jack laughs and stays in. I was just checking to see if everything was alright and that no fingers were at risk for jamnation. I guess they didn’t notice. I walked in mid-sentence. It all seemed like normal toddler babble to me, until…. Continue reading