Someone Please Teach me HTML

I keep wanting to put cool links in the text of my posts to other people and other posts like everyone else, but I can't figure it out. I suddenly feel like a total computer moron. Can anyone help me out.

On a brighter note, I am figuring out how to post pictures, though it can't possibly be as time consuming for everyone else so I suspect I have a lot more to learn. But in celebration of my new found skills here are some fairly recent pictures of my kids for you to enjoy while I GO and learn HTML somehow.

Yes the expression is a little bit vacant, the smiling ones are blurry.

This is the boy in his gi all excited about his Judo class.


Bed Time Routines I Could Live Without

I don’t care how patient you think you are. Try standing outside of a bathroom door at 8:30 at night waiting for the child who is supposed to be asleep already to finish pooping, while you are bone tired, and a little bit nauseous. She sits, she pushes, she yells, “Mommy, come yook at me.” should you happen to wander out of her line of vision. She says in a confidential tone, "Mommy some girls go poo.." She gets off of the toilet, bends over to get wiped then announces that she has more and climbs back onto the toilet.
She sits, she pushes, she yells, she gets off, I wipe her, oh she’s still not done, she climbs back on again.
She sits, she pushes, (It’s starting to get very stinky) she yells, she gets off, I wipe her, she’s still not done, she climbs back on again.
4 times
5 times
6 times….

She has done this every night for the last three. Two nights ago, after the poop was all done, she insisted she needed to pee again, so I let her try. Nothing.
I take her down and she screams “I need to pee!” so I let her try, predictably, nothing.
I finally decide that’s enough and take her to bed. She falls asleep screaming “I WANT TO GO PEEEEEEE!!!!”

My name is Carrien and I say poo far more times than I ever imagined I would in that life I used to have, before pregnancy.


30 Phrases I Repeat at Least Once EVERY SINGLE DAY

1.) Are you finished going poo?
2.) Did you wipe your bum?
3.) Go wipe your bum.
4.) Did you wash your hands?
5.) Go wash your hands.
6.) Eat your food.
7.) That’s what’s for breakfast/lunch/dinner/snack. You don’t have to eat it but you don’t get anything else until you do.
8.) It’s time to pick up your Lego.
9.) Leave your sister alone!
10.) Stop that.
11.) Come here now!
12.) Good job!
13.) Not now.
14.) Put your jammies away.
15.) Put your plate in the sink.
16.) (As they announce their need to use the toilet) Okay, go fast.
17.) No it’s not snack time yet.
18.) I said no.
19.) No we’re not going to Beema’s house today. (Except on Fridays.)
20.) Because I said so.
21.) Obey Mommy fast.
22.) Go get some clothes on.
23.) Not until you have your clothes on.
24.) Bath time.
25.) Okay, go get your diaper and jammies.
26.) Put your diaper on.
27.) Put your jammies on.
28.) Get your toothbrush.
29.) Because it’s bedtime.
30.) I love you.


Pleasant Surprises

The new number one reason that I will follow almost all of my mother in law’s parenting advice without question, or without too many any way, happened today at around 5:30.
Freed from the need to wait for the Boy to arrive from his Judo class by the early arrival of the Genius Husband, I went for a walk to the store with the Girl to get salad dressing to go with dinner, because I love Brianna’s Asiago Ceaser dressing with lime juice and pepper on my romaine lettuce, and so does everyone else in my family, there is never any of this salad left, ever. And sometimes I don’t even get seconds, but I digress.

While I was gone, the Boy returned and his aunts and uncles with him. At the instigation of his 13 year old aunt, the 11 year old uncle and the 14 year old uncle voluntarily pitched in with the Boy to CLEAN MY HOUSE. These tweens, (I hate that word) picked up everything and put it away, vacuumed, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, cleared and wiped the table, helped the boy clean and vacuum his room, emptied the trash, tidied the bathrooms, and then went home before I got back from the store. It was LOVELY to walk in to order and cleanliness.

Who doesn’t want kids like that? I certainly do.


My Son, the Problem Solver

I have had a lot of conversations recently with the boy about how he ought to be thankful for his food, even if it’s not exactly what he wanted. I have tried to get him to imagine that he is one of the boys in the world who is truly starving and how would he feel then if someone gave him some yummy lentil soup to eat for dinner, he insists he still wouldn’t eat it. Thank God my child has never experienced true hunger and therefore can’t imagine it. But it’s frustrating that he is not more thankful for the things that he has.

We have talked about how he ought not to eat all of the raisins that we have left in the cupboard because now there are none to go in granola or banana muffins until mommy can go shopping again. I often allow these things to go un-purchased for a significant length of time, long enough for him to feel some of the pain that he has caused himself.

We also discuss that it is wrong to waste food because that takes away from what other people can have both immediately and figuratively.

His solution to everything of course is that we can go to the store and buy more food. I have explained that this is not as simple as it seems, that if food is wasted to get more is to take away from other things that the money should be spent on, say our foster child in Rwanda, special adventures for him, and sometimes we even get into food rent and clothing. Recently I’ve just been telling him that we have no money to get more right now, he will have to wait. This is true; it’s been a tight month with lots of unexpected expenses. Yesterday he sat near me at the table during lunch and I could see the wheels turning inside his head, “Mommy do we not have money for groceries right now?”

“No, not a lot honey, we have to be careful for a while.”

“Does Beema have money?”

“Yes Beema has some money.”

“Then we should just ask her to give us some then and then we could go and get more raisins.”

Problem solved.

When we moved to California we started house hunting, something that that we have lost energy for recently but are still pursuing. Every day almost the Boy asks me when the guys are going to start building our house for us. The answer is always that we won’t be buying a house or building one for a long time yet, because any thing longer than two days from now is a long time for a four year old.

He has decided that we should build our house in the Distance, a pretty little valley near the curvy road we drive on the way to Beema’s house. He thinks this place is called the Distance due to a misunderstanding when his aunt was trying to explain what the word meant one day as we were driving past that spot by pointing out the window and saying see that over there is in the distance.

Yesterday as we were driving out for dinner he started talking about living there and I told we it looked like someone else already lived there and that they weren’t likely to sell it to us for what we’re willing to pay. He decided he would go and talk to them and they would for sure give it to us.

Problem solved.

Then he started saying that if they didn’t give it to them he would “wrestle them up” and make them give us our money and let us take their house and when I told them that this would be wrong he said he would get the police to come and take them away because they’re bad people.

Problem solved.

I think I’m going to have to rethink this teaching him economy and frugality approach though, it bothers me that my four year old is thinking about how to get money. He hates that his dad has to leave every day and go to work, and the formulaic exchange they have every morning has him asking “Why do you have to go to work dad, I don’t want you to go.”

“Because if I don’t work buddy we don’t have money to pay for things like food and a place to live.”

“Oh okay, bye then.”

I guess it does seem that money would solve all of his problems, what am I going to do?


Morning Sickness

Sorry I haven’t written at all this week, I’ve been kind of obsessed with keeping the contents of my stomach from emptying themselves all over the place. This is a daily, hourly obsession that will be with me for at least another month and it is one of the least pleasant things I have ever had to live through. (Someone please tell me why I’m doing this again?)

I have low blood sugar, which tends to amplify the regular morning sickness to extreme levels of discomfort. I have to keep my stomach full, at all times, or I am overcome with unbearable queasiness. The sensation of hunger is indistinguishable from the sensation of nausea these days. The regular salivatory functions of my mouth in anticipation of a first bite of food go hand in hand with an ominous flip flopping in my stomach that is either the start of normal digestive processes or the onset of a summary rejection of all things I’ve consumed until now. (Excuse me, I have to go and sit very still for a while and maybe suck on a frozen mango chunk to keep the above mentioned flip-flopping at bay. I apparently can’t write about it without difficulty.)

Okay I’m back, the cold sweetness has done its work for now, but I will have to eat something real soon. (Like right now, excuse me again.)

Okay let’s try once more. The theory is that if I can manage to eat some good protein and high fiber combinations every two hours or so I will keep my blood sugar levels from plummeting into throw up land and technically it has worked. The only time I actually threw up was on Sunday after falling asleep for an hour or so without adequate snacking prior to resting. The problem is that as time goes by this becomes trickier. Certain smells and textures are enough to start me retching even if I have eaten recently. Last night it was soybean noodles, which was unfortunate because they are very high in protein and fiber. I forced them down anyway, and then sat up until midnight afraid to move lest they force their way back up. I had the most unbelievable indigestion. (I now have to hold my breath and wipe a poopy butt, which involves moving and smelling things I don’t want to while my stomach is already churning. Here goes…)

And I’m back and taking another bite of my dry matzo cracker, which has neither fiber nor protein but is the only thing in the kitchen that looked like I could eat it. I burp, a lot. The slower digestion cause by pregnancy hormones plus the constant churning means I always have gas, and I’ve learned from bitter experience that if I don’t let it out it will come out on it’s own in a much more unpleasant way. Perhaps the trickiest bit of all of this is cooking. I can’t cook hungry or the smell will either wake up my stomach in ways that cause it to rumble unpleasantly or just turn it to the dark side. I have little appetite and have twice this week made things for dinner that I could barely eat. But I don’t know what will taste good to me until it’s too late to shop, even if we had the budget for me to cook every pregnant whim that comes to mind instead of making meals out of what we already have in the fridge. We’re running out of the stuff I like, my daily staples are depleting and I have to wait until Friday to shop. It’s not like we don’t have food, just not food that assuages the volcanic god within who is very capricious and can turn with out an instant’s notice if the offerings are inadequate.

Sleep is the only relief I find from all of this but as mentioned before, I must plan my sleep carefully if the waking is not going to be extremely unpleasant. There must be food, at both ends of every nap, and then a little bit of time allowed for digestion so there is no gas build up, or there is the option of sleeping upright, something I can do in the comfy chair in our living room except for the times when the weird smell that I have never noticed before being pregnant is overpoweringly strong and I can’t stay there because it’s nauseating.

So my house is a mess because I’ve been too nauseous to bend over and pick anything up for the last 24 hours. I spend a lot of time in my pajamas after breakfast waiting for my stomach to settle so I can eat again and feel safe enough to move around and get dressed; something that hasn’t happened yet today. And my children are becoming these wild naked beings who forage by themselves for food; like eating the final contents of a jar of nut butter with their fingers, or eating all of the pears I bought to last a week in one pre-breakfast sitting and then having explosive diarrhea all day on one occasion next to the toilet splattering the wall, the bath tub, the floor, various hot wheels cars, the bathmat, the outside of the toilet, and the garbage can in excrement. That was fun.

I have to go and read to my little growling naked dragons; that I can at least do with out added discomfort. I dread making them lunch though, and they sound hungry.


My Mother’s Day

When I was a child I remember trying to do things for my mother for Mother’s Day. I remember all of the cheesy crafts I would make for her; I think she actually liked them. I remember attempts to serve her breakfast in bed, largely unsuccessful because my dad can’t cook and I hadn’t yet learned. I specifically remember taking the very last egg we had in the fridge and trying to poach it, but ending up with this little soggy yellow lump on a plate because I didn’t know about vinegar. And I remember all of the times we reluctantly tried to clean up the house because we knew she would like it. Our efforts were often pathetic, and I’m sure at times disappointing but I think the thought was appreciated for the most part, she was after all our mother.

I have very little expectation for my version of mother’s day. It keeps me from getting disappointed and is a good deal more realistic. It’s good that I wasn’t expecting anything because this is how my day has gone so far. The Girl woke up and asked for her morning nursing time around 6:30 as usual we both fell back asleep right away. The Boy woke up and came in to demand, “Mom, I want you to wake up now.”

Half an hour later he returns without any clothes on and needs the poop wiped off of his butt. I make him wait a little bit longer hoping to sneak away from his mostly sleeping sister without waking her. I finally run out of patience, I have to pee, I’m pregnant and need to eat or I’ll puke, and there is a boy out there with poop drying onto his butt. So I disengage and she rolls over and I tell her, as I do every time this scenario plays itself out, that Mommy has to go but I will come back and she responds with outright fury, screaming her indignation as well as crying because she wants me to stay. I walk away to do what needs to be done, while the Genius husband, for some reason awake now, helps her to deal with her temper tantrum telling her what is and isn’t an appropriate response. By the time I get back to her she is quiet with a couple of whiny “nursing” demands punctuating the silence. I take her with me to get breakfast, hoping I can eat before morning sickness sets in. The Genius husband returns to slumber land where he remains at this very moment. I get breakfast for two children and myself.

As I type my living room floor is littered with things that I didn’t put there. Several pairs of my husband’s shoes and dirty socks lying around, plus one pair of work shorts, another pair of pants, a dangerously in the middle of the floor laptop in its bag, several couch cushions with the covers unzipped and a whole bunch of little pink papers from a note pad that the kids were pretending to write notes on and give to me, some stuffed animals, one little white sandal, a wool hat, a bag of painter’s rags, and garbage. It’s actually looking much better because my kids just picked up all of their coloring books and crayons that their daddy knocked on the floor instead of placing neatly somewhere because he wanted to use their coloring table to clean his guns last night while we watched a movie. (I know, this is really weird, but a friend invited him shooting so he got his old guns and some of his dad’s and went shooting on Friday.) We have never had guns in our house before last night; they are kept in his dad’s gun locker. But now we have between five or ten hidden under the couch so the kids don’t get them. They aren’t loaded and we have no rounds, but it still feels weird to me.

Later today we are driving all the way to Murrieta to a mother’s day BBQ hosted by his grandparents. I’m sure he thinks that their efforts to celebrate the day are more than enough and it hasn’t even occurred to him that I might like something as simple as not having to clean up after him or the kids for one day, and have it still clean, or maybe get to sleep for a while in the morning, or even a cheesy craft. As a result of the BBQ we are not even attending church this morning as it is a 40 minute drive in the opposite direction and it’s too much driving for one day considering gas prices and my motion sickness, so I will not even get the obligatory flower or whatever little thing they give out there. I actually like these, though I know many women who don’t, maybe because it’s the only thing I get and even if it was a complete stranger who organized it I feel as though someone remembered me on this day and said thank-you, and I like flowers.

So this is probably a depressing read, though I don’t feel at all depressed, just a little tired and nauseous which is due to another aspect of motherhood, just an observation of how my day has been thus far. It’s basically just another day, which is what it really is without Hallmark propaganda to build up our expectations and bring most of us disappointment. I’ll let you know if anything changes.

Well the genius husband and the kids did clean up much of the mess out here, after I puked for the first time this pregnancy. He thought I would feel better after that if he got lucky. He also got lunch for the kids so I wouldn't have to smell anything offensive while my stomach recovered. (Sigh of relief, they wanted salmon.) I had a great talk with my mother. The BBQ was fun, the kids swam. The girl can swim the entire length of GG's pool with water wings on by herself! GG gave me card which is odd since she is the great grandmother, but I liked it, and the cash. We brought my little sister in law home for the night as she needs to use our high speed internet in order to finish up a final project for one of her college courses. She came in and organized a clean up in which the husband VACUUMED while she cleared the table and loaded and unloaded the dish washer. I love her. Now I'm going to bed.


Things That Were Different the Second Time Around.

I have three children, though one of them is not born yet. I was just thinking about how different things were with the second child than the first.

1.) The second time, I pushed my own baby out, in the safety of my home without the horrors of a hospital transfer, induction, and caesarian. I had learned to trust my body, and that it was I, not my caregivers, who was responsible for getting this child out safely. I took full responsibility for the birth of my child and didn’t once think of handing it to someone else.
2.) The second time it didn’t matter nearly as much if the Girl was diapered or even clothed in her first few weeks of life, she was almost always naked and swaddled in a blanket or next to me in bed. I became addicted to her skin, I still am.
3.) The second time, strangely, I was in less of a hurry to get her out of my bed and get her off of my breast. The Boy weaned himself at 16 months, he just forgot, she is still nursing at 27 months, though I’m trying to gradually bring that to a close.
4.) The second time I already know when a child is playing me, and I am way less vulnerable to cuteness.
5.) The second time I expected that a two year old can help set the table, put her own dishes in the sink, pick up toys, get herself dressed, understand and obey instructions, and be expected to already contribute to the life of our family. The Boy got away so lightly, I had no idea I could teach him to do those things.
6.) The second time I had PPD but wouldn’t admit it, and I learned that regular exercise is the thing that keeps me sane. It’s so much harder to fit in with two children, with the first I would strap him on and we would walk for hours in the woods behind our house. It took me months to realize that that was something I still needed after the second was born.
7.) The second time I was more likely to listen to other parents with different styles and not condemn those whose decisions were different from mine. We all want what’s best for our kids.
8.) The second time I experimented with natural infant hygiene and wished I had learned about it when I had only one child and time to figure it out.
9.) The second time the Girl encountered dairy before her first birthday, and peanuts before her second and I didn’t freak out. I remain firm on sugar however, maybe because I’m hypoglycemic.
10.) The second time I realized you really can love all of your children just as intensely, that loving one doesn’t take away from your love of another.

I wonder what the third time will bring.


I Hate Not Fighting With People.

I hate not fighting with people. I like living together with people in harmony and the daily interactions of people who misunderstand, take the time to explain, come to a place of understanding or apology and carry on together on this adventure we call life. But I hate not fighting with people when something is wrong.

I’m the kind of person who is not at all reserved usually. Part of my process in becoming a grown-up has been to learn not to say every thing that comes to mind out loud to whoever is in earshot, not to give my opinion on EVERYTHING, and to realize that not everyone thinks my stories are as vastly entertaining as I do. (Except in the blogosphere, this place is perfect for me.) So I am puzzled by those who avoid confrontation, or don’t choose to tell someone who has offended them how they have been offended, or who don’t say anything to the person who has done wrong but talk to others about that person’s foul-up, I hate living in that sort of below the surface tension where I feel defensive but don’t know why, or feel as though I am walking on eggshells to avoid starting an explosive emotion vomit fest, or worst of all, feeling like I am constantly trying to please someone so that they will like me again and forgive me for whatever I did to cause the nameless cloud that is hanging over us. I have learned that the latter is a completely stupid thing to do and is a sign of places where I still do not obviously have enough self-esteem.

I always give people the benefit of the doubt when it comes to this kind of thing. I naively assume that their intention was not to hurt and that given the information that their actions are hurtful they will apologize, change, make things right. I assume this because I am this way. If I have offended someone unwittingly, as I often do, I am honored when they think well enough of me to be honest about how it affected them so that I can apologize and make it right. One of my best friends is this way, she will tell me within a minute of my having said something stupid and hurtful to her without realizing it what I did, and I can apologize and ask her to forgive me and our friendship is actually strengthened instead of weakened because she doesn’t allow the hurt to fester and cause problems.

Once I lived with five other girls for a year in a bar turned to church on the beach and it was one of the hardest/best times of my life. I learned to love people I couldn’t stand, not just tolerate them but also truly see them as the incredible woman that they are and so vastly different from me. I learned soo much about myself and who I am, things that you can’t learn unless you are in a community of people who you can trust and who will give you the gift of honest feedback. After we learned to trust each other it was like I had an incredible family made of people who were strangers just months before. I’ve missed them ever since we parted ways.

I have another family now, a husband, his family, whom I love especially for their bold honesty, and my children. But I feel myself these days needing to clear the air or something. My genius husband does have a habit of avoiding conflict, or discussions about how he is feeling, and especially telling me if I am doing something that bothers him. (His mother tells me it’s probably her fault for spending so much time drawing things out of him, he now expects people to do that for him so he can process things.) He makes it known in subtle ways; like forgetting to talk to me, monosyllabic responses, and leaving without saying goodbye. He denies it all of course and I have to sit him down and force him to talk to me. I usually cry, which he thinks is a sign that these talks should continue to be avoided, but I don’t think so, the alternative is isolation and me becoming increasingly paranoid. I am often imagining things, which is easy to do when husband is incommunicado, and it’s good for me to find out for certain if I am or not by forcing him to communicate with me. (Is this too much information? Well maybe I’ll delete this if I can write a better conclusion without it.)
The current problem of course is that I am pregnant. I admit to being emotional, bitchy, slightly irrational and overly weepy during my pregnancies. I hate this because I like to think of myself as rational, calm, and clear headed at all times. Unfortunately it’s not true. What I hate the most is the way the Genius husband‘s eyes glaze over, his body language screams “RUN AWAY”, and his entire demeanor suggests that he is enduring this because he has to because to him EVERYTHING that I get emotional about or concerned about during a pregnancy falls into the previous irrational, bitchy, weepy, hormonal category that I mentioned earlier and then I do become all of these things as I see that he is NOT LISTENING TO ME AT ALL or taking me seriously, something it’s hard to deal with when I’m used to him actually listening to me and us having interesting and complex conversations about a multitude of subjects. It drives me mad.

I’ve decided that we need a third party opinion so I’ve asked my MILly, yes you read right, my MOTHER IN LAW to sit in on a discussion. I need someone I trust to not immediately blame it on hormones to tell me if I am being irrational, or if some of my concerns are valid, and to tell him to. Of course I’m hoping that she’ll tell him to listen to your wife but she may not, and I’m prepared for that, but in keeping with my preference for keeping things out in the open, I’d rather know.


Pirate costumes

There is much that I would like to write about today, like sullen four-year olds, I thought I had until they were teens for that to happen, and how sweet little girls who forgot to put their pants back on after going potty look standing on their tiptoes to turn on a light switch with their little naked legs all extended. But I have no time, I have to sew a pirate blouse, and a peasant shirt, and several masks.

My genius husband's little sister is 13. Thirteen is the big party year where the kids can actually invite friends and go all out for a party. It is the coming of age party, and we are invited. (Hey they had 8 kids, of course you don't get a big birthday party every year, just having the family assembled is quite enough people, though you do get to choose your birthday dinner, go to breakfast with dad, and it's quite the big deal.)

This is the fun part, she's decided to have a masquerade ball, costumes and masks required. It's in three days. The Girl is taken care of, she already has a fairy princess costume that she looks adorable in, and she'll match her aunty who is going as a pixie. The boy wishes to be a "red man with a sword" that quickly became a pirate. HIs uncle made him a wooden sword, that looks super cool, and his aunt made him a dagger, and we are improvising hats and pants, but there is no way to get a real pirate shirt it seems unless I make it, so I have to finish that today. Then I have to make us all masks, and I want a lacy black fan because I think it would be fun to get as authentic as I can manage, where else to I get to wear a ball gown with a lace-up bustier and flutter fans around. And my husband needs a peasant style shirt to wear with his kilt so that it looks more like a costume. I may not have to make him a mask, he's thinking about blue woad paint instead.

SO I will be busy, I'll come back when I have a chance.

I know, you are all wondering if I had the ball gown lying around in my closet just waiting for a chance to wear it, and the answer is yes. The true story is that it's my wedding dress, which was quite simple and not pure white but more champagne colored and happens to go perfectly with accessories that I got at other times. I'm not that weird.


Technicolor Puke Day

As my children get older this parenting gig is starting to give me a little more breathing room. They play together for long periods without fighting, and without needing me to be right there all the time. I spend most of my time with them reading out loud, making three meals and as many snacks for them to inhale, and supervising cleanup. Occasionally I have to break up a fight. This leaves me with several moments of the day when I can begin to see that I may actually get to things I’ve been ignoring for several years now. All this is just in time of course for me to find out that there is another on the way and I will soon be back in the thick of diapers and breast feeding, not that I’m quite done with either of those at this point, and sleepless nights. I appreciate the perspective that this time is giving me though. I now know that there does come a time when it gets easier to be a mom, and when the routine changes, and when things slow down in a way, and I can look forward to it through the days when it seems overwhelming. Days like the Technicolor puke day of a year ago. If you had told me I was pregnant that day, I may have cried, for a long time.

We were living in Vancouver. The Genius husband was working nights and the kids never saw him so I was parenting solo. For some reason he was gone in the morning that day as well and had forgotten his caffeinated peppermints on the kitchen table. Why he ever brought them in from the car remains a mystery. Three of these mints have as much caffeine in them as one cup of coffee. The Boy, then three, got into the kitchen before I did and rapidly consumed at least twenty of them at once and dissolved several into a cup of old tea that he then drank from. I didn’t know about this when he went upstairs to play with the neighbor’s son. (We traded childcare so we could do basic things like shower, laundry, dinner, though the kids all liked being upstairs way more than being downstairs with me, I guess I’m less fun.) I was preparing to get into the shower with the Girl, then 1, when I found the caffeine bombs on the table, and in the tea. I had no idea how many he had eaten, because I didn’t know how full the tin was before he emptied it. A second later my friend upstairs brought him down and said, “He told me he was sick and needed to throw up but it looks like he just spit food on his shirt.”

She had just fed him blueberry juice and cereal. Still hoping to get a shower, mistake number one, I took the Boy and the Girl in with me as he was covered in food and complaining about being cold and she just needed to be near me. But the shower wasn't working to warm him up. He continued to whine about being cold. So I got him out and wrapped him in a towel leaving the Girl in the tub with the water. At that exact moment he projectile vomited blueberry juice all over the bathroom floor. Taking a moment to be glad I wrapped him in a blue towel, I threw it over the vomit and mopped it into the corner. He was shivering and clammy so I ran, still naked and soaking wet, to the bedroom on the other end of the house to find him some warm clothes. As I was digging in the drawer for some pants I heard, “MOM, the Girl pooed!" I ran back with a shirt in my hand to see the Girl standing at the edge of the tub screaming as she tried to get away from the giant log that was floating toward her.

There I was, naked and soaking wet, vomit in a corner of the bathroom on the floor, poo in the bathtub and a child who may have severely poisoned himself shivering on a stool.

Anyone who has parented for a while knows that this story is going to get worse before it gets better, which it did.

I pulled the Girl out of the bathtub and stick her on her potty in case she had any more business to do.

Then I fished the poo out of the bathtub and put it in the toilet. I'm pretty sure I used toilet paper so I didn't touch it directly, but I really don't remember. While I was draining and rinsing the tub and the toys, making a mental note to disinfect everything later, the Boy reminded me that he was cold and I finally remembered to put the shirt I fetched for him on.

Of course, just as I turned back to the tub I heard him gagging, and turned back just in time to be on the receiving end of another blast of bright purple Technicolor puke.

So I took off his now dirty shirt and ran back to the bedroom to find him another one. Still naked I might add, now with vomit.

Upon returning I discovered that the Girl had wondered off of her potty and decided that the floor in the kitchen under her high chair is an ideal place to pee. There goes another towel.

We all got in the not yet disinfected tub again to shower off the pee, poo and vomit covering us all.

We managed to get out this time before anyone pooed or vomited, hurray!

Got the the kids dry, the Girl diapered, though she'd done all the damage she could, and finally wrapped a towel around myself.

Got the Boy dressed, while trying to get him hydrated a little, and put him in bed.

Called Aaron to find out how many caffeine bombs were in the tin.
Called poison control.
Listened the man at poison control exclaim, “He ate how many?”
Started to really panic until he explained that the vomiting is a good sign; he probably got most of it out of him that way.
Hung up and checked on the Boy, who was sleeping.
Put on clothes.
Started to clean up pee in the kitchen and vomit in the bathroom.
Started a load of laundry.
Ran back to answer the phone. Poison control called back to check on his status.
They kept calling until he woke up and I could describe his condition to them. They were awesome.
Finished cleaning the bathroom floor.
Put clothes on the Girl.
Answered the phone again; no he’s not awake yet.
Called the Genius husband to tell him how his son was doing.
Ate breakfast, at last.
Held the now awake Boy in my lap and checked him for signs of clamminess, excessive energy (definitely not), nausea, etc.
Told poison control that he was no longer sweating and that he asked for something to eat.
Sighed in relief as they said, "He'll probably be fine."
Fed Boy.
Collapsed in an exhausted puddle in the rocker to think about how funny this story will be when it’s retold. You know, in a year or too, when the horror has worn off.

These are the kinds of days we get to survive in order to rate all the others against and say, "Yeah, that wasn't so bad. No one vomited on me today and I got to handle everything wearing clothes. Good day."

So, tell me your worst parenting day so far.

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