Summer means a few things for me, though really, for everybody. Thing #1 is that routines change. The mornings with the kids bear no resemblance to what they do during the school year, and weekends often get packed with family parties and other celebrations. And this particular summer, for me personally, it means that a nefarious family of insects are eating me alive IN THE PRIVACY OF MY OWN HOME.
😡
See, this is one of the reasons I like living in a climate that is frozen over for part of the year. Horrible little creatures who bite and sting cannot survive in the tundra. :0
The past 5-6 mornings, I have woken up with red bumps on my arms that quickly escalate to puffy, itchy things of misery. Being the paranoid person that I am, I immediately Googled:
"bed bug images."
Good and gentle reader, unless it is a true apocalyptic emergency, NEVER DO THIS. You're welcome.
Their bite marks are innocuous enough to look like so many other insect bites (this is part of their powerful evil empire, to be sure) however, the other signs of bed bugs in one's house were lacking in ours (thank you Jesus), so I felt fairly confident that my bites were not from them. But I was puzzled, because I haven't been outdoors very much, I'm discovering the new bites in the mornings even when I wear long sleeved nightgowns, and I have not seen nary an infiltrating insect, winged or otherwise, in our house.
I was dropping the kids off at my in-laws' on my way to work yesterday morning, and I showed them to my mother-in-law, a former nurse. She gently told me that they were mosquito bites.
Well, that was anti-climactic. I was lodging a full fledged conspiracy theory of the insect kingdom.
I don't often get mosquito bites, so that's why I didn't immediately jump to that logical conclusion. I'm not much of an outdoors gal, truth be told. I have hyper sensitive skin that reacts if a dandelion looks at me sideways, and the sun and I have a decidedly love/hate relationship. And I live in western New York, where no living insect can dwell for 5ish months out of the year. In other words, I'm not often exposed to mosquitoes. But that is what has been biting me.
Given the fact that I scour my arms each morning upon waking up, and find 1-2 new bites, I know for a fact the following:
(1) he or she has taken up residence in my house;
(2) he or she is going hog wild overnight and biting me as I sleep;
(3) he or she is clandestinely hiding during the day, as I glimpse no flying objects nor hear any buzzing during waking hours; and
(4) he or she MUST BE ERADICATED WITH RUTHLESS EFFICIENCY.
I'm not normally speaking such virulent hatred towards other living beings, but this one (and it's family too, I have no shame) have got to go. My arms are a mess. The previous bites are healing only very slowly, and my poor arms have these unattractive red puffy bumps all over them. I'm itching and rubbing lavender oil on them like crazy.
Last night, I did have a victory. I diffused lemon and peppermint (I don't have any Citronella oil, though some is currently on order; fly little Citronella oil, fly!) which I read that mosquitoes hate (*snort* did they poll the mosquitoes?) and I did not have any new bites this morning. Just an escalating one from the morning before that is at peak itch form and growing redder.
ðŸ˜
And you know what unfair thing is? My husband, sleeping contentedly *right beside me* in our double bed, has nary a bite on him. Apparently, MOSQUITOES DO NOT LIKE HIM. What is this nonsensical crazy talk? Mosquitoes have *preferences* as to which people they bite? Whenever I've mentioned this little problem I've been having to others, this has been bandied about *multiple times*:
"Oh yes. Mosquitoes love certain people and never bite others."
Well, how do I get to be one of these vaulted OTHER people? Is this like that second group on the island on "Lost?" I mean, what the heck?
I'll be on mosquito patrol for the short term foreseeable future. My diffuser will be misting off anti-mosquito propaganda each night, and Mike is spraying something my mother-in-law claims will work around the doors and windows. We'll see.
But I got off track, didn't I? :0 I was going to talk about summer routines, because ours is all loosey goosey, like I imagine yours are too. I'm taking way longer than I should to get me and the kids out of the house in the mornings because there isn't the rushy impetus that there is during the fall and spring semesters, and Mike is teaching summer classes with his hours kind of wonky as well. I suppose that's the way summer is supposed to be though, yes?
The kids LOVE being off from school, though to me, the lack of structure is problematic for them. Sure, they can amuse themselves, but they need to be encouraged to move off the couch and away from video games. And by "encouraged," I mean "directly told that their game time is up and that they are duty bound to play outside for the rest of the afternoon." I'm not the best at coming up with crafts and summer activity ideas (because those usually involve going outside) but I do what I can. So my summer routine means coming up with ideas for my kids' summer routine.
I wish all summer days were like this past Sunday, wherein a gentle rain fell outside as I knitted and drank tea in my leggings and comfy top. What is this that you say? That I am delusional? Indeed. 😂
What does your summer routine look like? I need ideas, people! :0
Showing posts with label gross stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gross stuff. Show all posts
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
THE HORROR
Long time readers of this blog may know that I really love birds. I love listening to them, I love watching them, I love observing their feather colors and identifying them with my nerdy bird reference guide. My daughter has also picked up the birding gene. She LOVES to watch them in our yard and learn about the different birds common to our area. We watch the birds and go through the bird guide together. It's a whole big warm and fuzzy Discovery Channel moment. So we got a bird feeder.
*ominous music begins playing in the background*
I mentioned on a recent Tea Time that my love affair with our bird feeder recently went through a crisis due to an uninvited, furry interloper in our yard who was going after the the seed that inevitably drops to the ground. Said furry interloper is decidedly NOT a squirrel, whom I would not object to at all. Squirrels are CUTE. I know many people hate them, and classify them as the rodents that they technically are, but seriously. They have sweet faces and bushy tails, how bad could they be? Granted, I wouldn't want them in my house, but they have never shown any interest in such a notion. They want to scurry around and play with fire by dashing across the road in front of my car, eat bird seed off the ground in my yard, and then hurry back to their tree. Fine with me.
No, aforementioned interloper is far more nefarious than his squirrel cousins. He's full bodied and has a long, skinny, hairless tail.
*shudder of revulsion*
His name begins with an 'r.' I'm dying even as I type this. At any rate, we put out a catcher thing, which he promptly ignored, and thus we simply let the food source dry up. Anne and I mourned the loss of our bird friends who didn't find our yard nearly so interesting to hang out in without food awaiting them in the feeder. And our other "friend" also disappeared after a few days. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and I sprang into action in full-out librarian mode to find a solution to our little problem. A friend and fellow bird-lover suggested that it may have been our bird food. Switch up to a much less interesting blend of seed, and though we wouldn't get the same variety of birds to our feeder, we also wouldn't attract the scheming vermin. Done.
I waited a full week, missing our Cardinal pals the whole time. Another several days. Then Anne and I cautiously put the innocuous seed mix into the feeder for a trial run. The birds sniffed it right out and were delighted. We welcomed them with open arms. My heart sang at seeing the Cardinals, Blue Jays and House Finches once again pecking away in our yard. The feeder emptied, and I left it alone for another full week. I wanted to assure that the ground eating birds ate all of the excess seed before filling the feeder again. The week passed, and so last night Anne and I filled the feeder again. Cautious optimism was alive in my heart.
As I came out of the shower yesterday after dinner, I saw the female Cardinal lounging in our backyard from out the back window. I beamed at her and headed upstairs to get dressed.
Several minutes later, I'm still upstairs getting ready for our evening of popcorn eating, movie watching and knitting when Anne bursts in:
"MOM! The Mommy Cardinal is out there!"
Indeed. Adore that Mommy Cardinal.
"And a sparrow!"
Not nearly so interesting, but I have no beef with the sparrows. They can't help it that they lack the pizazz of other birds. It's just the way God made them. ;-)
"And our mouse friend!"
"Yeah, and...Wait, WHAT?!"
I dashed to the window in disbelief. Indeed, the little *#!&er was out there helping himself, without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak that his presence was causing in our house. Because this second little foray made it official - we cannot have a traditional bird feeder. The urban neighborhood that we live in just does not make for the right conditions. I think that poor Anne was hoping that by elevating his status to a friendly one, we would let him stay and peacefully co-exist with the birds, but of course, NO, NO NO. We must once again dry up the food source. And then we cannot refill it.
I was teary-eyed watching the Cardinal pair last night before I went to bed. We probably will still occasionally see them after this, but only fleetingly and it won't be the same. I think we'll pick up a hummingbird feeder the next time we're at the hardware store, as they eat nectar, which as a liquid will not pose a rodent problem. Anne is excited about that, so we'll give it a go. I'll still in mourning over the loss of the other birds, but carry on I must.
*sniffle*
I need to be cheered up. Who has an amusing story to share in the comments? :-)
*ominous music begins playing in the background*
I mentioned on a recent Tea Time that my love affair with our bird feeder recently went through a crisis due to an uninvited, furry interloper in our yard who was going after the the seed that inevitably drops to the ground. Said furry interloper is decidedly NOT a squirrel, whom I would not object to at all. Squirrels are CUTE. I know many people hate them, and classify them as the rodents that they technically are, but seriously. They have sweet faces and bushy tails, how bad could they be? Granted, I wouldn't want them in my house, but they have never shown any interest in such a notion. They want to scurry around and play with fire by dashing across the road in front of my car, eat bird seed off the ground in my yard, and then hurry back to their tree. Fine with me.
No, aforementioned interloper is far more nefarious than his squirrel cousins. He's full bodied and has a long, skinny, hairless tail.
*shudder of revulsion*
His name begins with an 'r.' I'm dying even as I type this. At any rate, we put out a catcher thing, which he promptly ignored, and thus we simply let the food source dry up. Anne and I mourned the loss of our bird friends who didn't find our yard nearly so interesting to hang out in without food awaiting them in the feeder. And our other "friend" also disappeared after a few days. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and I sprang into action in full-out librarian mode to find a solution to our little problem. A friend and fellow bird-lover suggested that it may have been our bird food. Switch up to a much less interesting blend of seed, and though we wouldn't get the same variety of birds to our feeder, we also wouldn't attract the scheming vermin. Done.
I waited a full week, missing our Cardinal pals the whole time. Another several days. Then Anne and I cautiously put the innocuous seed mix into the feeder for a trial run. The birds sniffed it right out and were delighted. We welcomed them with open arms. My heart sang at seeing the Cardinals, Blue Jays and House Finches once again pecking away in our yard. The feeder emptied, and I left it alone for another full week. I wanted to assure that the ground eating birds ate all of the excess seed before filling the feeder again. The week passed, and so last night Anne and I filled the feeder again. Cautious optimism was alive in my heart.
As I came out of the shower yesterday after dinner, I saw the female Cardinal lounging in our backyard from out the back window. I beamed at her and headed upstairs to get dressed.
Several minutes later, I'm still upstairs getting ready for our evening of popcorn eating, movie watching and knitting when Anne bursts in:
"MOM! The Mommy Cardinal is out there!"
Indeed. Adore that Mommy Cardinal.
"And a sparrow!"
Not nearly so interesting, but I have no beef with the sparrows. They can't help it that they lack the pizazz of other birds. It's just the way God made them. ;-)
"And our mouse friend!"
"Yeah, and...Wait, WHAT?!"
I dashed to the window in disbelief. Indeed, the little *#!&er was out there helping himself, without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak that his presence was causing in our house. Because this second little foray made it official - we cannot have a traditional bird feeder. The urban neighborhood that we live in just does not make for the right conditions. I think that poor Anne was hoping that by elevating his status to a friendly one, we would let him stay and peacefully co-exist with the birds, but of course, NO, NO NO. We must once again dry up the food source. And then we cannot refill it.
I was teary-eyed watching the Cardinal pair last night before I went to bed. We probably will still occasionally see them after this, but only fleetingly and it won't be the same. I think we'll pick up a hummingbird feeder the next time we're at the hardware store, as they eat nectar, which as a liquid will not pose a rodent problem. Anne is excited about that, so we'll give it a go. I'll still in mourning over the loss of the other birds, but carry on I must.
*sniffle*
I need to be cheered up. Who has an amusing story to share in the comments? :-)
Monday, May 18, 2015
Anne's 4th birthday, & "Golden Girls" marathons, because isn't that what everybody does when they're sick?
Hi all! I'm reporting in from the sick wing today, as I'm home from work with a vicious cold. I'll come back to that, as it involves a story, naturally, but I thought I'd start with the happier news of Anne's birthday party this past Saturday. Oh gosh, in fact, it's just after 1 pm here, EDT, and exactly 4 years ago, I was about to deliver precious Anne.
#aw!
Or: #gross! #TooMuchInformationTiffany! depending upon how you look at it, I suppose. But at any rate, we celebrated her miracle of life on Saturday with a family birthday party, complete with Frozen everything. Here we have the birthday girl:
...and posing with her birthday balloons:
Her ultimate Frozen cake:
Notice the Elsa and Anna plates and napkins in the foreground? My mother would be responsible for those. :0
And the requisite shot of her blowing out the candles:
A lovely time was had by all. Unfortunately, Anne started a light cough on Saturday.
*ominous music cues up*
Overnight on Saturday we had some more coughing to contend with, and I administered a midnight soothe involving application of Vicks Vaporub, fetching of water cup, and reading of "Little House" story. Yesterday, she was definitely not 100%, and we had to contend with quite a few overtired and sickly temper tantrums. I also started to cough, and heading into the overnight Sunday, I was feeling decidedly nervous that we would not get a good night of sleep.
*Tiffany turns her bedside light off and begins to drift to sleep...*
2 minutes elapse...
*Tiffany's throat is seized by horrible, hacking cough*
Needless to say, I was not happy. I tossed and turned a bit, hoping that my throat would soothe. Mike was also being super soothing, trying to help me get comfortable, when IT happened.
*horrible hacking cough emanates from Anne's room*
Between her and me, there was NO WAY I was going to sleep. Mike promised to check on Anne, and I headed downstairs to the guest room, since I knew I would keep him up if I stayed in our room. I hacked down there with my Kindle for a time, and even from all the way downstairs, I could still hear Anne coughing sporadically. Eventually, I gave up. I figured I'd just bring her downstairs with me, and we could watch The Golden Girls while propped up on the couch. I trudged up to her room and opened her door. Hark. What is that smell?
This is that point that all parents ultimately come to, wherein we go into vast detail about some sort of vile body fluid oozing out of our children. Right. In this instance, it would be vomit. I hurried over and quickly discerned that from the chest up, Anne was covered with real mucousy vomit, which must have made it's appearance sometime after Mike had checked on her. I quickly got her up and out of bed, and mopped down. Mike blessedly manifested to strip the bed and begin the fumigation process. I got her all changed while Mike got her room back in order. But I knew she wouldn't be able to sleep right away. That's what The Golden Girls are for.
I adore The Golden Girls. It's my favorite late night TV guilty pleasure from my young adulthood when I could actually stay up past 11 pm, and whenever I'm up in the middle of the night, I check the Hallmark Channel and it's usually on. Sure enough, Hallmark Channel to the rescue. A Golden Girls marathon, on until well past 1 am, after which time Frazier picks up the slack. Hot damn.
I got her propped up with me and watched no fewer than 4 episodes, all while Anne elbowed me in the ribs and stuck her feet into my vital organs into an attempt to get comfortable. Ah right, *that's* what it feels like to be pregnant again, check. We watched the episode wherein the girls hire a housekeeper named Marguerite, whom they fear has put a curse on them. The one where they are robbed, Rose gets all upset and paranoid, and Blanche says a police officer called her an "oldster." (that one is a personal favorite). Oh, oh, the one where Blanche meets this young stud named Dirk at a Jazzercise class, and then tries to transform herself into looking 30 again when he asks her out?
#bliss
And BY THE WAY. Let me check the calendar...right, it's mid-May. I'll just have you know that The Hallmark Channel is advertising a week long marathon of Christmas movies, to premiere on July 3rd. We've moved Christmas anticipation back to May now? Good gracious.
Eventually, I coaxed Anne back to bed, since the two of us sleeping on the couch thing just wasn't going to end comfortably for either of us. Neither of us was coughing anymore, and I was confident we could get through the night at that point. I re-tucked her in and she went right to sleep. As did I, after a few more tosses and turns for good measure.
The only negative marring this touching scene is that she woke up this morning in a vicious mood and threw a 30 minute screaming tantrum about having to have a bath to wash the vomit out of her hair. Good times, right there. We watched more Golden Girls while I sipped at a full bottle of water to soothe my re-tickly throat (I own the entire series on DVD, so no worries on ever running out of episodes :0) and Mike showed the true nature of unconditional love and sacramental marriage by fixing lunch and sitting down with us to watch the episode wherein the girls are accidentally arrested for prostitution.
"I lost Butter Queen, haven't I suffered enough?!"
He even laughed at appropriate times, ensuring the accumulation of lots of Husbandly Bonus Points.
So, that's my day. :0 As I curled up into the fetal position, attempting to doze off earlier in the morning, I felt Mike approach:
"Oh. You're getting that fever rash on your neck again."
I already had to dance in public with that rash on my neck, haven't I suffered enough?!
So, YEAH, I'm looking a little rough today. Very feverish eyed and rashy, with curly, out-of-control hair. Hence, no video posts until this remedies itself. :0
I'm hoping I'll be well enough to go to work tomorrow, but who knows. How are you faring this Monday, dear reader?
#aw!
Or: #gross! #TooMuchInformationTiffany! depending upon how you look at it, I suppose. But at any rate, we celebrated her miracle of life on Saturday with a family birthday party, complete with Frozen everything. Here we have the birthday girl:
 |
| Trying to pretend that she's shy... |
 | ||
| Looking decidedly *less* shy... |
Notice the Elsa and Anna plates and napkins in the foreground? My mother would be responsible for those. :0
And the requisite shot of her blowing out the candles:
*ominous music cues up*
Overnight on Saturday we had some more coughing to contend with, and I administered a midnight soothe involving application of Vicks Vaporub, fetching of water cup, and reading of "Little House" story. Yesterday, she was definitely not 100%, and we had to contend with quite a few overtired and sickly temper tantrums. I also started to cough, and heading into the overnight Sunday, I was feeling decidedly nervous that we would not get a good night of sleep.
*Tiffany turns her bedside light off and begins to drift to sleep...*
2 minutes elapse...
*Tiffany's throat is seized by horrible, hacking cough*
Needless to say, I was not happy. I tossed and turned a bit, hoping that my throat would soothe. Mike was also being super soothing, trying to help me get comfortable, when IT happened.
*horrible hacking cough emanates from Anne's room*
Between her and me, there was NO WAY I was going to sleep. Mike promised to check on Anne, and I headed downstairs to the guest room, since I knew I would keep him up if I stayed in our room. I hacked down there with my Kindle for a time, and even from all the way downstairs, I could still hear Anne coughing sporadically. Eventually, I gave up. I figured I'd just bring her downstairs with me, and we could watch The Golden Girls while propped up on the couch. I trudged up to her room and opened her door. Hark. What is that smell?
This is that point that all parents ultimately come to, wherein we go into vast detail about some sort of vile body fluid oozing out of our children. Right. In this instance, it would be vomit. I hurried over and quickly discerned that from the chest up, Anne was covered with real mucousy vomit, which must have made it's appearance sometime after Mike had checked on her. I quickly got her up and out of bed, and mopped down. Mike blessedly manifested to strip the bed and begin the fumigation process. I got her all changed while Mike got her room back in order. But I knew she wouldn't be able to sleep right away. That's what The Golden Girls are for.
I adore The Golden Girls. It's my favorite late night TV guilty pleasure from my young adulthood when I could actually stay up past 11 pm, and whenever I'm up in the middle of the night, I check the Hallmark Channel and it's usually on. Sure enough, Hallmark Channel to the rescue. A Golden Girls marathon, on until well past 1 am, after which time Frazier picks up the slack. Hot damn.
I got her propped up with me and watched no fewer than 4 episodes, all while Anne elbowed me in the ribs and stuck her feet into my vital organs into an attempt to get comfortable. Ah right, *that's* what it feels like to be pregnant again, check. We watched the episode wherein the girls hire a housekeeper named Marguerite, whom they fear has put a curse on them. The one where they are robbed, Rose gets all upset and paranoid, and Blanche says a police officer called her an "oldster." (that one is a personal favorite). Oh, oh, the one where Blanche meets this young stud named Dirk at a Jazzercise class, and then tries to transform herself into looking 30 again when he asks her out?
#bliss
And BY THE WAY. Let me check the calendar...right, it's mid-May. I'll just have you know that The Hallmark Channel is advertising a week long marathon of Christmas movies, to premiere on July 3rd. We've moved Christmas anticipation back to May now? Good gracious.
Eventually, I coaxed Anne back to bed, since the two of us sleeping on the couch thing just wasn't going to end comfortably for either of us. Neither of us was coughing anymore, and I was confident we could get through the night at that point. I re-tucked her in and she went right to sleep. As did I, after a few more tosses and turns for good measure.
The only negative marring this touching scene is that she woke up this morning in a vicious mood and threw a 30 minute screaming tantrum about having to have a bath to wash the vomit out of her hair. Good times, right there. We watched more Golden Girls while I sipped at a full bottle of water to soothe my re-tickly throat (I own the entire series on DVD, so no worries on ever running out of episodes :0) and Mike showed the true nature of unconditional love and sacramental marriage by fixing lunch and sitting down with us to watch the episode wherein the girls are accidentally arrested for prostitution.
"I lost Butter Queen, haven't I suffered enough?!"
He even laughed at appropriate times, ensuring the accumulation of lots of Husbandly Bonus Points.
So, that's my day. :0 As I curled up into the fetal position, attempting to doze off earlier in the morning, I felt Mike approach:
"Oh. You're getting that fever rash on your neck again."
I already had to dance in public with that rash on my neck, haven't I suffered enough?!
So, YEAH, I'm looking a little rough today. Very feverish eyed and rashy, with curly, out-of-control hair. Hence, no video posts until this remedies itself. :0
I'm hoping I'll be well enough to go to work tomorrow, but who knows. How are you faring this Monday, dear reader?
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Apparently, poo explosions aren't limited to just infants...
Encouraging title, no? For your amusement, we have the scene at the home of the Catholic Librarian Sunday morning, approximately 20 minutes before we had to leave for Mass:
"MOMMY! Anne is hiding under the table, and she STINKS!"
Two, indeed, incriminating pieces of evidence.
Ugh.
"All right, I'll investigate, just give me a minute. I'm going through my yarn."
Because we have to have priorities here, people.
"Anne, are you ok, Honey? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mommy, I'm fine!"
Three incriminating pieces of evidence.
"Let me get you out of there. Oh yes, you definitely do stink. Do you have to go potty?"
"No Mommy!"
Lies, all lies.
"Let's go into the bathroom and see what's happening, shall we? Let's just get your sleeper off. Oh. Oh dear."
I had suspected that the horse was already out of the gate on this one, but the damage was far worse than I ever imagined. We had a messy poo situation that covered Anne's back, legs and feet. Her sleeper was going to require extensive repair work and her underwear appeared bound straight for the trash. It was THAT bad.
"Ok Honey, let's get these messy things off of you, and then, oh, oh God. There is poo now on the floor. Don't move, Anne! Oh the RUG!! Don't move Sweetie, I need to go get some wipes!!" I leave the poor child standing there naked.
I dash upstairs, which really makes no sense. Why didn't I immediately whisk Anne upstairs to the tub with me? The fumes were obviously affecting my brain power, to be sure.
"I'm coming with the wipes, Sweetheart!"
"Mommy! I HAVE 3 NIPPLES!!"
This statement caused me to stop in my tracks halfway down the stairs. Clearly, my intervention was needed ASAP.
And no, Anne does NOT have 3 nipples, she just doesn't always distinguish between numbers correctly. :0
"Let's get the worst of this off of you Honey, and then get you upstairs for a bath."
Moments later, I'm hoisting a befouled Anne up the stairs and into the tub of running water, which degenerates into a sewer situation in record time. A complete hosing off was needed, poor child.
With only five minutes to spare, we left for Mass, the house ventilation system still recovering from this breach of odor. Life of a Toddler Parent. Never a dull moment. ;-)
"MOMMY! Anne is hiding under the table, and she STINKS!"
Two, indeed, incriminating pieces of evidence.
Ugh.
"All right, I'll investigate, just give me a minute. I'm going through my yarn."
Because we have to have priorities here, people.
"Anne, are you ok, Honey? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mommy, I'm fine!"
Three incriminating pieces of evidence.
"Let me get you out of there. Oh yes, you definitely do stink. Do you have to go potty?"
"No Mommy!"
Lies, all lies.
"Let's go into the bathroom and see what's happening, shall we? Let's just get your sleeper off. Oh. Oh dear."
I had suspected that the horse was already out of the gate on this one, but the damage was far worse than I ever imagined. We had a messy poo situation that covered Anne's back, legs and feet. Her sleeper was going to require extensive repair work and her underwear appeared bound straight for the trash. It was THAT bad.
"Ok Honey, let's get these messy things off of you, and then, oh, oh God. There is poo now on the floor. Don't move, Anne! Oh the RUG!! Don't move Sweetie, I need to go get some wipes!!" I leave the poor child standing there naked.
I dash upstairs, which really makes no sense. Why didn't I immediately whisk Anne upstairs to the tub with me? The fumes were obviously affecting my brain power, to be sure.
"I'm coming with the wipes, Sweetheart!"
"Mommy! I HAVE 3 NIPPLES!!"
This statement caused me to stop in my tracks halfway down the stairs. Clearly, my intervention was needed ASAP.
And no, Anne does NOT have 3 nipples, she just doesn't always distinguish between numbers correctly. :0
"Let's get the worst of this off of you Honey, and then get you upstairs for a bath."
Moments later, I'm hoisting a befouled Anne up the stairs and into the tub of running water, which degenerates into a sewer situation in record time. A complete hosing off was needed, poor child.
With only five minutes to spare, we left for Mass, the house ventilation system still recovering from this breach of odor. Life of a Toddler Parent. Never a dull moment. ;-)
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Adventures in Periodontology, take 2...
Hello all! Reporting in from the sick bay. :) I'm doing very well though. Much better than last time. There's certainly something to be said for having experience.
Yesterday, I didn't freak out or take Vallium, both of which I did last time. :0 I arrived at the office in a good mood, and chatted chirpily with the dental assistant while she got me ready. Soon, the periodontist was at my service, and we were underway. Since I didn't have the relaxant this time, I was much more aware of everything he was doing. Translation: when you're a squeamish person, this isn't such a good thing. :0
Tiffany's Thought Bubble:
"What's that he has? Oh. OH. That looks sharp. Oh yuck, there's blood on his gloves. I think something just fell from the roof of my mouth? Oh. Oh God."
I will say that it passed the time quickly. :0
Pretty soon, he was stitching me up, but my Novocaine was beginning to wear off. This happened to me last time too, but last time I was loopy so I didn't care. He had already been stitching for some time, and it was only 2 teeth. How long much longer could it take? I'm tough, I told myself, I can take it. I'll just stay real, real still.
Well, see, this is what happens when you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. *gentle snort* Eventually, I made some sort of involuntary whimpering noise, and the doctor was horrified that I was in pain and he didn't realize it. He's just the nicest person, I tell you. Several more shots of Novocaine later, I was feeling fantastic and the stitching continued. Soon, I was all done and on my way.
I could tell right away that I was swollen, but what's a girl to do? It looks rather amusing because it's only on one half of my jaw this time, the other half is totally normal, lol. But I was fastidious with my ice, applying in 10 minute intervals throughout the day. And as of this morning, my face doesn't look nearly so "punched!" as last time. There's obviously a little swelling there, but I've mitigated it nicely. The jury is still out on bruising. Last time, I didn't develop that until the third day, so I suppose we'll see where we're at tomorrow. I've been applying my emu oil lotion, which is a natural anti-inflammatory, so here's hopin'!
The only other thing different this time is the wound on the top of my mouth, where the grafting tissue came from. Instead of being closer to the center of my mouth, it's way back behind my upper teeth, and it's deeper. (aren't you so glad you read this blog, for disgusting details just such as these?!) The dental assistant put what she called a "dressing" on it, which turned out to be a putty-like substance, to cover the wound and protect it. Well.
For one thing, it tasted terrible. *wrinkles nose* And secondly, I'm a bit of a, um...bad patient. I instantly hated the dressing and wanted it gone. It was lifting off at the corners and feeling all gooey, GROSS! I was instructed to eat soft foods on the other side of my mouth only. With such an instruction, who in their right mind would think it's a good idea to eat QUINOA for lunch?
Yes, your resident spacey librarian.
I slip a bit carefully into the right side of my mouth. As is so often the case, my mind immediately wanders, and next thing I know, tiny grains of quinoa are spread throughout my mouth, including stuck right into that slimy dressing. *gags* I tried to remedy the situation as best I could, but soon the dressing was totally dislodged and covering my teeth rather than the wound. Let's just say the removal was quite unpleasant.
*faints*
That was the only hiccup. The wound is fine this morning, and is already starting to heal.
I've been taking it easy, but being as active as I can be. I'm off from work until Monday. If I'm feeling up to it, I plan to go to dance class tomorrow. Don't yell at me, I can't help it! I told you, I"m a bad patient. :)
Ok all, off to swish more warm salt water. I doubt I'll blog tomorrow. Mike and I are planning to take Anne out for lunch and go for a walk in one of our favorite neighborhoods in this area. It should be lovely, and so I don't know that I'll be online much. Aside from to send out some ridiculous Tweets periodically throughout the day. ;-)
Rest assured, I'll be back Monday! I'll update you on my condition :), and likely on some dance stuff. Since I have new skirts. And they are FABULOUS! Talk to you then!
Yesterday, I didn't freak out or take Vallium, both of which I did last time. :0 I arrived at the office in a good mood, and chatted chirpily with the dental assistant while she got me ready. Soon, the periodontist was at my service, and we were underway. Since I didn't have the relaxant this time, I was much more aware of everything he was doing. Translation: when you're a squeamish person, this isn't such a good thing. :0
Tiffany's Thought Bubble:
"What's that he has? Oh. OH. That looks sharp. Oh yuck, there's blood on his gloves. I think something just fell from the roof of my mouth? Oh. Oh God."
I will say that it passed the time quickly. :0
Pretty soon, he was stitching me up, but my Novocaine was beginning to wear off. This happened to me last time too, but last time I was loopy so I didn't care. He had already been stitching for some time, and it was only 2 teeth. How long much longer could it take? I'm tough, I told myself, I can take it. I'll just stay real, real still.
Well, see, this is what happens when you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. *gentle snort* Eventually, I made some sort of involuntary whimpering noise, and the doctor was horrified that I was in pain and he didn't realize it. He's just the nicest person, I tell you. Several more shots of Novocaine later, I was feeling fantastic and the stitching continued. Soon, I was all done and on my way.
I could tell right away that I was swollen, but what's a girl to do? It looks rather amusing because it's only on one half of my jaw this time, the other half is totally normal, lol. But I was fastidious with my ice, applying in 10 minute intervals throughout the day. And as of this morning, my face doesn't look nearly so "punched!" as last time. There's obviously a little swelling there, but I've mitigated it nicely. The jury is still out on bruising. Last time, I didn't develop that until the third day, so I suppose we'll see where we're at tomorrow. I've been applying my emu oil lotion, which is a natural anti-inflammatory, so here's hopin'!
The only other thing different this time is the wound on the top of my mouth, where the grafting tissue came from. Instead of being closer to the center of my mouth, it's way back behind my upper teeth, and it's deeper. (aren't you so glad you read this blog, for disgusting details just such as these?!) The dental assistant put what she called a "dressing" on it, which turned out to be a putty-like substance, to cover the wound and protect it. Well.
For one thing, it tasted terrible. *wrinkles nose* And secondly, I'm a bit of a, um...bad patient. I instantly hated the dressing and wanted it gone. It was lifting off at the corners and feeling all gooey, GROSS! I was instructed to eat soft foods on the other side of my mouth only. With such an instruction, who in their right mind would think it's a good idea to eat QUINOA for lunch?
Yes, your resident spacey librarian.
I slip a bit carefully into the right side of my mouth. As is so often the case, my mind immediately wanders, and next thing I know, tiny grains of quinoa are spread throughout my mouth, including stuck right into that slimy dressing. *gags* I tried to remedy the situation as best I could, but soon the dressing was totally dislodged and covering my teeth rather than the wound. Let's just say the removal was quite unpleasant.
*faints*
That was the only hiccup. The wound is fine this morning, and is already starting to heal.
I've been taking it easy, but being as active as I can be. I'm off from work until Monday. If I'm feeling up to it, I plan to go to dance class tomorrow. Don't yell at me, I can't help it! I told you, I"m a bad patient. :)
Ok all, off to swish more warm salt water. I doubt I'll blog tomorrow. Mike and I are planning to take Anne out for lunch and go for a walk in one of our favorite neighborhoods in this area. It should be lovely, and so I don't know that I'll be online much. Aside from to send out some ridiculous Tweets periodically throughout the day. ;-)
Rest assured, I'll be back Monday! I'll update you on my condition :), and likely on some dance stuff. Since I have new skirts. And they are FABULOUS! Talk to you then!
Monday, November 26, 2012
A stuffing crisis and explosive poo - Thanksgiving 2012
I always aim to be funny on this blog, but let me just start out on a serious note by saying that I had an absolutely *fantastic* Thanksgiving weekend. I loved being home with Mike and the kids and it was just sublime. I feel very blessed that Mike and I both have such flexible jobs in that we get to be home so much with each other as a family.
Now I'm back at work and it's Cyber Monday and I'm shocked, SHOCKED I tell you to say that I don't know if I'll be doing my traditional sale yarn order. Could it be, dear reader, that I ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH YARN?! Let's be honest, I have a lot of yarn. But I can never resist sale yarn. However, what I knit most with is worsted weight wool and cotton, and nothing that I really wanted over at Knit Picks is on sale. There is a bunch of cotton on sale, but it's winter, and I really wanted some wool. It seems like mostly sport weight is on sale and I just rarely use sport weight. I mean, I can't believe this.
It's good, though. I bought a bunch of yarn during their summer sale and I can use the money toward Christmas gifts. Now that Advent starts this coming weekend, I'll talk a lot this week about the Christmas season, I have a lot on my mind about that lately. And I've missed you all! So expect lots of lengthy posts this week. :)
Ok, so a recap of this past weekend and the inevitable hilarity that ensues on holidays in my household. We were hosting Thanksgiving this year, and in my eagerness I decided to make stuffing from scratch, which I've never done before. I'm a big fan of Stove Top. But I wanted to feel all pioneer woman and since Mike mostly takes care of our turkey, I decided to contribute the stuffing.
I scoured the Internet for the perfect recipe. There are lots of delicious varieties out there, but I just wanted plain white bread stuffing. Turns out it's not so hard to make. I feel confident.
Wednesday night I saute up a big pan full of celery and onions. Smells delicious already. I break up the bread. I add everything into a big stock pot and pour in the required amount of chicken broth and add the poultry seasoning. Looks good. It seems a bit dry, so I add in some more butter (let's just agree - butter makes EVERYTHING BETTER) and a hair more broth. I stir and taste test. Oh yum. It's delicious. I feel that my existence as a woman is validated.
Except...hum. What started out as a full pot of stuffing had definitely shrunk in the moistening process. I spooned it around a bit, hoping for some loaves and fishes-type multiplication. Nope. I put it in a bowl to stash in the refrigerator overnight so that we could stuff the turkey first thing in the morning. The quantity was definitely less than what I expected based on the gigantic loaf of white bread that I used.
I panic. It's nearly Anne's bedtime and both kids are jammied up. I rush over to Mike.
"I think we need to run to the store."
"Why?"
"There isn't enough stuffing!"
THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.
I show him the bowl. He gets that look that he gets when he's going to try and talk me down from the ledge about something.
"I think it's fine, Sweetie. Plus, if you want to make more, can't we just run to the store tomorrow morning?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
*frustrated pause*
"Because I want to do it right now!"
I don't make much sense when I'm that much on a mission. I was in stuffing mode, and I wanted my mind set at ease about having enough. But in the end I knew that he was right.
I slept on the "stuffing situation," and in the end, decided not to make anymore. We had plenty. Not as much for leftovers as I would have liked (is there anything better than Thanksgiving leftovers?) but we had more than enough.
Crisis averted.
Thanksgiving was a huge success. The kids loved the Macy's parade, and we all enjoyed the dog show that followed. ("woof woof!") Dinner was enjoyed by everyone, and wine was consumed by all.
Black Friday dawned, and I stayed in and safely away from the stores. I was worried that the kids would go stir crazy, but the day was smashing. We ended up running to the public library where Anne played in the toy kitchen they have set up there and Henry got a few videos and books. That night, Henry was having a sleepover at the grandparents, and so it was just Mike, Anne and I. The house felt *quiet* only having 1 kid in it!
We put Anne to bed. We basked in our quiet time. Then we went to bed.
Around 2:30 am I hear Anne. I roll over figuring she will go back to sleep. She does not.
Sometime thereafter I feel Mike nudge me. I grunt at him.
"Should I go get Anne?"
"No, I'll do it."
I stumble out of the bedroom, martyr-like essence following in my wake. I peek through her keyhole (this is a sweet feature of having an older house). If she's laying down, chances are she'll fall back to sleep. She's standing up.
I sigh and open the door. Immediately, rancid air meets my nostrils.
"Hi Mama. Uh oh!" *points to diaper*
Oh, no problem. A poo diaper woke her. I go to fetch her. I spy a pool of brown liquid covering her crib sheet.
Uh oh, indeed.
I turn on the lights and assess the damage. I don't think I've ever seen so much poo in one sitting in all my years of diaper changing, and that's saying a lot. I grab her stuffed puppy dog. HE'S WET. He's immediately relegated to the laundry. I lift Anne out of the crib and strip the sheet off. I'm attempting to peel her sleeper off when Mike exits our bedroom down the hall.
"Oh wow." The smell has now permeated the entire upstairs.
Mike comes to investigate.
"Do you think we should give her a bath?"
"She needs a complete hose down."
Mike runs the bath and disinfects her mattress. The sleeper is so bad that I throw it in the garbage. I had to actually SCRUB DOWN THE OUTSIDE OF THE DIAPER PAIL due to debris while Mike bathed her.
After her bath, I get her in a fresh sleeper while Mike starts a load of laundry and throws the trash. We go downstairs to watch some tv in the darkened living room to let the upstairs...air out a bit.
I find a Friends marathon on Nick-at-Nite. And ugh! The commercials were depressing. The stores were advertising continuing sales for all "Black Friday weekend!"
It's a whole weekend now? Apparently so. The whole thing strikes me as so desperate, it makes me a little sad.
Anne fell back to sleep pretty quick. Somehow, the scent of poo lingered on my nostrils and I could not for the life of me uncover the source. I carried her up to her room and had to wrinkle my nose a bit in her room but most of the smell had dissipated.
Anne's statement on Black Friday? Not sure, but that was EPIC. Honestly though, I enjoyed that particular middle of the night session. Lots of sweet cuddle time and she slept the rest of the night after that. Except for the fact that the next morning I COULD STILL SMELL POO.
Going to take some time to really get rid of this one. But the rest of the weekend was great. I'm trying to do my Christmas shopping and stay within our budget, and I crocheted 12 gift dishcloths this weekend. Why? BECAUSE I'M INSANE. And I have all this yarn, so I should use it up, right?
More Christmas and Advent talk to come this week!
Now I'm back at work and it's Cyber Monday and I'm shocked, SHOCKED I tell you to say that I don't know if I'll be doing my traditional sale yarn order. Could it be, dear reader, that I ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH YARN?! Let's be honest, I have a lot of yarn. But I can never resist sale yarn. However, what I knit most with is worsted weight wool and cotton, and nothing that I really wanted over at Knit Picks is on sale. There is a bunch of cotton on sale, but it's winter, and I really wanted some wool. It seems like mostly sport weight is on sale and I just rarely use sport weight. I mean, I can't believe this.
It's good, though. I bought a bunch of yarn during their summer sale and I can use the money toward Christmas gifts. Now that Advent starts this coming weekend, I'll talk a lot this week about the Christmas season, I have a lot on my mind about that lately. And I've missed you all! So expect lots of lengthy posts this week. :)
Ok, so a recap of this past weekend and the inevitable hilarity that ensues on holidays in my household. We were hosting Thanksgiving this year, and in my eagerness I decided to make stuffing from scratch, which I've never done before. I'm a big fan of Stove Top. But I wanted to feel all pioneer woman and since Mike mostly takes care of our turkey, I decided to contribute the stuffing.
I scoured the Internet for the perfect recipe. There are lots of delicious varieties out there, but I just wanted plain white bread stuffing. Turns out it's not so hard to make. I feel confident.
Wednesday night I saute up a big pan full of celery and onions. Smells delicious already. I break up the bread. I add everything into a big stock pot and pour in the required amount of chicken broth and add the poultry seasoning. Looks good. It seems a bit dry, so I add in some more butter (let's just agree - butter makes EVERYTHING BETTER) and a hair more broth. I stir and taste test. Oh yum. It's delicious. I feel that my existence as a woman is validated.
Except...hum. What started out as a full pot of stuffing had definitely shrunk in the moistening process. I spooned it around a bit, hoping for some loaves and fishes-type multiplication. Nope. I put it in a bowl to stash in the refrigerator overnight so that we could stuff the turkey first thing in the morning. The quantity was definitely less than what I expected based on the gigantic loaf of white bread that I used.
I panic. It's nearly Anne's bedtime and both kids are jammied up. I rush over to Mike.
"I think we need to run to the store."
"Why?"
"There isn't enough stuffing!"
THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.
I show him the bowl. He gets that look that he gets when he's going to try and talk me down from the ledge about something.
"I think it's fine, Sweetie. Plus, if you want to make more, can't we just run to the store tomorrow morning?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
*frustrated pause*
"Because I want to do it right now!"
I don't make much sense when I'm that much on a mission. I was in stuffing mode, and I wanted my mind set at ease about having enough. But in the end I knew that he was right.
I slept on the "stuffing situation," and in the end, decided not to make anymore. We had plenty. Not as much for leftovers as I would have liked (is there anything better than Thanksgiving leftovers?) but we had more than enough.
Crisis averted.
Thanksgiving was a huge success. The kids loved the Macy's parade, and we all enjoyed the dog show that followed. ("woof woof!") Dinner was enjoyed by everyone, and wine was consumed by all.
Black Friday dawned, and I stayed in and safely away from the stores. I was worried that the kids would go stir crazy, but the day was smashing. We ended up running to the public library where Anne played in the toy kitchen they have set up there and Henry got a few videos and books. That night, Henry was having a sleepover at the grandparents, and so it was just Mike, Anne and I. The house felt *quiet* only having 1 kid in it!
We put Anne to bed. We basked in our quiet time. Then we went to bed.
Around 2:30 am I hear Anne. I roll over figuring she will go back to sleep. She does not.
Sometime thereafter I feel Mike nudge me. I grunt at him.
"Should I go get Anne?"
"No, I'll do it."
I stumble out of the bedroom, martyr-like essence following in my wake. I peek through her keyhole (this is a sweet feature of having an older house). If she's laying down, chances are she'll fall back to sleep. She's standing up.
I sigh and open the door. Immediately, rancid air meets my nostrils.
"Hi Mama. Uh oh!" *points to diaper*
Oh, no problem. A poo diaper woke her. I go to fetch her. I spy a pool of brown liquid covering her crib sheet.
Uh oh, indeed.
I turn on the lights and assess the damage. I don't think I've ever seen so much poo in one sitting in all my years of diaper changing, and that's saying a lot. I grab her stuffed puppy dog. HE'S WET. He's immediately relegated to the laundry. I lift Anne out of the crib and strip the sheet off. I'm attempting to peel her sleeper off when Mike exits our bedroom down the hall.
"Oh wow." The smell has now permeated the entire upstairs.
Mike comes to investigate.
"Do you think we should give her a bath?"
"She needs a complete hose down."
Mike runs the bath and disinfects her mattress. The sleeper is so bad that I throw it in the garbage. I had to actually SCRUB DOWN THE OUTSIDE OF THE DIAPER PAIL due to debris while Mike bathed her.
After her bath, I get her in a fresh sleeper while Mike starts a load of laundry and throws the trash. We go downstairs to watch some tv in the darkened living room to let the upstairs...air out a bit.
I find a Friends marathon on Nick-at-Nite. And ugh! The commercials were depressing. The stores were advertising continuing sales for all "Black Friday weekend!"
It's a whole weekend now? Apparently so. The whole thing strikes me as so desperate, it makes me a little sad.
Anne fell back to sleep pretty quick. Somehow, the scent of poo lingered on my nostrils and I could not for the life of me uncover the source. I carried her up to her room and had to wrinkle my nose a bit in her room but most of the smell had dissipated.
Anne's statement on Black Friday? Not sure, but that was EPIC. Honestly though, I enjoyed that particular middle of the night session. Lots of sweet cuddle time and she slept the rest of the night after that. Except for the fact that the next morning I COULD STILL SMELL POO.
Going to take some time to really get rid of this one. But the rest of the weekend was great. I'm trying to do my Christmas shopping and stay within our budget, and I crocheted 12 gift dishcloths this weekend. Why? BECAUSE I'M INSANE. And I have all this yarn, so I should use it up, right?
More Christmas and Advent talk to come this week!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Those not-so-glamorous parenting tasks...
(1) I Can Fit Through There! - Anne's newest trick is to (attempt to) squeeze her little self through small openings, usually barriers erected to keep her out and from killing herself. Sometimes she fits through, sometimes not. This does not discourage her from trying. She gets stuck a lot, and is now vocal enough to let us know to come to her rescue. Her efforts seem to focus on (a) a shrieking volume, and (b) irritable tone.
"DA DA DA DA *BAAAAAAAAAA*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" *a bursting into tears*
This happens *frequently*. And inevitably, it's when your hands are busily cutting raw chicken or some equivalent task.
(2) Can You Check To See If I Got It All? - This one's a favorite. I'll set the scene: Mike is teaching. I'm home with both children. I've already fixed Henry's supper. I've fed Anne. Finally, I whip up dinner for myself while Anne plays with her Cheerios. This will take some time, because I'm going to want an omelette. I don't know why, but I love breakfast for dinner. I'm weird like that. I mix the eggs and a dash of milk. I cut up some cheese and veggies. I warm the skillet. I begin to cook the egg mixture. I toast some bread and butter it. I may heat up a sausage patty. I pour myself a drink. I flip the omelette. I may utter a swear word, because sometimes I don't wait long enough and make a mess in the flippage process. Finally, the omelette is done. The toast is done. The sausage patty is done. My drink is on the table. I grab a napkin. I sit down. I get Anne more Cheerios. I lift a forkful of fluffy eggs and creamy cheese to my lips and...
Hark. What is that?
It's Henry. And he's in the bathroom.
"MMMOOOMMMMYYYYY! I NNNEEEEEDDDD YOU!"
Oy.
Yes, that's right. It's a request for assistance involving the action verb "to wipe." Just what I want to be doing right in the middle of eating. Mike and I talk with such longing in our voices about the day when we have to wipe nobody's rear end but our own. Those days are a long way off, my friends.
(3) It Smells Funny Over By Anne - Anne is very insidious with this one. When Henry was a baby, if he dirtied a diaper, the entire room knew about it. One time, on Christmas Eve no less, the entire church knew about it. Anne is not like that. It's all very quiet and dainty, but there's no disguising the telltale smell. So she's scooped up and summarily deposited on her changing table. That's when the fun begins.
For one thing, she thinks it's great fun to twist around real quick-like and attempt to leap off the changing table. She's smaller than we are, so we can wrangle her back into position, but then she plays her trump card: a sudden, rapid reaching motion *down there*.
Suddenly, she has poo on her hands. Which means I get poo on MY hands. Many wet wipes are tore from the container in a panic. Her hands are wiped. My hands are all wiped. And all of this is taking place while desperately trying to keep her squirming butt from smearing poo all over the changing pad. Once our hands are halfway decent, the wiping process continues, and as Mike exclaimed as soon as he changed her first diaper home from the hospital, "this is different from changing Hank when he was a baby; there are so many *folds*!" Yes, the girl diapers do require a bit more time management and wipeage skill. It's all very exhausting.
(4) "Uh Oh. Don't Worry Mommy, You Can't Even See Where the Juice Went!" - Mike and I are tidy people. This is a polite way of saying that we're a bit anal, and quite possibly obsessive-compulsive. If we didn't have children, we'd probably have a white couch. But we do have children. So, we have a hand-me-down couch that is a loud print that we both hate. But I tell you, that thing has had every fluid known to manKIND spilled on it, and no one is the wiser. I'm sure all of my local friends and family are so glad to know this for when they come to visit. When we get rid of this thing, we're just going to have to burn it.
And so, the possibilities are endless, but that's my top 4. Thank goodness for Oxy Deep.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The perks of being married...
Obviously, there are many. But this is a big one, in my opinion.
Last night, Mike and I were innocently reading in bed, prior to falling asleep, halos firmly perched on heads. I'm currently reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and was very absorbed in book #2. Since it's a futuristic novel, I thought perhaps my eyes were deceiving at first, projecting a nightmarish, alien bug from the future onto our wall. But no. It actually *was* a flying insect the size of THE PALM OF MY HAND.
I freeze. I blink. I carefully close my book.
"Honey."
"Yes, I see it. I think it's a moth."
A moth? I'VE SEEN BIRDS THAT ARE SMALLER.
"I don't think that's a moth."
While I tell myself to breathe, Mike is getting out of bed and confidently strutting toward the winged offender in his boxer shorts. You can tell that he's very proud to be fulfilling one of the purposes of his vocation.
He climbs up onto my dresser right near my little porcelain statue of Mary, as I pray for him to be careful. I close my eyes for Murderous Attempt #1, which is a fail. The creature flutters over to the wall above my head.
Quickly, I leap out of bed, lest dead bug debris get into my hair and onto my book, which is borrowed from my friend Stacy. Mike makes the hop over to the bed while my breakable holy reminders breathe a sigh of relief. Murderous Attempt #2 is a success.
"I got him! I still think it's a moth." He checks inside the kleenex, yet another aspect of this extermination role of the husband that I just cannot understand.
"I think that was actually related to a dragonfly, which are ALTOGETHER too large."
*shudder*
Last night, Mike and I were innocently reading in bed, prior to falling asleep, halos firmly perched on heads. I'm currently reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and was very absorbed in book #2. Since it's a futuristic novel, I thought perhaps my eyes were deceiving at first, projecting a nightmarish, alien bug from the future onto our wall. But no. It actually *was* a flying insect the size of THE PALM OF MY HAND.
I freeze. I blink. I carefully close my book.
"Honey."
"Yes, I see it. I think it's a moth."
A moth? I'VE SEEN BIRDS THAT ARE SMALLER.
"I don't think that's a moth."
While I tell myself to breathe, Mike is getting out of bed and confidently strutting toward the winged offender in his boxer shorts. You can tell that he's very proud to be fulfilling one of the purposes of his vocation.
He climbs up onto my dresser right near my little porcelain statue of Mary, as I pray for him to be careful. I close my eyes for Murderous Attempt #1, which is a fail. The creature flutters over to the wall above my head.
Quickly, I leap out of bed, lest dead bug debris get into my hair and onto my book, which is borrowed from my friend Stacy. Mike makes the hop over to the bed while my breakable holy reminders breathe a sigh of relief. Murderous Attempt #2 is a success.
"I got him! I still think it's a moth." He checks inside the kleenex, yet another aspect of this extermination role of the husband that I just cannot understand.
"I think that was actually related to a dragonfly, which are ALTOGETHER too large."
*shudder*
Monday, October 3, 2011
What's that I smell?
Ever since I went back to work, and Mike started working full time as well, it's been a struggle to keep up with the housework. Especially when you have the standards that Mike and I have, because we're crazy. We're both just neat freaky kind of people.
Example A: my husband cleans our bathrooms. He cares that much about them being as clean as possible. I mean, I'd clean them if he didn't, but he seemed so enthusiastic about it that I let him take the reigns on that one after we got married.
But since the work thing interfered, (and the addition of another kid) squeezing in housework has been a real challenge. We can really only do it on the weekends, and thus have to space things out more than we'd like. For instance, about a month ago, I could hardly stand the bathrooms. This is the first time this has happened in nearly 7 years of marriage. Our bathrooms were DIRTY. It doesn't help that we have a 5 year old boy who apparently has lingering aiming issues. But I literally couldn't take it anymore. That very weekend, we prioritized the bathrooms and got them cleaned.
And yet, not nearly so much time has gone by, and last week I noticed that the upstairs bathroom was grossing me out again. At first I thought it was just me. Maybe I was being too picky? Perhaps it was the trash? I mentioned it to Mike, and while he didn't have time to do a full scale cleaning, he promised to do a quick bathroom freshening. I focused on the mounds of waiting laundry and breathed a sigh of relief.
That night I went into the bathroom. It still smelled. I looked about furtively. The fixtures appeared cleaner but Mike hadn't thrown the trash. God only knows what Hank has put in there. I figured that must be it and took care of it.
Later that night, I woke up to nurse Anne and stopped to use the facilities on my way back to our bedroom.
*sniff sniff*
PEE PEE.
Why, why, did the bathroom still smell?! I started to worry that maybe I was developing the sense of smell of a super hero. Was it just me?!
I mentioned it to Mike the next day.
"I'm going to just clean it Saturday, the full version. That should take care of it. It's because Hank is missing the toilet."
Ok, well, whatever. As long as the bathroom doesn't smell like a public restroom, I'm a happy camper.
That Saturday Mike cleans the bathroom. We all breathe a sigh of relief.
Shortly thereafter, I go to use it.
IT STILL SMELLS.
By this point I'm pretty freaked out (I'm not pregnant, RIGHT?!?!) so I say nothing. Mere hours later, Mike says:
"Why does the bathroom still smell?"
"I don't know, but I was wondering the same thing!"
I wanted to add, "PLEASE MAKE IT STOP" but I showed remarkable restraint and kept my mouth shut. I could hardly go in there without gagging.
A short time later, the smell was so overpowering I could think of nothing else but my bathroom.
"Honey? Did you wash the bathroom throw rugs when you cleaned in there?"
He always does, so I thought it was a rhetorical question. Apparently not.
"No. They always clog up the washing machine and I just washed them not too long ago, so I skipped it this time."
"OH. *exhales* That must be why the smell remains. We'll just have to suck it up and wash the rugs. I can do it by hand if need be."
"No, I'll toss them in the machine. I'll just clear the drain real good when they're done."
Once again, I'm relieved. That *has* to be why the bathroom still smells. The next day, when I come home from work, the rugs are in the washing machine. They are cleanly upstairs a short time later. I happily go to use the facilities.
IT STILL SMELLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was just about staggering from the fumes by this point, and by time I managed to crawl downstairs, Mike greeted me with a very serious expression and doe eyes.
"There's something terribly wrong in the upstairs bathroom."
Yes, yes, I know. By this point, I'm starting to wonder if the rivers are going to turn to blood and pestilence run rampant through the land. Mike looks sheepish.
"I should have thought of this before, but maybe we should change out the toilet seat. Maybe pee is getting stuck somewhere in there."
I don't know, but by this point I was willing to do anything short of dynamiting the bathroom to rid it of the vile stench. "Lived in" I can live with. "Smells like the New York City subway station where I once saw a homeless man urinate right onto the floor" is another thing altogether.
The next day, Mike had procured a new toilet set cover and installed it. Soon thereafter, a cinnamon scented candle burned from atop the toilet tank.
It still smelled. But not nearly as eye-wateringly.
I let a little time go by, and the smell seemed to dissipate. So maybe it was the toilet seat. We've already had a gentle talking-to with Hank about the importance of proper aim. Because for the love of all that is holy, we can't go through this again.
We'll have to move.
Example A: my husband cleans our bathrooms. He cares that much about them being as clean as possible. I mean, I'd clean them if he didn't, but he seemed so enthusiastic about it that I let him take the reigns on that one after we got married.
But since the work thing interfered, (and the addition of another kid) squeezing in housework has been a real challenge. We can really only do it on the weekends, and thus have to space things out more than we'd like. For instance, about a month ago, I could hardly stand the bathrooms. This is the first time this has happened in nearly 7 years of marriage. Our bathrooms were DIRTY. It doesn't help that we have a 5 year old boy who apparently has lingering aiming issues. But I literally couldn't take it anymore. That very weekend, we prioritized the bathrooms and got them cleaned.
And yet, not nearly so much time has gone by, and last week I noticed that the upstairs bathroom was grossing me out again. At first I thought it was just me. Maybe I was being too picky? Perhaps it was the trash? I mentioned it to Mike, and while he didn't have time to do a full scale cleaning, he promised to do a quick bathroom freshening. I focused on the mounds of waiting laundry and breathed a sigh of relief.
That night I went into the bathroom. It still smelled. I looked about furtively. The fixtures appeared cleaner but Mike hadn't thrown the trash. God only knows what Hank has put in there. I figured that must be it and took care of it.
Later that night, I woke up to nurse Anne and stopped to use the facilities on my way back to our bedroom.
*sniff sniff*
PEE PEE.
Why, why, did the bathroom still smell?! I started to worry that maybe I was developing the sense of smell of a super hero. Was it just me?!
I mentioned it to Mike the next day.
"I'm going to just clean it Saturday, the full version. That should take care of it. It's because Hank is missing the toilet."
Ok, well, whatever. As long as the bathroom doesn't smell like a public restroom, I'm a happy camper.
That Saturday Mike cleans the bathroom. We all breathe a sigh of relief.
Shortly thereafter, I go to use it.
IT STILL SMELLS.
By this point I'm pretty freaked out (I'm not pregnant, RIGHT?!?!) so I say nothing. Mere hours later, Mike says:
"Why does the bathroom still smell?"
"I don't know, but I was wondering the same thing!"
I wanted to add, "PLEASE MAKE IT STOP" but I showed remarkable restraint and kept my mouth shut. I could hardly go in there without gagging.
A short time later, the smell was so overpowering I could think of nothing else but my bathroom.
"Honey? Did you wash the bathroom throw rugs when you cleaned in there?"
He always does, so I thought it was a rhetorical question. Apparently not.
"No. They always clog up the washing machine and I just washed them not too long ago, so I skipped it this time."
"OH. *exhales* That must be why the smell remains. We'll just have to suck it up and wash the rugs. I can do it by hand if need be."
"No, I'll toss them in the machine. I'll just clear the drain real good when they're done."
Once again, I'm relieved. That *has* to be why the bathroom still smells. The next day, when I come home from work, the rugs are in the washing machine. They are cleanly upstairs a short time later. I happily go to use the facilities.
IT STILL SMELLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was just about staggering from the fumes by this point, and by time I managed to crawl downstairs, Mike greeted me with a very serious expression and doe eyes.
"There's something terribly wrong in the upstairs bathroom."
Yes, yes, I know. By this point, I'm starting to wonder if the rivers are going to turn to blood and pestilence run rampant through the land. Mike looks sheepish.
"I should have thought of this before, but maybe we should change out the toilet seat. Maybe pee is getting stuck somewhere in there."
I don't know, but by this point I was willing to do anything short of dynamiting the bathroom to rid it of the vile stench. "Lived in" I can live with. "Smells like the New York City subway station where I once saw a homeless man urinate right onto the floor" is another thing altogether.
The next day, Mike had procured a new toilet set cover and installed it. Soon thereafter, a cinnamon scented candle burned from atop the toilet tank.
It still smelled. But not nearly as eye-wateringly.
I let a little time go by, and the smell seemed to dissipate. So maybe it was the toilet seat. We've already had a gentle talking-to with Hank about the importance of proper aim. Because for the love of all that is holy, we can't go through this again.
We'll have to move.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My mornings...
...are CRAZY these days, with both kids after Mike has gone to work. After nursing Anne (7:20) (and having to *wake her up* to do so, doesn't that figure?!?!) I rushed her upstairs for a quick diaper change. (7:21). As I'm changing her I note a spot on my pants. It's wet. Oh dear. As if any spot isn't bad enough, a wet spot is particularly worrisome. It could be either, (a) spit up (most likely), (b) pee, or (c) poo. I contemplate my next move. (7:23). In desperation, I put my finger to it and sniff it. It's not poo. Decision made, since it's now 7:25, and we need to leave at 7:30 to get Hank to school on time.
The pants stay on.
Sad, isn't it?
The pants stay on.
Sad, isn't it?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Heard in my bedroom this morning...
Mike has to leave for work at 6:30 am, so I'm on my own when the kids wake up. It'll actually be nice next week when I have to get up for work, so I'll be forced to get up early enough to see him before he leaves. Anyway...
"Mommy? Are you still sleeping?"
*Catholic Librarian incoherent mumble from underneath a pillow* It was a bad sleep night for Anne.
"Oh good, you're up. Anne is awake too, Mommy. In her bassinette. Um Mommy?"
*murmur*
"Anne just spit up."
*liquid sound*
"Oh, she just spit up again. Oh Mommy, it was a *LOT*!"
*liquid sound*
"Oh Mommy, Anne just spit up AGAIN. Oh, it's so much Mommy that I can't even soak it all up with the burb rag. Her whole bassinette pad is going to have to be changed"
*liquid sound*
"Now it's going into her diaper, Mommy."
*squirting, explosion sound*
Sigh.
"Mommy? Are you still sleeping?"
*Catholic Librarian incoherent mumble from underneath a pillow* It was a bad sleep night for Anne.
"Oh good, you're up. Anne is awake too, Mommy. In her bassinette. Um Mommy?"
*murmur*
"Anne just spit up."
*liquid sound*
"Oh, she just spit up again. Oh Mommy, it was a *LOT*!"
*liquid sound*
"Oh Mommy, Anne just spit up AGAIN. Oh, it's so much Mommy that I can't even soak it all up with the burb rag. Her whole bassinette pad is going to have to be changed"
*liquid sound*
"Now it's going into her diaper, Mommy."
*squirting, explosion sound*
Sigh.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A day in the life of a mom home with 2 small children
I've mentioned this before: the stay-at-home life is no walk in the park. And yesterday was the first day that I was home with both kids by myself. The rest of the summer, Mike was home with me. He did teach a summer class, but that meant he was only gone for a few hours a day. This was a whole different ballgame.
So, what did I do yesterday? Let's see...
I wiped countless butts of both old and new poo. I battled with Hank about going poo on the potty (WHY WILL THEY NOT *JUST GO*!?) I took Hank for a reading/math assessment at his new Catholic school, necessitating dragging Anne's stroller up a flight of stairs and walking her to sleep while I waited. I was vomited on at least 5 full times. Hank even threw up at one point, can't figure that one out. And the sad thing is, my current standard is: "will the spit up just blend in?" If the answer is yes, I don't change my clothes. It wasn't until Anne had a poo explosion onto both my pants AND blouse that I finally changed. And then I had to wash her poo-filled onesie out. I think she had 4 outfit changes yesterday. I made dinner, while Anne wailed in the background. I ran errands with both children in tow in their seats in the back, Hank asking questions at the rate of 50 per 10 minute interval. It was a long day.
And this is what stay-at-home moms do every day, for no pay and little appreciation.
Today is shaping up to be another long one (Anne is on my lap and just burped. Yep, there's the spit up). Gotta run. :-)
So, what did I do yesterday? Let's see...
I wiped countless butts of both old and new poo. I battled with Hank about going poo on the potty (WHY WILL THEY NOT *JUST GO*!?) I took Hank for a reading/math assessment at his new Catholic school, necessitating dragging Anne's stroller up a flight of stairs and walking her to sleep while I waited. I was vomited on at least 5 full times. Hank even threw up at one point, can't figure that one out. And the sad thing is, my current standard is: "will the spit up just blend in?" If the answer is yes, I don't change my clothes. It wasn't until Anne had a poo explosion onto both my pants AND blouse that I finally changed. And then I had to wash her poo-filled onesie out. I think she had 4 outfit changes yesterday. I made dinner, while Anne wailed in the background. I ran errands with both children in tow in their seats in the back, Hank asking questions at the rate of 50 per 10 minute interval. It was a long day.
And this is what stay-at-home moms do every day, for no pay and little appreciation.
Today is shaping up to be another long one (Anne is on my lap and just burped. Yep, there's the spit up). Gotta run. :-)
Monday, August 8, 2011
What's that I smell?
"Hank, do you have to go to the bathroom?"
"NO!!" *glare of indignation* "I went on Wednesday."
"Honey, it doesn't matter when you last went, we talked about this. Whenever you feel the urge, you have to go sit on the toilet. Your body tells you when you have to go, not the other way around."
"I definitely don't have to go."
"Are you sure, Hank? It kind of stinks in here. "
I start to have a sinking feeling. The smell that I smell isn't fresh poo (oh, aren't you so glad I'm telling you all this?). It's that distinctive smell of *old poo*
*shudder*
Do you know how old poo happens? I'm certain some of you parents do. It's when a stubborn child refuses to poo and thus holds the poo back, and yet some of it we'll just say "gets stuck." Thus, the stuck poo dries in aforementioned child's underpants, and often insidiously turns into what we'll call "poo crumbs."
*shudder*
Said poo crumbs can fall out of child's underpants and onto other household surfaces. This is what we'll call a nightmare.
"Honey! I think I smell some poo in the living room. I have the baby. Can you come quick?!"
A poo emergency. Mike hurries in.
"There's a brown spot on the Boppy pillow and Hank was laying on it. Maybe that's it?"
"Maybe. Let's throw it in the wash."
10 minutes later...
"Honey, um, unfortunately I still smell poo."
"Ok, you go change the baby, I'll investigate down here."
*Catholic Librarian heads upstairs*
Heard from downstairs...
"Oh God."
*sound of couch cushions rustling*
*distinctive sound of vacuum cleaner starting up*
Oh God.
"NO!!" *glare of indignation* "I went on Wednesday."
"Honey, it doesn't matter when you last went, we talked about this. Whenever you feel the urge, you have to go sit on the toilet. Your body tells you when you have to go, not the other way around."
"I definitely don't have to go."
"Are you sure, Hank? It kind of stinks in here. "
I start to have a sinking feeling. The smell that I smell isn't fresh poo (oh, aren't you so glad I'm telling you all this?). It's that distinctive smell of *old poo*
*shudder*
Do you know how old poo happens? I'm certain some of you parents do. It's when a stubborn child refuses to poo and thus holds the poo back, and yet some of it we'll just say "gets stuck." Thus, the stuck poo dries in aforementioned child's underpants, and often insidiously turns into what we'll call "poo crumbs."
*shudder*
Said poo crumbs can fall out of child's underpants and onto other household surfaces. This is what we'll call a nightmare.
"Honey! I think I smell some poo in the living room. I have the baby. Can you come quick?!"
A poo emergency. Mike hurries in.
"There's a brown spot on the Boppy pillow and Hank was laying on it. Maybe that's it?"
"Maybe. Let's throw it in the wash."
10 minutes later...
"Honey, um, unfortunately I still smell poo."
"Ok, you go change the baby, I'll investigate down here."
*Catholic Librarian heads upstairs*
Heard from downstairs...
"Oh God."
*sound of couch cushions rustling*
*distinctive sound of vacuum cleaner starting up*
Oh God.
Friday, July 29, 2011
The things we do as parents
It's quite shocking, really. But yet we persevere.
"Hank, Honey, we're going to start working on you wiping yourself after you go poo."
See? Already, use of the word 'poo' being flung about in everyday conversation.
"But Mommy! If I wipe in there, I might...TOUCH POO." *wide eyed look of horror*
"Well, yes, Honey, you realize Mommy and Daddy risk this all the time when we wipe you? You have to learn to do it for yourself, and that's why it's so, so important to wash your hands really good with soap and warm water after you use the bathroom."
"I don't really like washing my hands."
"Well, be that as it may, you have to do it anyway. Get some toilet paper and let's get started."
Oh sigh.
"Hank, Honey, we're going to start working on you wiping yourself after you go poo."
See? Already, use of the word 'poo' being flung about in everyday conversation.
"But Mommy! If I wipe in there, I might...TOUCH POO." *wide eyed look of horror*
"Well, yes, Honey, you realize Mommy and Daddy risk this all the time when we wipe you? You have to learn to do it for yourself, and that's why it's so, so important to wash your hands really good with soap and warm water after you use the bathroom."
"I don't really like washing my hands."
"Well, be that as it may, you have to do it anyway. Get some toilet paper and let's get started."
Oh sigh.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Things of which we normally don't speak
When you have young children, you quickly accept that you will now discuss bodily functions that normally I don't admit to ever doing myself. I know that some married couples can discuss such things, and even do them in front of each other freely, but Mike and I are just prudish, I suppose. We allude to them, discreetly, but that's the extent of it.
But with kids, all of that normal social etiquette goes out the window. I guess this is because if we didn't encourage the children to do these things, *our* lives are that much more difficult.
"Mommy, I put a HUGE poo into the toilet!!"
"Congratulations Sweetheart! I'm so happy for you!"
"Mommy, Anne just made a really loud noise. I think she gassed."
"Oh good! She must feel so much better! Good for you Anne!"
It's just part of our lot in life.
But with kids, all of that normal social etiquette goes out the window. I guess this is because if we didn't encourage the children to do these things, *our* lives are that much more difficult.
"Mommy, I put a HUGE poo into the toilet!!"
"Congratulations Sweetheart! I'm so happy for you!"
"Mommy, Anne just made a really loud noise. I think she gassed."
"Oh good! She must feel so much better! Good for you Anne!"
It's just part of our lot in life.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Officially inaugurated as mother of a newborn
What would that sign be?
Wait for it...
Evenings are tough right now. With Anne now just over 2 weeks old, she's getting into that "evening fussy phase," which I remember vividly from Hank, and well, it can be a bit of a nightmare.
Last night, she was wailing as I walked her around the house, trying to soothe her. Mike was upstairs giving Hank a bath. I had her kind of sitting in my arms, facing forward. Suddenly, I heard that ominous squirting sound. All of you parents know precisely what I'm talking about. Mike could hear it even from upstairs. What's worse, I *feel* something touch my hand. Uh oh.
That's right, poo on the floor. And on my hand. Our first official 'poosplosion'. You heard it coined here first.
Her diapers have generally been much, much easier to handle than Hank's. With boys, pee gets everywhere. Up in an arc over to the adjourning piece of furniture. Up their back. Down onto the changing pad and their legs. Possibly up onto your face. And Hank always had explosive poo diapers. You know it's a bad one when not only does the baby need a fresh outfit, but *you* do too.
Anne usually keeps to her diaper. Until last night. I guess everyone falls prey to it sometimes.
I cried last night for only the second time since bringing the baby home. I consider that a victory. With Hank, I cried everyday. I just felt overwhelmed for a spell. Which is totally normal with a new baby. I miss having some time to myself and not feeling so anxious all the time. I miss my routine. I miss my friends and my dance class. I wish my life felt like "mine" again. But, as with all things, this too shall pass. I'm just going to try and keep hanging in there.
Wait for it...
Evenings are tough right now. With Anne now just over 2 weeks old, she's getting into that "evening fussy phase," which I remember vividly from Hank, and well, it can be a bit of a nightmare.
Last night, she was wailing as I walked her around the house, trying to soothe her. Mike was upstairs giving Hank a bath. I had her kind of sitting in my arms, facing forward. Suddenly, I heard that ominous squirting sound. All of you parents know precisely what I'm talking about. Mike could hear it even from upstairs. What's worse, I *feel* something touch my hand. Uh oh.
That's right, poo on the floor. And on my hand. Our first official 'poosplosion'. You heard it coined here first.
Her diapers have generally been much, much easier to handle than Hank's. With boys, pee gets everywhere. Up in an arc over to the adjourning piece of furniture. Up their back. Down onto the changing pad and their legs. Possibly up onto your face. And Hank always had explosive poo diapers. You know it's a bad one when not only does the baby need a fresh outfit, but *you* do too.
Anne usually keeps to her diaper. Until last night. I guess everyone falls prey to it sometimes.
I cried last night for only the second time since bringing the baby home. I consider that a victory. With Hank, I cried everyday. I just felt overwhelmed for a spell. Which is totally normal with a new baby. I miss having some time to myself and not feeling so anxious all the time. I miss my routine. I miss my friends and my dance class. I wish my life felt like "mine" again. But, as with all things, this too shall pass. I'm just going to try and keep hanging in there.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Unidentified objects in the night
I'm 8 months pregnant, so, you know, I'm emotional. I think this goes with the territory. :) And lately, my nesting instinct has kicked into high gear to boot. I'm due in 8 weeks, and I did deliver Henry at 39 weeks. Theoretically, I could deliver anytime beginning 5 weeks from now. Despite my desperate desire for greater physical comfort, this actually terrifies me. I'll have a newborn in my house within 2 months. Dear Lord. Is it possible to remain pregnant for another year so that I'll be more ready? How about just remaining pregnant *forever*? As Blance Deveraux of The Golden Girls said once to her daughter:
" Oh Honey, no you don't. It's a bad look."
At any rate, at 8 weeks and counting, we have no nursery for the baby. This is my second baby, so I know that you don't actually *need* a nursery for the baby, it's just that your nesting instincts demand it. We do finally have some pretty important baby items that I didn't have leftover from Henry: diaper pail, changing pad and covers, bassinette. We were also gifted a new bouncer, which although not necessary, I'm very grateful for because I know that it will come in extremely handy. I have some friends who are going to loan me a baby bathtub and a sling/carrier, so we're really getting there.
But some items we can reuse, and so late last week I ventured into our storage space. Our house has been around for a decent amount of time, about 75 years, and it has all sort of interesting nooks and crannies. One of them is this storage space, We live in the Northeast, so we do have a basement, but we try to keep the stuff down there minimal since we eventually want to finish that space and create a family room. This storage room is on the second floor, off of one of the bedrooms, and is totally unfinished. It has slanty ceilings, the whole bit, but there's plenty of room in there for Christmas decorations, our window A/C units, and of course, baby equipment and toys.
Last week, I was in search of our swing. I wanted to dust it off, get it all ready, that sort of thing. It was tucked back into a recessed area of the storage, along with bags of clothes that Henry has outgrown and other equipment we haven't used in a long time, like the high chair, exersaucer, crib mobile, etc. With a newborn, I found that our swing (we have a cradle version) was essential; it soothed fussy Henry so much and I want it all ready for Baby CL's arrival.
So, I turn on the light in there and look about expectantly. The more "open" front section of the storage is filled with stuff that we need to access more frequently. Thus, I had to move some things or otherwise lean over them to access the baby equipment. Eventually, I was standing at the foot of the baby equipment mountain. I spotted the swing right away, naturally, toward the middle, which necessitated some gentle tugging and pressure. I could have called Mike, but me being me, I was a woman possessed and just wanted to forge ahead. Finally, I dislodged the main part of the swing and inched it toward me. Hark! What is *that* I see on the seat of the swing?
"HONEY! COULD YOU COME HERE NOW PLEASE?!"
*Mike hurries upstairs* "What's wrong?"
"Um, Sweetheart, see the swing here? What do you think that stuff is on the seat?" *prays silently*
"Hum. Well, that kind of looks like wood shavings or something that fell from the ceiling." *conducts physical examination while the Catholic Librarian bites her nails* "I'm not sure, I think it's just stuff that fell from the ceiling."
"Oh good." *breathes sigh of relief*
"But that stuff there? That's mouse droppings."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!" *the Catholic Librarian says a bit too loudly as she plants herself firmly in the 'denial' camp*
"Well, at some point, there were mice in there. I saw some droppings when we first moved in, though I hadn't seen any since."
"You mean, there were *mice* on our baby's swing?! In our *house*?! This can't be!"
"Don't panic. This is pretty common for spaces like these, and since the house was vacant for a long time before we moved in, this may have happened right after we put this stuff in there and hasn't happened since. We haven't *seen* any mice, so it's probably fine. Let's take a closer look this weekend when we have more time, we can clean up in there, and we can also get this seat cover off and wash it."
Mike is always the voice of reason. Me, I am the voice of extreme emotion. That night, I literally couldn't sleep. I lived for a time in New York City, and still, mice I cannot bear. I draw the line at roaches, thank you very much.
I'm certainly not *afraid* that a mouse will hurt me (or a roach either, for that matter). There's just something about their very existence, in my house, that repels me and makes me want to shut my eyes and squeal. I don't care that they are small and furry, have faces, and some people keep them as pets. They are *rodents*. Vermin, really. I don't want them loose in my home, running all akimbo to their hearts desire, munching on my things, and leaving disgusting little pellets in their wake.
So that night, I had nightmares about mice crawling around in my baby's room, running over sweet yellow and green decor with scampering paws, menacing my baby with forked tails and beady eyes.
On Sunday, I paced outside the storage door with the vacuum cleaner attachment all hooked up and ready to go until Mike was ready. Despite my nervous energy, I couldn't bring myself to go inside. This is where husbands really come in handy. Mike trudged right on in in his socked feet armed with a large flashlight. He fully extracted both the swing (complete with disgusting cover) and the exersaucer.
"I don't see any other droppings in here. But if makes you feel any better, I can get some traps."
Traps? Suddenly, the Catholic Librarian develops a conscience about long-tailed rodents, formerly minions of the devil himself.
"Oh no, I don't think we should do that. I mean, that would hurt them."
Mike arched a brow at me, but I remained firm. We vacuumed off the swing cover, and hustled it right down to the washing machine. It's currently drying happily, and all is well it. Good thing, since we certainly don't have $130 lying around to replace it.
All is well, assuming I don't actually *see* a mouse. If that happens, I don't care how cute their ears and noses are, I'm calling an exterminator.
" Oh Honey, no you don't. It's a bad look."
At any rate, at 8 weeks and counting, we have no nursery for the baby. This is my second baby, so I know that you don't actually *need* a nursery for the baby, it's just that your nesting instincts demand it. We do finally have some pretty important baby items that I didn't have leftover from Henry: diaper pail, changing pad and covers, bassinette. We were also gifted a new bouncer, which although not necessary, I'm very grateful for because I know that it will come in extremely handy. I have some friends who are going to loan me a baby bathtub and a sling/carrier, so we're really getting there.
But some items we can reuse, and so late last week I ventured into our storage space. Our house has been around for a decent amount of time, about 75 years, and it has all sort of interesting nooks and crannies. One of them is this storage space, We live in the Northeast, so we do have a basement, but we try to keep the stuff down there minimal since we eventually want to finish that space and create a family room. This storage room is on the second floor, off of one of the bedrooms, and is totally unfinished. It has slanty ceilings, the whole bit, but there's plenty of room in there for Christmas decorations, our window A/C units, and of course, baby equipment and toys.
Last week, I was in search of our swing. I wanted to dust it off, get it all ready, that sort of thing. It was tucked back into a recessed area of the storage, along with bags of clothes that Henry has outgrown and other equipment we haven't used in a long time, like the high chair, exersaucer, crib mobile, etc. With a newborn, I found that our swing (we have a cradle version) was essential; it soothed fussy Henry so much and I want it all ready for Baby CL's arrival.
So, I turn on the light in there and look about expectantly. The more "open" front section of the storage is filled with stuff that we need to access more frequently. Thus, I had to move some things or otherwise lean over them to access the baby equipment. Eventually, I was standing at the foot of the baby equipment mountain. I spotted the swing right away, naturally, toward the middle, which necessitated some gentle tugging and pressure. I could have called Mike, but me being me, I was a woman possessed and just wanted to forge ahead. Finally, I dislodged the main part of the swing and inched it toward me. Hark! What is *that* I see on the seat of the swing?
"HONEY! COULD YOU COME HERE NOW PLEASE?!"
*Mike hurries upstairs* "What's wrong?"
"Um, Sweetheart, see the swing here? What do you think that stuff is on the seat?" *prays silently*
"Hum. Well, that kind of looks like wood shavings or something that fell from the ceiling." *conducts physical examination while the Catholic Librarian bites her nails* "I'm not sure, I think it's just stuff that fell from the ceiling."
"Oh good." *breathes sigh of relief*
"But that stuff there? That's mouse droppings."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!" *the Catholic Librarian says a bit too loudly as she plants herself firmly in the 'denial' camp*"Well, at some point, there were mice in there. I saw some droppings when we first moved in, though I hadn't seen any since."
"You mean, there were *mice* on our baby's swing?! In our *house*?! This can't be!"
"Don't panic. This is pretty common for spaces like these, and since the house was vacant for a long time before we moved in, this may have happened right after we put this stuff in there and hasn't happened since. We haven't *seen* any mice, so it's probably fine. Let's take a closer look this weekend when we have more time, we can clean up in there, and we can also get this seat cover off and wash it."
Mike is always the voice of reason. Me, I am the voice of extreme emotion. That night, I literally couldn't sleep. I lived for a time in New York City, and still, mice I cannot bear. I draw the line at roaches, thank you very much.
I'm certainly not *afraid* that a mouse will hurt me (or a roach either, for that matter). There's just something about their very existence, in my house, that repels me and makes me want to shut my eyes and squeal. I don't care that they are small and furry, have faces, and some people keep them as pets. They are *rodents*. Vermin, really. I don't want them loose in my home, running all akimbo to their hearts desire, munching on my things, and leaving disgusting little pellets in their wake.
So that night, I had nightmares about mice crawling around in my baby's room, running over sweet yellow and green decor with scampering paws, menacing my baby with forked tails and beady eyes.
On Sunday, I paced outside the storage door with the vacuum cleaner attachment all hooked up and ready to go until Mike was ready. Despite my nervous energy, I couldn't bring myself to go inside. This is where husbands really come in handy. Mike trudged right on in in his socked feet armed with a large flashlight. He fully extracted both the swing (complete with disgusting cover) and the exersaucer.
"I don't see any other droppings in here. But if makes you feel any better, I can get some traps."
Traps? Suddenly, the Catholic Librarian develops a conscience about long-tailed rodents, formerly minions of the devil himself.
"Oh no, I don't think we should do that. I mean, that would hurt them."
Mike arched a brow at me, but I remained firm. We vacuumed off the swing cover, and hustled it right down to the washing machine. It's currently drying happily, and all is well it. Good thing, since we certainly don't have $130 lying around to replace it.
All is well, assuming I don't actually *see* a mouse. If that happens, I don't care how cute their ears and noses are, I'm calling an exterminator.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
What *is* THAT in my desk drawer?!
So, I'm moving. Offices, that is. For some time, the library that I work at has been changing. The arts/humanities and social sciences portion of the collection (which is my area of expertise) has shifted over to another library on campus, as have a number of librarians who formerly had their offices here with me. I remained for a time because I coordinate reference services in my current building. Finally, our supervisor asked my colleague Bridget and I to move over to the other building. We have very nice (bigger!) offices awaiting us, complete with windows! This is a gigantic upgrade for us :) Even the furniture is nicer. Instead of piling the articles I'm working with into small stacks that I place on the piddly space on my desktop, on the floor, and on my small side table where I also keep tea supplies, I'll now have a beautiful U-shaped desk with gorgeous free space all around. I also have a real bookcase (score!) and ACTUAL CHAIRS! Oh, it's so, so sweet.
All is well. Except for the part whereby I have to pack up my old office. *shudders* I've only been here full-time for, let's see...6 years. *feels old* In that time, I've accumulated a LOT of paper. I knew that would be a chore. Travel vouchers and paperwork from 4 years ago? Yep, have lots of that. Old resumes and cover letters. Why, God, why? Lesson plans dating back to the previous decade. *sighs*
So, I've been sorting and weeding, sorting and weeding. The biggest surprises came, however, when I opened drawers that haven't had their contents examined in quite some time. And here is where your Catholic Librarian is a bit eccentric. You'll see why in a moment. And TMI warning, just so you know :)
What was in the Catholic Librarian's desk drawers?
*drum roll*
First, I wanted to tackle some paper, so I headed to the file cabinet. I've barely opened this thing since I first started working here and I obnoxiously placed all kinds of labeled folders in there with useless pieces of paper in them. Found folders. Promptly recycled them. Oh, what's that, another drawer? What's in *there*? I don't think I've ever used this drawer...
Found office item #1 - Old shoes.
*eyes water* I needed the Febreze out after that little discovery. At some point, I put all these shoes in there thinking I could change into them as needed. Especially during the winter around here, I wear my boots in , so I do leave dress shoes here, but whoa baby. These were OLD. And CHEAP. And, well, they SMELLED. BAD. I immediately took them out to the garbage can and fumigated my office. Dodged a bullet there.
Then I moved over to my desk drawers. I do use these fairly frequently, except for that mysterious bottom drawer...
Found office item #2 - Old pregnancy test.
I do remember buying this to keep here, you know, *just in case*. You never know when the mood will strike you to do a little investigative work. It's expired, but I tossed it into the moving box anyway. I'm sure it still works, right? What could possibly 'expire' on there? I'll need it eventually :) But then I looked lower in the drawer...
Found office item #3 - *USED* pregnancy test.
Ok, I know what you're thinking. Oh, Tiffany, EW EW EW! Yes, it's true. I found out that precious Hank had been conceived while I was at work, and I didn't have the heart to throw the positive test away after that. And, ok, I'll fess up. What the heck, now that I've revealed all this other stuff, right? I didn't use just one pregnancy test. Type A, rampant paranoia, sound familiar anybody? Yes, I stocked up on like 6 different pregnancy tests, and all of them lingered, used, in the bottom of my desk drawer. PSYCHOTIC.
I made a compromise. I kept 2, and threw the rest away. 2 should be enough to remember the occasion by. Right?
So, now I'm just about done, and I feel good, except all dusty. I got rid of a bunch of junk and recycled lots of tired looking paper. Onward and upward to my cute new office...
All is well. Except for the part whereby I have to pack up my old office. *shudders* I've only been here full-time for, let's see...6 years. *feels old* In that time, I've accumulated a LOT of paper. I knew that would be a chore. Travel vouchers and paperwork from 4 years ago? Yep, have lots of that. Old resumes and cover letters. Why, God, why? Lesson plans dating back to the previous decade. *sighs*
So, I've been sorting and weeding, sorting and weeding. The biggest surprises came, however, when I opened drawers that haven't had their contents examined in quite some time. And here is where your Catholic Librarian is a bit eccentric. You'll see why in a moment. And TMI warning, just so you know :)
What was in the Catholic Librarian's desk drawers?
*drum roll*
First, I wanted to tackle some paper, so I headed to the file cabinet. I've barely opened this thing since I first started working here and I obnoxiously placed all kinds of labeled folders in there with useless pieces of paper in them. Found folders. Promptly recycled them. Oh, what's that, another drawer? What's in *there*? I don't think I've ever used this drawer...
Found office item #1 - Old shoes.
*eyes water* I needed the Febreze out after that little discovery. At some point, I put all these shoes in there thinking I could change into them as needed. Especially during the winter around here, I wear my boots in , so I do leave dress shoes here, but whoa baby. These were OLD. And CHEAP. And, well, they SMELLED. BAD. I immediately took them out to the garbage can and fumigated my office. Dodged a bullet there.
Then I moved over to my desk drawers. I do use these fairly frequently, except for that mysterious bottom drawer...
Found office item #2 - Old pregnancy test.
I do remember buying this to keep here, you know, *just in case*. You never know when the mood will strike you to do a little investigative work. It's expired, but I tossed it into the moving box anyway. I'm sure it still works, right? What could possibly 'expire' on there? I'll need it eventually :) But then I looked lower in the drawer...
Found office item #3 - *USED* pregnancy test.
Ok, I know what you're thinking. Oh, Tiffany, EW EW EW! Yes, it's true. I found out that precious Hank had been conceived while I was at work, and I didn't have the heart to throw the positive test away after that. And, ok, I'll fess up. What the heck, now that I've revealed all this other stuff, right? I didn't use just one pregnancy test. Type A, rampant paranoia, sound familiar anybody? Yes, I stocked up on like 6 different pregnancy tests, and all of them lingered, used, in the bottom of my desk drawer. PSYCHOTIC.
I made a compromise. I kept 2, and threw the rest away. 2 should be enough to remember the occasion by. Right?
So, now I'm just about done, and I feel good, except all dusty. I got rid of a bunch of junk and recycled lots of tired looking paper. Onward and upward to my cute new office...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Ladies Room Saga Continues...
I know that I complain quite a bit about the rest rooms here at work, but I can't help it. This is a serious quality of life issue, people. I use this particular ladies room multiple times per day, and it would be nice for it not to be a near occasion of sin for how angry the conditions make me. When I was pregnant it was terrible, because I was in there, absorbing the grossness, every hour on the hour. We're getting into TMI territory, so I'll get back on track.
Anyway, the soap dispensers have long been a thorn in my side in this particular ladies room. For one thing, where there is a sink, there should be a soap dispenser. I wouldn't think that this idea is all that revolutionary. There are 5 sinks; it bears to reason that each should have an accessible soap dispenser. Instead, there are 3 soap dispensers, and believe you me, they are pathetic. Out of the 3, one of them is actually nice. It's a high quality foaming soap dispenser that works great when it actually has soap in it. That's a separate issue. The other 2, in a word, suck. They both leak, dispense an absurdly small amount of soap, and you have to fight with them each time to actually do their job. The real kick in the teeth is that one of them isn't even remotely within the vicinity of an actual sink. It's over *by the door.* Why, you - a reasonable person - ask? I have no notion. All I know is that I feel ridiculous going to the door to get soap. When I bitched about this particular soap dispenser to my friend and colleague Bridget, she said "I hate that dispenser because I always worry that other people in the bathroom think that I'm heading to the door and not washing my hands before leaving." Ah ha! And I thought *I* was the only one who worried about such things. It's wonderful to not feel alone in ones neuroses :)
Anyway, the loathesome soap dispensers. Today, I go into the ladies room. Quickly, I ascertain that we have 3 brand spanking new soap dispensers...
*Angels Sing*
Once again, not 1 dispenser per sink, but you win some, you lose some. Excitedly, I note that all 3 are of the foaming variety. Now I'm really getting into this. This is BIG NEWS. Unfortunately, I am soon to discover a few unfortunate items. One, is that these are cheap ass soap dispensers. They work fine now, but I give them 3 months once school starts in the fall before terrible beatings begin to exact a toll on their bodies. Secondly, the one nice, original high quality foaming dispenser that dispensed soap like a dreamy cloud onto your upturned palm? Gone. And not just gone - in the *garbage can.* Why?! Of course, it would be months between refills of soap, so most of the time it also wasn't operational. But why spend the money on an actual nice item to just throw it away? Sigh. So, so typical of the facilities around here, unfortunately. Good people and services, but the facilities, to be charitable, leave a lot to be desired.
RIP, fancy, nice foaming soap dispenser. I'll miss you...
Anyway, the soap dispensers have long been a thorn in my side in this particular ladies room. For one thing, where there is a sink, there should be a soap dispenser. I wouldn't think that this idea is all that revolutionary. There are 5 sinks; it bears to reason that each should have an accessible soap dispenser. Instead, there are 3 soap dispensers, and believe you me, they are pathetic. Out of the 3, one of them is actually nice. It's a high quality foaming soap dispenser that works great when it actually has soap in it. That's a separate issue. The other 2, in a word, suck. They both leak, dispense an absurdly small amount of soap, and you have to fight with them each time to actually do their job. The real kick in the teeth is that one of them isn't even remotely within the vicinity of an actual sink. It's over *by the door.* Why, you - a reasonable person - ask? I have no notion. All I know is that I feel ridiculous going to the door to get soap. When I bitched about this particular soap dispenser to my friend and colleague Bridget, she said "I hate that dispenser because I always worry that other people in the bathroom think that I'm heading to the door and not washing my hands before leaving." Ah ha! And I thought *I* was the only one who worried about such things. It's wonderful to not feel alone in ones neuroses :)
Anyway, the loathesome soap dispensers. Today, I go into the ladies room. Quickly, I ascertain that we have 3 brand spanking new soap dispensers...
*Angels Sing*
Once again, not 1 dispenser per sink, but you win some, you lose some. Excitedly, I note that all 3 are of the foaming variety. Now I'm really getting into this. This is BIG NEWS. Unfortunately, I am soon to discover a few unfortunate items. One, is that these are cheap ass soap dispensers. They work fine now, but I give them 3 months once school starts in the fall before terrible beatings begin to exact a toll on their bodies. Secondly, the one nice, original high quality foaming dispenser that dispensed soap like a dreamy cloud onto your upturned palm? Gone. And not just gone - in the *garbage can.* Why?! Of course, it would be months between refills of soap, so most of the time it also wasn't operational. But why spend the money on an actual nice item to just throw it away? Sigh. So, so typical of the facilities around here, unfortunately. Good people and services, but the facilities, to be charitable, leave a lot to be desired.
RIP, fancy, nice foaming soap dispenser. I'll miss you...
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Back from North Carolina...
I just got back from a long weekend visiting my sister in Charlotte, North Carolina. I've never been to North Carolina before, so I got a large dose of southern culture, to be sure. We went out to eat at a place that served hush puppies free with every meal, and referred to unsweetened iced tea as "Yankee style." NASCAR abounded. I saw a Carolina Wren, the adorable guy to the left. Good times. Now I'm playing catch up at work, born from a summer rife with unexpected events and workload overload. We'll get there. Right before lunch, I took a break to use the ladies room and had a classic libraries restroom experience. I've blogged about this before. I don't know why, but the library bathroom on the first floor is by far the most objectionable on campus. Topped only by the portapotties (sp?!) that the omnipresent construction workers use, I'm certain. It's always sticky, nasty, and out of soap. Every.single.time. The summer is slightly better only because there are less people around to carelessly "forget" to flush the toilet when they're finished.
So anyway, I'm in there, ever so delicately using the facilities, when I hear someone else come in. Nothing abnormal about that, I go about my business. I come out of my stall, and wash my hands. As I'm drying them, I catch sight of the closed stall currently in use. Given that I'm in the *ladies* room, I stopped short upon realizing that the feet of the person in the stall are facing the toilet. Oh yeah, not to be indelicate, but all sounds indicate that facilities are currently in use. I pause in my hand wiping, utterly betwixt. Suddenly, other sounds of life emote from the stall.
"Wait. Did I go in the wrong bathroom?" *uncomfortable silence* "Dude. I totally think I'm in the wrong bathroom."
CatholicLibrarian quickly finished wiping her hands, and made a beeline for the exit, clickety-clacky shoes on the tile only confirming for the other poor soul that he was indeed in the wrong restroom.
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