Team Shaw

E's sleep shirt proclaims him to be a "Patience Tester." Understatement of the year. But after this morning I've decided that every member of our household needs this shirt, in athletic jersey style, with his or her name emblazoned on the back. Daddy, E, Priss, Carl Wheezer....every inside member of the family is now a player for Team Shaw, Patience Testers. Daddy gets up early and then leaves the kitchen light blazing so that when E wakes up, he tries to get up at 5 am. Uh, no. Priss and Carl Wheezer fight under the bed during sleepy time; Carl Wheezer, as previously discussed, plays jingly ball. Then I have to jump out of the bed at 5:30ish when I hear Priss dump over a glass a tea in the kitchen and I have to clean it up.

I'm thinking of converting my hall closet, aka the world's best hall closet, into a sleepy time retreat just for me. I could line it with soundproof foam, lock the door and snuggle down into the 15 extra comforters that I can't figure out why we have or how we came to have them. And in total darkness and total quiet, I just might sleep through the night. But I'd have to wear a Depends.

The House with Herpes and Mutant Grasshoppers

I ran this title by Doug and my brother last night. Doug said, "Uh, I don't like it." Jeb said, "WHAT?!? What's wrong with the new house??" So I best explain. Our front yard is INFESTED with mushrooms. And they appear to be two different kinds: one kind is the traditional shape but gigantic, and the other ones are phallic shaped. Maybe that's why when I topped the hill yesterday and glanced at beloved house I recoiled in horror and herpes just popped into my mind...

DISCLAIMER: No, I have never seen herpes. I have never known anyone who had herpes (at least not anyone who advertised the fact). But for some reason, my mind, which is a fascinating place, equivalated the mushroom invasion with house herpes. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'd be glad to sign up for some free therapy.

...So anyway, I glance to my right, then to my left, then across the street, and then as far as my eye can see down the street. No mushrooms/house herpes in anyone else's yard. Just mine.

Doug is now in charge of investigating chemicals to take out the mushrooms. It's enough that we have mutant grasshoppers capable of scaring grown men, fascinating the dogs, and simultaneously horrifying and intriguing me. House herpes is just too much.

Mornings and Makeup with Mommy

Weekday mornings at our house are a crapshoot. Will E wake up grumpy or sweet? At what point will the current mood become the polar opposite? Will he make me late today? Will he cry at daycare or surprise me and act well adjusted? I never quite know.

I do thank our good Lord above for how much better he is compared to the first few months of daycare. Those were the worst mornings of my life. Complete meltdowns, emotional manipulation...it was awful. So it makes my heart so happy to see him playing in his room in the mornings or interacting with me while I get ready. Lately he has been fascinated with my (very short) makeup routine. When he hears the hairdryer cut off, he comes running. "You do makeup now? You do mascara?" And then he climbs up on his stool to both watch and mess with it. It's very sweet. And then this morning he cracked me up by announcing when the microwave dinged, "Mommy, you coffee is ready!"

He is such a two-sided little complex coin. And I wouldn't cash him in for anything in the world.

Praying for Potty

See, this is why there is such a run on mom blogs. Because there are horrible things like POTTY TRAINING that are better discussed in the written word than by torturing your surrounding posse with verbal assault about all things toilety.

So along with the book we ordered, "Big Boys Go Potty," we also received a note from daycare yesterday: "Mr. & Mrs. Shaw, we feel E is ready to potty train. Please send lots of pairs of underwear." Ok, so it said more than that, but you get the idea. And I'm like torn between two responses. Outrageous laughter ending in "Good luck with that" and concern that if he is pushed, he will delay this accomplishment even longer. And again I say, JERO's CHILD! So I guess we're going to let them take a crack at it. I mean, if someone else wants to take this lovely task on for me, go right ahead. Just don't traumatize my child. His list of issues is too long as it is. :) But if you would like to pray for all of us in this endeavor, we would greatly appreciate the shoutout.

And for those of you who fear he's having an identity crisis with the whole Chicken thing, have no fear. He knows who he is. When I asked him last night if he was a poopster (code for having a poopie pullup), he said, "No, I Elliott." Ah, avoidance at its best.

Weekend Warrior Wannabes

Here is a rundown of our weekend:

--Friday night: B'day party for Penny at Mom's
--Saturday morning: B'day party for daycare friend of E's
--Saturday lunch: Columbus with Jack
--Saturday afternoon: Late nap
--Saturday night: Junk food night and a movie
--Sunday morning: Skipped church (sigh, cue guilt) and made breakfast
--Sunday continued: Sent E with Mom so we could paint the dining room
--Sunday night: Cooked hamburgers at Mom and Dad's as payment for keeping E all afternoon

And I wonder why I'm tired on Monday mornings.

It occurred to me this weekend that I better be really glad I make more money than Doug. Because I'm just going to let you know, my contributions as a domestic goddess aren't winning me any points.

And one final note: Nabisco, "just so you know" (patent pending MB), I don't need an easier opening bag of Oreos. This fattie knows how to get into a bag just fine.

Master of Emotional Warfare

I am pathetic. I am 28 years old and often defeated by a nearly 3 year old. To get an idea of what my morning was like, review the post from last week about needing an exorcist for E but multiple it by 5. I had pondered not coming to work today since I had been up in the night sick, but two things pushed me here: (1) my dear friend who recently moved to Cali is here for a very short time and we have a lunch date (YAY!!) and (2) there was no way I was dealing with the Master of Emotional Warfare all day today by myself. The only highlight to my morning, other than putting on a brand new pair of jeans, was when I looked into the kitchen where the major fit was occurring and saw him bunny hopping across the floor on his knees. Typically NOTHING is funny during an E fit. But the bunny hopping with screaming? That was some funny stuff.

So I sent him on his way, snot covered, and wished his teacher Good Luck. She's only been around him for a few weeks, so she may still be immune from the Master's tactics.

Slumber Not So Wonderful

I have not slept through the night in over two years. In fact, I can no longer remember what it is like to lay down, fall into a really deep sleep, and not wake up again until morning. We saw a couple at dinner the other night with their newborn baby, and I almost punched them in the face when they proudly reported, "She's already sleeping through the night." Yo, Chicken, she's making you look bad. Have some self respect and be offended enough to STOP WAKING UP. Just when I think we were seeing a pattern of him not waking up, he gets a cold and the congestion wakes him up and then the infamous battle is on: "I want my JUUUUUICE." If I could go back to when we were prepping to take the bottle away and I was slyly tempting him with the sweet nectar in a sippie cup, I would bitch-slap myself. And I would have never given him juice. He could have discovered it at the age of 5.

I know this after the wee hours of this morning: something's gotta give. There is only one other bed in our house, and it's a teeny tiny toddler bed. And the big bed ain't holding 3 people much longer. And funnily enough, a coworker just announced, while I was working on this post, that he and his wife are expecting. After my joy for him, I internally gave an evil laugh. I hope he rests up.

Potty Propaganda

"Information, ideas, or rumors deliberately spread widely to help or harm a person, group, movement, institution, nation, etc."

Yep, that about sums up what's going on at our house -- potty propaganda. I have known for quite some time that I was not going to enjoy the potty training battle. And that is what it is, a battle. We make some strategic moves, he resists us. Daycare gives it a shot, they get mixed results. So then the support materials begin appearing. The Flush the Potty book. Let me just tell you, he is so not impressed. I mean, he's giving off this vibe like, "This is lame; why are you subjecting me to this? I shall choose to ignore you." And I can't say I blame him. Every adult who has attempted to read the book to him stumbles when the get to the words "poop and pee." Though at least one of these adults -- DADDY -- thinks grown up potty humor is funny. But he can't say "poop and pee" from a child's potty book. Go figure. But I must confess my own shortcomings in this battle. While on Amazon shopping for something else and needing another purchase that qualified for free shipping, I found an Elmo DVD on potty training. I looked it over, I thought about it, and I COULD NOT get myself to buy it. I kept thinking, "45 minutes of Elmo telling us to potty? I don't think so." And I can just imagine him seeing 5 minutes of it and then demanding to watch Thomas.

One thing this battle is reaffirming about E, though: how much like me he is. Trust me when I say, God knows what he is doing. He found MY child all those miles away in Guatemala, a child so much like me and Jero that it is unbelievable. And yes, that is a scary thought: 1/2 me, 1/2 Jero. But that is a story for another day.

The Adventures of Chicken and Carl

Formula to complicate your life:
--Spouse takes a new job with pay cut. Check.
--Self takes a new job with pay cut. Check.
--Move kid from private care to daycare. Check.
--Sell one house and buy another. Check.
--Accommodate all parties except self in buying and selling. Check.
--Go on vacation, spouseless, right before moving day. Check.
--Move in 1.5 days with more stuff than most normal people. Check.
--Live everyday in a scavenger hunt for your stuff. Check.
--4 dogs, 2 cats....then add a Carl Wheezer. Check.

So when the move first came up, and mom's cat was with kitten, I thought it was a good idea to get Chicken a new cat. One that is young and likes to play unlike those two old farts we have. I mean, Priss spends 95% of the time hiding under the bed; granted that didn't start until Chicken became demonic. He might as well have not even had a cat. So our little orange lion came to live with us. And on one hand, I was so right. He leaves the TV (CUE SHOCK) to play with him. Though playing with him often constitutes chasing him, throwing things at him, pulling or stepping on his tail, all while cackling evilly. Have no fear, though. Carl Wheezer gets in his fair share of licks. But then I have to hear, "Carl Wheezer scratched me" followed by "That not nice, Carl Wheezer!"

And then there is the completely unexpected part of Carl Wheezer: his ability to torture Priss far more effectively than Chicken could ever dream of. Then again, if she spends all night fending him off, she might have less time to drag clothes around the house for me to find the next morning.

Anyone got a phone number for a Cat Whisperer?

Purse Speaks the Truth, Story at 11

A few years ago several of us had purses that had a crazy little cartoon lady holding a sign pronouncing some sort of philosophy or personal attribute. One friend had, "Put your big girl panties on and deal with it." I chose "Shoe Diva." I had no reason to count my shoes until THE GREAT ATHLETES FOOT INVASION OF 2008. And keeping in mind that in the last two years I have purged lots and bought way below quota, I discovered I have 28 pairs of shoes. Not counting slippers. Now, in the past this fact would have made me proud. But knowing that all 28 pairs have to be disinfected is overwhelming. I mean, the excitement of getting my pharmacy gift card to cover the cost of multiple cans of generic sneaker spray (which has quite a pleasing scent, surprisingly) does not match the mental anguish of trying to decide how to man this disinfecting operation. I have this recurring thought of lining them all up like soldiers in the driveway, but something tells me that might not quite make me feel good about myself in the eyes of my neighbors.

So Friday night we took Chicken to buy new tennis shoes. When I told him we were going, he said, "I get geen ones." Having done my research online, I knew I was seeking the New Balance Oscar the Grouch green shoes. And I'm going to tell you, if I had not known that these existed, I would have been in a cold sweat in the mall because after we had left our second store because they didn't have "geen ones" I was starting to worry. But low and behold, we find the shoes. And he is so happy he has to wear them out of the store, sans socks. He pranced around all night in his new shoes, even refusing to take them off to go to bed. On the fifth try at 1 am, I was able to finally get the shoes off him. Ladies and gentleman, Shoe Diva and Son.

Oddly enough, I recall that my friends wanted to buy me the purse that said, "My only domestic quality is that I live in a house." I'm still stumped by their thinking.

Paging Wife of the Year

So yesterday was low potassium episode Part 2. Doug calls me, I start heading to Tupelo in a slight panic. Now, I must insert here to save some face that MAYBE some of this next thought was based on the economy/the price of gas/no extra trips are allowed anywhere. So the next thing I know, this thought pops into my head, "Dang, I wish I had that Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon." Yep, I really thought it. So then I'm in my head working this all into a blog post, and I miss the exit. Strike 2. I finally find him at a Texaco, and we both had to go to the bathroom so I opted for the Burger King rather than the Texaco. So if we're here I might as well get a Croisanwhich, right? Strike 3. So we're coming back to WP and the impending doom of the ER and the unknown of what they will tell us, and my gas light comes on. We coast into town on fumes and I had to stop at the Soco for gas. All before we ever made it to the ER. Nominate me now: Wife of the Year.

Hi, my name is Emily, and I have two forms of coping: irreverent humor and avoidance.

Help Wanted: Exorcist

Married white female seeks Exorcist to cast out the demons from the males in her life. See full job description below.

So yesterday Chicken woke up in a fowl mood (HA! Pun intended). Completely illogical. "I want juice"..."Go get me your cup"...NOOOO, I WANT JUUUUICE" So I ignored him and went and took my shower. Well, he took that royal fit on a five room tour of the house for a good 20 minutes. And I just wanted to say, "Hey kid, read the manual; this is only effective if I'm witnessing it. Your galant theatrics are wasted if I"m in the shower." Geez. So after the shower, he got his cup, and he got some juice. Like that was so hard. So then he requested to watch Thomas the Train. Ok, who introduced my kid to these videos? Because they have an appointment with me and a rubber hose (oh gosh, my father's warped sense of humor just vomitted out of my mouth). I mean, he's had the toys for years, but he'd never seen the video until recently. If you can even call it a video. It's toys with horrific claymation faces. Frightening. And the trains are always mad at each other. How is this a good educational experience? I'm to the point of smashing it and telling him that it's lost. I mean, I'm just not mature enough for a dialogue that includes, "'That train is fast,' tooted Thomas." No, it's too much. Plastic non-movie characters, claymation faces and "tooted Thomas" is just too many strikes rolled into one. I'd rather watch Barney. Seriously.

Next up, Carl Wheezer. While I am very proud that he is pursuing an Olympic gold medal in his sport, he has got to move Jingly Ball practice to a time other than midnight to 5 am. And I'm not sure his diet of Q-tips from the bathroom garbage can is going to be as beneficial as Wheaties. I'm just saying. I am proud to report that he gave up his dream of being a diver; two falls into the toilet reminded him that he does not like water. Wait, stop the presses, Priss just slipped me a note: "Tell Carl Wheezer to stop attacking me and jumping on my head or I'm going to kill him in his sleep while you are at work." Noted.

Finally, Doug. Yesterday when this blog was intended for I only had two requests for Doug: make him not so tired and not so grouchy ALL the time. I mean, if I'm the perky one in the house, something ain't right. Can I get an "AMEN!"? But, if you will reference today's next post, you will see I have a new request: A MEMORY.

Apply at the former tomato house on Broad Street. I'll pay you in old magazines.

Spring Break Revisited

Spring 1998. Six girls, three very fun adult chaperons. A week in Mexico to become more cultured, though I'm not really sure falling into a suitcase after excessive drinking made us so. That trip also taught us about how the actual process of international travel isn't so much fun. Ridiculously long delays, guarding our mounds of luggage from weirdos, oh yeah, and in-country air travel aboard the flying coffin. Why, you may ask, are you reliving this fine memory today, Emily? The memory was brought sharply into focus last night after a similar experience, though this time the coffin was on four wheels. I thought my life was coming to an end on the way to Sunflower to purchase a $2.65 bottle of ketchup on my debit card. My poor old Isuzu Rodeo has been so abused by its subsequent owners that it is now the automotive equivalent of that airplane 10 years ago. It even had a beverage cart, water pouring in from the sunroof into my purse and onto my body while backing out of my driveway. The mere five minutes I spent in it roundtrip were so horrifying that upon return to my house I said to Jack with the crazy eyes, "We are going car shopping on Friday." No asking when he wanted to go or when he thought he was ready to buy. Oh no. "Daddy, it's time....IT'S TIME."