Don't Read This If You're Vomit-Phobic

A. has got to be the most stoic vomiter I've ever seen. The other night we were returning home from a b-day party with both kids in the back seat, and I turned around to look at A. I'm not sure why I turned at that time - I don't know if I heard something or was just turning around to see if he was asleep. A's mouth was wide open, his eyes were a tiny bit surprised, and out of his mouth was pouring liquid. It wasn't quite projectile, but it streamed nicely from his mouth to his pants, mostly skipping his shirt. No noise, although later G. said he heard something that sounded like cellophane but more liquidy.

A. wasn't leaning forward, clutching his stomach or coughing. Instead, it was like we had a faucet in the backseat that looked like him. It reminded me of "The Exorcist," and was just a bit spooky. I said, "Oh my goodness! He's throwing up!" It just kept coming, and all the while A. was staring at me with a, "do you think could you do something about this?" kind of look. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't believe he'd eaten or drunk that much. We're talking gallons. Or quarts, at least.

I looked around for a towel, or maybe a receptacle of some sort, but of course we didn't have one. A.'s thrown up maybe once since he was one year old, so we're not really prepared for this sort of event.

So we have about 20 miles to drive home, and all A. said was, "I'm not feeling so good." He was very quiet the rest of the way home, and G. and I kept opening the windows because the car was not smelling so good, either. We kept asking him how he felt and he responded, "I'm still not feeling so good."

We got him out of his clothes and I carried him to his bedroom, and all he said about it was, "I didn't like that." I was trying to figure out if he was done throwing up, so I asked him if his tummy felt empty, and he said, "I'm not throw-upping anymore." And true to his word, he didn't. I realized I really have no idea how to handle upset tummies because he never gets them, or if he does, he doesn't tell us.

When I was about 9 years old, I got carsick on the way to Tahoe and threw up all over myself in the car. We were about 10 minutes from our destination, and I remember riding the 10 minutes just disgusted and annoyed that they were making me ride in the car all vomit-y. Now that it's happened to my kid, though, I realize, what the hell else were they supposed to do?

By the way, they need to make vomit-resistant car seat straps. Those things will hold a scent forever. So far, Oxyclean has worked best.

Office Golf

A. made up a new game today. My dad has a putting green in his backyard, and A. loves to swing at the balls. So his game is that you hit a ball and then yell, "Office!" My son the doctah - we can only hope.

And check out how hip we are - we saw "Rent" today while the rest of the family watched the little guys. It was fantastic, but I already was a Renthead. G. wanted to see Harry Potter, but I talked him into Rent instead. During one of the best scenes, the memorial service where Tom Collins sings the reprise of "I'll Cover You," the older couple in front of us walked out. This movie doesn't seem terribly popular here in this red state. I've never wanted a DVD before, but this one's a keeper.

I Hate My Nose

So we're spending Thanksgiving in Arizona. Last year I wrote about how Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. All it means to me is a whole lot of dishes. Turkey and stuffing is fine, but I'd be just as happy with a pot of spaghetti and meatballs. But this year we're spending it with my family at my dad's house in AZ. There are two new babies in the family and lots of arms to hold them, and two three-year-olds who amuse each other, so it's all good. My dad also turns his little backyard pool way up to nice-warm-bath temperature, so that's relaxing since we don't all fit in the hot tub.

Except that I am having the World's Worst Allergy Attack. I don't know what to - this is the desert, for God's sake. I think it all started with my friend's cat, who sent me over the edge last weekend. I went to her goodbye party on Friday (thank God she's taking the cat with her), and started sneezing all over again. Once I am reacting to something, anything else I'm allergic to (which is pretty much everything), even at a level which wouldn't normally make me react, makes me go nuts. So there's a yippy little Bichon Frise here who normally doesn't bother me too much, but that could be just too much for my little histamine sensors. And our bed is very comfortable with a featherbed and feather pillows, which probably don't help.

Still awake? I know talking about allergies is b-o-r-i-n-g, but man, you haven't seen these allergies. I want my nose amputated. I can't breathe, I can't sleep, I can't smell anything - we made what was apparently a delicious dinner tonight but I WOULDN'T KNOW. They have possessed me and I can do nothing. Tonight I'm breaking out the Benadryl, so tomorrow I'll be doped up but hopefully breathing. G tells me that he doesn't even know what an itchy roof-of-the-mouth feels like! I bought three boxes of lotion-enhanced kleenex today and it might not be enough.

So. My dad lives in a retirement community outside of Phoenix. It's very quiet here, except for the air force base a few miles down where I guess our military practices bombing techniques because every once in a while you get these break-the-sound-barrier booms. There's a lot of old people and not very many playgrounds. On his computer, a little pop-up screen comes on every time he gets a new message. These people are prolific. Right now there are a lot of people chiming in on "Re: plumber." And my dad has a big sign over his desk saying, "VA - Ear Wax. 2/7/06 9:15." Just so you know. I think that's a long time to wait for ear wax, but what do I know?

Fashion is Passing; Style is Eternal

Guess where we went today? I don't know if you can tell - the hat is upside down.

Three-Year-Olds Love Nonsense Words.

A: Hey Mama!
Me: Mmmhmm?
A: gobbledy-gobbledy brrrrrr
Me: Oh, are you making up your own language?
A: Yeah! It's Smanish!

More Things A. Said

Pretending to read the sign at the playground: "Thank you for the California seals. Goodbye."

When I got home from work tonight: "So how's your clients doing?"
Me: "Well, some are sad and some are OK."
A: "Hmmm." :::pause::: "Well, sometimes people can feel much better."
Me: "True, but then Mama and Papa wouldn't make any money."

Wonderful Radio, Marvelous Radio

I really wanted to dislike the whole "random radio" phenomenon. "We play 70's, 80's, whatever we feel like." Supposedly it started when someone realized that everyone's got their iPods on shuffle, and decided to do a "non-format" formatted radio station.

Well, I don't shuffle. I don't have an iPod. But if I did, I wouldn't have it on shuffle. I would have carefully arranged playlists to match any mood. That's what I have set up on iTunes on my PC. Sorry, but I'm not going to mix the Wiggles with Eric Clapton, or Warren Zevon with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (on the other hand...huh. Maybe that would work).

I have made so many carefully mixed tapes in my life that it seems a travesty to use the shuffle button. I've thought long and hard about why I'm making a certain mix, which songs would fit on it and what order they should go in.

OK, so I thought I'd hate random radio, and here I am listening to it all the time. For one thing, the first time I tuned in, our local station was playing "Dancing in the Moonlight" by King Harvest which is one of my all time favorite feel-good songs that doesn't get enough play anywhere else. And you can't turn off "Brandy, you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be," right in the middle of the song, cheesy as it is, and then what are you supposed to do when it leads into "Funky Cold Medina?"

And I'm a little embarrassed to admit that tonight was the very first time I actually listened to the lyrics of "Funky Cold Medina." So that's what it's about. I thought Medina was a funky, cold girl.

And, I love running spell check on my blog. It wants to replace "iPod" with "aphid," and "Nusrat" with "muskrat." That could keep me entertained all night.

My Pumpkin Boys

Believe it or not, A. is not mimicking Ben. When he was a baby, he smiled exactly the same way Ben smiles, with the big open grin. He's seen so many pictures of himself making that grin, that he continues to think that's what one does when one is told to "smile!" Our best attempts at getting an actual smile continue to be thwarted. And Ben, of course, is just the smiliest dimpled guy around.

Have You Seen My Wallet?

Last weekend we went to SF, and it was great (except at the beginning when G couldn't get into the room and thought I'd been murdered by the concierge, but that was resolved quickly enough). We had wonderful weather, and I got to ride a cable car for the very first time, despite having lived here all my life. We saw the new DeYoung Museum, and G didn't like it and I was surprised that I kind of did, since I don't usually like modern architecture.

So in going to SF, I put my cash and some cards in a wallet. I don't usually carry a wallet - I have a small bag with a long strap that I can wear across my body so I don't lose it, and everything else is in a diaper bag or a backpack. But in SF, I actually carried a purse. And when I got back, I continued to carry the purse.

Big mistake.

Day 1: I go to the grocery store with both boys. Ben stays in the car seat and I put him in the main part of the cart, while A. rides in the front. It leaves little room for groceries, which is why I only take them when it's a small emergency trip. Like if I'm out of Diet Coke. So I park, and there's a cart right there by where I park. Cool. Except, as I find out when I'm in the Diet Coke aisle, there's no bottom rack to it. Well, I can't pile Diet Coke boxes on Ben, now, can I? (Can I?) So I go back and get another freakin' cart and move both boys into it. Except I don't have my little across-my-body bag, I'm carrying a purse which I put in the front with A. and which he doesn't have the presence of mind to remind me to take with me when I switch carts. Darn three-year-old.

Fortunately, I discovered it very quickly (well, in the checkout line) and it was morning, the store was slow and a bagger had picked it up. Phew.

Day 4: I am still carrying a regular wallet, except now I actually carry it in my hands or it goes in my back pocket. I go to pick up photos at Longs. I have to pick up photos at Longs because our digital camera broke again (OK, it was dropped, unless you're from Kodak Repair, in which case I don't know what happened). I'm excited to see them because they're the Halloween photos. I pay for them, and crouch down in the aisle, carrying Ben's car seat, to show them to A. I guess I must have set my wallet down, probably on top of the blank VCR tapes. I get up, go out to the car, put Ben's car seat in, and say, "Hey! Where's my wallet?" We run back and forth from the store to the car several times looking, but it's already gone. It was fairly quiet in the store, but the woman behind me in line looked shifty, so I blame her. There wasn't that much in it, just my BRAND NEW driver's license, my debit card and my library card, and some cash.

A. was annoyed with me because I didn't bring snacks for him (it was supposed to be a 10-minute outing). So there I was outside Long's Drugs, searching through the garbage cans in case someone took the cash and dumped the wallet, with an infant in a car seat and a toddler whining, "Maaammmmaaa, I'm veeeeewwwy hungry!" And still no one gave me a dime. Sheesh.

Day 5: I dutifully put the leftovers in the plastic container, and then put the container, full of leftovers, back on the shelf. G. found it this morning. I have, however, switched back to my handy little bag. I had to, since I lost the damn wallet.

I blame the time change - Ben is still getting up between 5 and 6am. I'm fried. He's a bed hog and we don't have a room to move him into. So I'm basically up all night and then up early. Sometimes G takes him in the morning and I can at least get an hour of uninterrupted sleep. I just try to remember that there will come a day when he doesn't want anything to do with me, so I'm relishing this time, when he just wants to sleep next to Mama. And I think I've stopped losing wallets. Putting leftovers back in the pantry, though - no promises there.

B-day Quote of the Week

I'm awfully happy the tumor my mother thought she had turned out to have red hair, dimples and a killer smile.

Yeah, right back atcha, sis. 'Cept for the tumor, you know.

Backstory: My mother was 42 when she had me. She hadn't had a cycle in a long time and had been told by doctors that she had gone through early menopause. So you can imagine the surprise (especially my father's) when what they thought must be a uterine tumor turned out to have a heartbeat in one of the pre-op appointments. My father was stationed in Germany at the time and returning to the U.S. She said they weren't going to let her come back before having the tumor removed. I don't know how far along she was at the time, but one would imagine it was rather far along since they didn't do ultrasounds back then. So here I am...the tumor with the expensive education, as my father probably calls me when I'm not around.

In Other News:

Ladybug Boy loved trick-or-treating. I wasn't sure if he'd go for it because the trick-or-treaters scared the heck out of him last year. But once he figured it out, he was all for going up to strangers in unfamiliar houses and getting candy.

"Candy is sooo delicious!" he informed me.

He did a great job, for a kind-of-shy kid. I had to remind him to wait until the door opened to say "Trick or treat!" but he did it nice and loud, said "thank you" appropriately and "Happy Halloween!" when prompted. He was so cute that people gave him extra candy so thanks, everyone - he is cute but you don't have to live with him on a sugar high. And then he got extra candy on top of that when people saw Ben all done up in his Pooh Bear sleeper. Ben's not gonna appreciate that Laffy Taffy, people, so you don't have to give Mr. Ladybug extra stuff for him. Considering that we stayed on our street, his bucket was pretty damn full.

And he was not happy when he found out that you don't get to trick-or-treat whenever you need more candy. He thought it would be a good idea to go again tonight, and it's hard to explain a yearly holiday to a 3-year-old.