How Much Should You Love a Coffee Table?

Here's the thing: I love my coffee table.

It's beautiful.

Yeah, that's the one. Look how the chrome shines, look how the marble glitters! Look how un-child friendly it is! Joe tried to warn me that someone was going to get hurt by that table, and it would probably be our children. "BUT LOOK HOW PRETTY IT IS," I totally logically countered.

A few months after Lulu was born I made a cover for the table out of some leftover batting and cream vinyl. It hid the beautiful marble surface and the shiny chrome, because even I was coming to understand that it wouldn't be the best furniture for a baby who would soon be pulling herself up and trying to walk. Covered it has remained, and any bonk or head-long tumble resulted in nothing worse than any other encounter with furniture, so I breathed a sigh of relief.

Until Monday night while I was making dinner.

Proximo and the kids were bouncing around, as all children do right before dinner everywhere on this planet and any other. The pot was on the stove, nearing a boil. I was prying open the box of Barilla Thin Spaghetti and reaching for the salt. Proximo, jumped laterally, head first (as usual) from the couch and into the table, slicing his head open despite the vinyl-cover (the batting having slipped from that edge.) He started screaming, but since he's almost always screaming over some injustice or another, it took us a second to respond. Joe turned to see the blood start streaming down my baby's face. I ran upstairs to grab a clean towel to press to the wound, reminding myself that head wounds always look more terrible than they are on account of 17,000 cubic fathom pounds sterling of blood in them, or something like that.

(Don't worry, all pictures of blood and gore are at the end of this point out of respect for your delicate constitutions.)

Within 3 minutes of the injury I was in the car with Proximo in his seat crossing my fingers for green lights and no radars. We were at the ER in less than 10 minutes after the slice, and that includes the time that it took for me to walk from the other side of the road with my 40 pound child since all the ER parking spots were taken by people who were obviously not suffering a real emergency. I resented every person in that ER, because if the blood isn't flowing, or your bone perpendicular from its previous location, why are you in the ER? Look sicker, dammit, or thanks for playing.

This was, officially, Proximo's 5th visit to the ER: thumb slice, near eye-miss, impaction, suspected impaction, and head wound. I asked about a frequent customer card but it turns out they don't do that.


And the sad thing? I still love that coffee table and I don't want to give it up. Joe says that he'll move it to the living room, but what should I put in its place? A pile of air where the perfect coffee table used to be, damp carpet with my tears, and droplets of my baby's blood? Should I sew a new cover with actual batting that could resist boy? Because I don't know if there is any coffee table on earth, other than a giant marshmallow, that could be truly injury-free (and even then, someone would get hurt, I swear.)

Tell me, Internets!







Here is the blood and gore portion of this post, in case you've the stomach for such things:

Best Guacamole: The Mexicali 4am Hangover Special

When I signed up for the California Avocado Dinner at Evo Conference two weeks ago, I'll admit that I didn't really read the fine print. My friends were going, I like avocados, there you go. I walked in an found my friends Shannon and Erica at a table. We were chatting when Erica said something that caught my attention about the chefs cooking for us. I don't even remember what it was (you'll see why,) but it prompted me to turn around and there, right behind me, was Susan Feniger.

And I completely, totally, lost. my. cool.

As in I jumped up, started breathing really fast, turned to Shannon and Erica and said, "OHMYGOSHTHAT'SSUSANFENIGERYOUGUYSYOUGUYS." To their credit, they both looked at me as if I was a plaid cow and said, "Who?" "SUSANFENIGER" I hyperventilated, "One of the most famous chefs in the world, she's been on Top Chef Masters, had her own cooking shows, practically introduced haute Mexican to America with her partner Mary Sue Milliken and OHMYGOSH SHE'S RIGHT THERE." I turned around, knocked over a couple chairs, and introduced myself. Susan had the most joyous smile on her face. "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE GOING TO BE HERE," I said.
"Well, who did you expect?" she said. I didn't have an answer.
"Could I get a picture?" I asked.
"Of course!"

It's probably a good thing that I didn't see Mary Sue Milliken on the other side of the room or I would have fainted dead away. I so, so lost my cool.

Before we dined, we split into teams of four to compete to make the best guacamole. We were judged on taste, presentation, and the name. I turned to Erin, sitting next to me, and said, "I will bury you." I'm a little competitive. As luck would have it, Erica was on my team! We brainstormed some ideas and came up with a backstory and recipe. Our team went up against 11 others, and we WON! WE WON! IN YOUR FACE, ERIN. Susan Feniger and Mary Sue Milliken picked ME! I mean, picked my team.

The Mexicali 4a.m. Hangover Special

You spend the night in Mexicali and some bad, bad stuff went down. It's 4a.m. and you have to be back in L.A. to work by 9. You need something to set you right again, something so that your boss will never suspect the night of you are leaving behind.

4 ripe California Haas Avocados
1/3 c diced bacon bits
1 hardboiled egg, chopped
1 TBL diced tomatoes
1 TBL minced red onion
2 tsp minced jalapeno
2 tsp rice wine vinegar
Dash of chili flakes
Salt to taste

Topping:
1/3 c sour cream
1 Tbl chiles in adobo sauce
Dash of salt
Cotija cheese
Lime juice
Tortilla chips

Mix sour cream, adobo sauce, and salt together, set aside.
Toss all ingredients except the avocados together, add three peeled and pitted avocados, gently mash them into the ingredients, being careful to keep some large chunks of avocado. Check seasoning, add more salt or more vinegar as needed. Halve the remaining avocado, remove pit, hollow out a little more, gently remove the avocado from the skin. Salt the avocados. Spoon the guacamole into the hollowed avocados, dollop with sour cream, set on top of tortilla chips, sprinkle with cotija cheese and a squeeze of lime.

(Sorry about the poor picture quality, I was so busy acting cool I'd forgotten to talk the plastic off the back of my phone. Keep it together, keep it together.)

The Candy Free-For-All

J focused on me, “OK,” he said seriously, “I figure we should take their candy bags and hide them, probably in our closet, so we don’t wake up to find everything eaten.”
“Ooooor, we could just let them eat it all as quickly as possible.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I can’t be bothered this year. In fact, let’s make them eat their candy immediately.”
“Yeah! Whether they want to or not!”
“‘You WILL eat that Snickers and then you’ll eat ANOTHER ONE.’”
 “‘I don’t care if your tummy hurts, you finish those Starbursts.’”
“And if they don’t eat enough, we can always just put them into the blender. ‘What do you mean you don’t want to drink it? It’s a SMOOTHIE. You love smoothies, and this one has all the rest of your Halloween candy in it.”
“Let’s wake them up right now and make them eat it all.”

 How is this free-for-all going? Not as bad as my mother’s voice in my head had me convinced it would be. Any time a kid asked me if he could eat candy I answered, “YES! In fact, have another one!” They viewed me with suspicion, waiting for the other shoe to drop. As soon as they figured out I didn’t have a secondary request, they ate their candy as quickly as possible. “You’re still eating dinner, of course,” I followed up, their chocolate-stained faces nodding in promise.

 I only made up one rule: I sternly said, “No candy,” when the request was filed at 7:50 am. Clearly, I’m the kind of mother who only allows candy after 8:00am.

 It’s 48 hours post Halloween and almost all their candy is gone. I’m not finding wrappers all over the house. Nobody is sneaking anyone else’s stash. I’m not freaking out over sugar rationing. And when the little one knocked on my bathroom door and asked for the throw-up bucket, I reminded him that candy had lead him down this dark path and perhaps he should reconsider the volume of his consumption. Don’t you worry, it was a false alarm; only an aching tummy and a sorrowful child full of a new comprehension and respect for a cocktail avalanche of Kit-Kats, Dum Dums, and M&Ms.

 Have you tried the free-for-all? It’s daring in its simplicity and execution. Recommended.

The Toothbrush

I stopped cleaning the bathrooms, you might recall, because I'm teaching my sons to clean them. They get the bucket of cleaning tools and potions and instructions on their use. I still have to supervise and conduct the inspections. El Guille is usually OK about the initial cleaning he gets to perform, it's after he fails the first, then the second, and sometimes the third inspection that he falls apart.

Last time we had a fight over whether or not he could reach behind the toilet. I maintained that he could and he maintained that he could not. I won. I told him to use the toothbrush (from the bucket of cleaning tools) and scrub around the commode base with Comet until it was the right color. He whined and I left. That's what I do. If the protestations and whining are too much, I leave until the right changes have been affected. You can't make me stay and listen to that.

Summoned to the bathroom for the 4th inspection, I found a clean toilet base and nearly excused El Guille to go and play. "Did you use the toothbrush?"
"Yes," he answered. Something dawned on me.
"Wait...did you use the one in the bucket or your toothbrush?" He looked at me with big eyes and an apologetic face crumple, "Mine."
"What?! There is a toothbrush in the cleaning bucket! Now you need to go throw your toothbrush into the garbage!"
"OK," he said sheepishly, and when I returned I saw his toothbrush in the garbage.

That night I prompted El Guille to open his new toothbrush and get started on his oral care. I turned to Proximo to brush his teeth.
"Mama?" said Proximo.
"Yes?"
"Mama, my toothbrush tastes weird. It tastes bad."
"What?" I answered brushing more vigorously.
"It tastes bad, my toothbrush tastes bad."

And that's when it dawned on me: Inspect the brushes. El Guille's discarded toothbrush had crusts of blue at the base of the bristles. I turned Proximo's over in my hand and saw it was...yellow.

"YOU USED YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH TO CLEAN THE TOILET? YOU USED COMET ON YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH? YOU THREW AWAY YOURS KNOWING IT WAS FINE? LEAVING HIM TO USE IT? THAT'S POISONING HIM!"


I...just...

The Finisher II and A Note to Ford

You may recall this post I did about finishing things. My first project was the thrifted table. I cleaned the sewing machine table, removed the machine, and spent 40 minutes trying to saw a board using a tiny handsaw to fit inside it as a shelf. I gave up sawing the board after Other Half made me see the futility of 40 minutes of work vs. four inches of sawed wood when my father has a perfectly nice table saw. "But I REALLY WANT to finish," I said desperately, calculating that I could be finished by 3 or 4 in the morning (tops.) He talked me out of it, and then moved the table upstairs so it can be my vanity (where I can open the window and survey the vast tracts of land behind my stately villa while applying MAC makeup and assessing the progression of what could be wrinkles, but most certainly are not, and all with natural light.)

The next day, I left work in search of soup for lunch after a morning spent at the dentist. As I was about to pull into the parking lot, I heard a giant CLUNK CLUINK CLUNK along with the usual grinding sound, and the car felt like it didn't want to move, as if the power steering had broken. I managed to park the car. Not knowing what else to do, I went into the soup place and ordered a cup of soup to go. I got back into my car. I sat there for about 10 minutes. Then, why not, I started it up to make it back to my office.

The CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK stopped once the car hit 25 mph. The horrible grinding, like someone had taken the belts in my car and replaced them with terrified robot cats, kept going. I tested the brakes and wouldn't you know, only the left side was working. It also sounded like some large hammer had broken free from the passenger's side and was hitting against the wheel, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I called up Other Half and we decided that if I could get the car home, that would be it, the end of the line.

Yes, for my second finishing project I FINISHED MY CAR.

I had wanted to surprise you all with some great picture of a NEW FANCY CAR ( you know, the kind without a hole) before I told you that my car died, but that's not what happened. What happened is that I drove home through rush-hour traffic on the side roads with my hazards on hoping and praying that the huge hammer (probably now with added sickle) wouldn't cause my car to catapult, kill me and some innocent, unlucky person whose only crime was thinking they could get a frozen yogurt at 5:00 on a Tuesday.

So we're down to one car...

Dear Ford,

I'd love to be yours....(read more.)

Surveying Planet Earth

Friday night the boys pulled the hoods of their wintercoats on their heads and jumped off the sofa pretending they were wearing capes. E.G. was Ironman, and Proximo, in his little toddler voice declared, "I Sooper-Man!" I'm pretty sure Proximo has no idea who Superman is, or that when he was not much older than Proximo he crash landed in Smallville, Kansas and into the arms of the Kents to be raised until he could fulfill his destiny of saving Planet Earth. Or something.

Clearly, I had to make capes for the boys on Saturday morning. E.G. got an Ironman cape with Ironman forearm coverings like the suit. Sooperman got his own fleece and felt cape.
"I bet I can fly with this cape!" declared El Guille.
"NO! NO! NO! Don't DO that!" I yelled in futility.
"I'm going to go see if I can fly now!"
"NO! You CAN'T FLY! PLEASE DON'T TRY!"
"I'm going to jump off the stairs!"
"STOP!"

I mean, in retrospect, seeing if your cape will make you fly is the next logical step that I should have anticipated. Thank goodness he only tried to fly three steps up from the landing and then crashed into the wall, instead of escaping my pleas, making it out a window and onto the roof. I consider not thinking of what would happen once I gave them capes as a total failure of my imagination.


My friend Rob saw the picture of Proximo in his cape that I tweeted and made some tweaks of his own....

There he is, the 2-year-old who has the weight of the entire planet on his shoulders. It's a lonely, tortured existence, with nothing but goldfish crackers and chocolate milk to ease his solitary suffering.

I Can't, I Have a Pig Roast

That's my favorite excuse this time of year. It's true, I did have a pig roast that I had to attend last Friday. Our benevolent hostess loved the idea of a dessert for which she did not have to produce plates and silverware. I came up with the idea to make lemon meringue cupcakes.

And yo, they were really good. I used Lindsey's Blood Orange Cake recipe, but used lemons instead. Then I filled the cupcakes with lemon curd, made an Italian meringue, and toasted the meringue in the oven just like lemon meringue pie.

And lo, the cupcakes were insanely delicious and I think they'll be my new trademark.

My husband hates those cupcakes because they took way too much time to make and messed up the entire kitchen. I may have to rethink my new trademark.

On Sunday afternoon, right after his father told him not to, E.G. swung the following wooden toy around by its pull string...

and caught his brother, Proximo, with a deep slice on the upper eyelid/lower eyebrow. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw Other Half carrying Proximo up from the scene of the crime, his little head, face, neck, t-shirt covered in splotches of bright red blood. He came about 5 cm away from losing an eye, which, you know, it's all fun and games...

I made the trip to the ER where he was glued up with Dermabond and sent on his merry way, all within 45 minutes (we have a good ER.)

So, wooden toys? Adorable, so cute, sustainable, no scary chemicals. Downside? Getting clocked with one sends you to into the arms of a doctor.





Join me over at Segullah today, I'm talking about questionable church music performances, and whether or not you miss them (you do, don't you?)

In Which I Admit Some Terrible Things

source

The great thing about the kids waking up too early is that I have just that much more time to have my inadequacies rubbed in my face. Minutes, no hours, more of staring at the offending crunchy floors and splattered mirrors. Of course, I should be folding the laundry instead of blogging, but exactly what kind of fun would that be, Mr. Reality Check? I’m such a fun-squasher, too. There was just something about watching E.G. push the spinning chair with his feet and seeing the Proximo’s little toddler leg dragging outside that called for a kibosh from mom.

“BUT WHHHHYY?”

“Centrifugal force,” I answer. (I believe in telling children the truth. Next up: a history of the Khmer Rouge.)

I don’t think it’s the housework that’s really upsetting me, I’m just generally a little stressed (which is a bit like saying I’m still breathing.) I always know I’m on the edge when I find myself listening to soft rock hits in the car, or even worse, Delilah (shut up, some of you eat Cakesters.) You can read my echoed thoughts about Delilah here, but there are days when it seems like one’s blood pressure could power a locomotive and perhaps some Steve Winwood, or Bryan Adams, would actually help.

Then, on my drive to work today, Chicago’s You’re the Inspiration came on the soft rock and adult contemporary hits station. I knew all of the words, in order, and with the echo/descant. I found myself at the depths of despair for a moment, wondering what other corners of my cerebellum have been given over to contemptible hits of yesteryear. The horrors my brain must hold. I want those neural pathways back.

The next step in de-stressing is to play a round of golf, which is exactly what I do. The company’s scramble puts me in with three gentlemen. I, when reaching the last hole, throw a bit of a hissy fit and renounce golf. I may have also pounded the unsuspecting rough with my club. “I am a better golfer than this,” I storm. Curiously, that little exhibition made me feel happy and secure.

I felt so happy that I put my condo up for sale.

You want?

An Inordinate Sense of Panic

The screen of my phone was strangely black when it rang this afternoon at my desk, which meant I couldn’t tell who was on the line. It was my husband, who said, “I just came home. The door is unlocked and slightly open. I can’t talk long because I have to call the cops.”

That’s when my heart, which had started pounding at the word “unlocked,” did the sick fall of doom that leads straight into shock.

“Both kids are missing, along with the sitter.”

I started laughing, “Holy cow. I thought you were going to say that the gaming system and TV were gone, that we’d been robbed. No, my sister took the kids to the museum.”

I think I can blame the TV movie for my momentary panic. You’ve seen the titles: A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story, She Woke Up Pregnant, or Too Young to be a Dad. It’s not that I deliberately sit down to watch these small screen tales (usually) it’s more that you’re sucked into one from either the title or just plain curiosity. And then by the time you realize you’re watching a TV movie you can’t stop because you have to find out if Shannon Doherty’s roommate is really possessed and might try to kill her (the answer will always be ‘yes’ to those two statements.) The storytelling is so transparent that you know exactly what will happen the minute they show the bad girl trying to get the good girl to climb onto the roof to dance (someone, at some point, will fall off that roof.) By TV movie standards, my sister taking the kids to the museum would never turn out well, something horrific would always happen.


I’ll admit that sometimes a TV movie can be sweet, even a little good. I watched Loving Leah a couple of weeks ago on CBS and kind of enjoyed myself. What’s not to like about a modern levirate marriage story where the brother of the deceased marries his widow?


More often, however, the TV movie is a tale of wo, endless misery, and the crazy woman du jour. Take tonight, where I had the privilege of watching Hush, a movie starring Tori Spelling (you already know it will be good) and Tahmoh Penikett (Helo on Battlestar Galactica) (Yes, I watch Battlestar because it is awesome without irony, full stop.) Those two lovebirds move back to his hometown from the big city where they re-acquaint themselves with his ex-girlfriend—who steals their frozen embryos and tries to have their baby! How great is that? I mean, the minute they showed Tori snuggling with a cat you just knew that Tabby was going to meet a grisly end. Hush was one of the most satisfying entertainment experiences I’ve had in forever (I’m THISCLOSE to cutting you off, Heroes.)

So I want to hear your confession: what’s the most awesome TV movie you’ve ever seen?

Will you give us a short description?

And if your life was made into a TV movie, I want to hear about that too (but not you, Betty Broderick.)

My cat is dying to know.




I'm so lucky to also be over at my friend Marie's Makes and Takes today. Go check out my magic trick (no actual magic abilities required on your part.) And HI to any Makes and Takers who wander over here (isn't Marie great?)

Out of House and Home

At 7:15 am I gave up and let Proximo out of my bed to start his day.

He immediately ran into El Guille’s bed—no really, collided with the side—and squealed until E.G. woke up. Then Proximo ran someplace out of view. E.G. tumbled into my bed and snuggled up to me; the two of us, reluctant greeters of morning. After a couple minutes, in sauntered Proximo, holding, what else, a giant piece of pizza with the point already eaten and the rest under great peril. I collapsed into my bed with a fit of giggles, under great peril of peals.

Yes, the jammy-clad baby had gone into the dining room and pushed a chair into the kitchen, climbed the chair, opened the box of pizza that his father left out, separated a piece, started eating his breakfast, and then decided to join us in the bed. So if anyone asks, we don’t have a baby here anymore, just a Delta Tau Chi.

Proximo’s words are multiplying and coming faster. “MMMMMM, NUMMMY” he announces whenever he eats, which is always. Who couldn’t love a boy who devours everything you make him as if it’s his last meal on earth?



Even salmon.

He ate his way through the inauguration and threatened to start boiling shoe leather if I didn’t up the quantity of cereal, scones, apples, bananas, and everything. Meanwhile, E.G. picked each and every blueberry out of his homemade blueberry scone (sorry, Passionista, it hurt me too.) E.G. was very excited about watching Barack Obama talking right now (dear spellchecker, it’s time to add ‘Barack’ and ‘Obama.’)

“Is this happening right now? RIGHT NOW?”
“Yes. And there’s the old president, George Bush.”
“Is he old or new?”
“He’s the president right now, but you only get to be president for a little while and then a new one gets to be president. Obama is the new president.”
“You mean someone else gets your job? The job that you already had? That seems mean, mom.”

In the end, E.G. was extremely impressed with the multitude of flashing police lights of the motorcade and Proximo opened a yogurt with his teeth, ate two more scones, most of E.G.’s blueberries, and demanded chips of all assortments.

I ordered a whole elephant for roasting this weekend, just in case.

Rated 'BG' For Bloody Gore

I had today planned out to perfection. I'd rise early (like I had a choice) and after breakfasting the kids, we'd wrap presents. After the merrymaking, they'd play together in some sort of happiness and utter joy of being together, but alone in their room while I'd clean the house. My car would start on the first try and I'd make it to work with plenty of time to guide my project through the last few hours to completion. I even shot for the moon: I was pretty sure I'd spring for a bowl of soup and a cookie for lunch.

Things didn't quite work according to plan.

The first thing I thought when Proximo walked into the living room holding the sliced off top of a can of kidney beans was, "Oh GREAT, he could really hurt himself with that thing."

My sarcasm was unwarranted as he really did hurt himself with that thing. The blood wouldn't stop, so I called up LaQuina to stay with E.G. and I took Proximo to the doctors.

After trying to make the bleeding stop for two hours, they sent me to the ER. Well, to be fair, I got the bleeding to stop with gauze from my home kit, covered by a Spiderman band-aid and scotch tape. It was the pediatrician, in an effort to see just how deep the wound was, who broke the clot. Multiple nurses and assistants applying pressure couldn't get it to stop. Proximo screamed (or nursed) most of the time.
I've never been to the ER because my child was hurt. He was having a lot of fun.

Until he was so exhausted that he fell asleep.

The nurse hopped him up on Ketamine, street name Special K, to keep him consciously sedated.

Whoa, that was funky. His eyes were open, but nooooo one was home.

It was even deeper than the ER doc thought it was, the blood just kept flowing.

Proximo got four stitches on his little thumb, only six short hours after the injury.

Watching him come out of sedation was a trip (ha.) He slowly lifted his leg and waved it. He then slowly moved both his hands in front of his face. He tried to clap. He tried to talk. It was all pretty adorable. Well, it was either adorable or a scary harbinger of his upcoming teenage rave years.

I brought Loopy McGee home and treated him to plenty of snuggling, mugging, treats, and love. He treated me to walking backwards like a sailor on shore leave, giggling the whole time. I wrapped his hand in a sweet knit baby bootie and tucked him into bed, where he happily nestled between his bunny and his monkey.

And Loopy McGee waved goodnight.

Mo Cuishle

I saw the movie Million Dollar Baby several years ago and was quite inspired. I fell in love with boxing! Pretty soon, I had signed up at a gym and started training here and there. I love the feeling of punching the bag, getting out all my aggression, and strengthening my body. My trainer always tried to get me to sign up for matches, but it was never about beating anyone; it was about connecting with a primal part of me. Last week, I decided to give it a shot, why not?

And this is what I ended up with...

Well, it was either a boxing match or I had food poisoning and was rushing for the toilet in the morning, while wearing my glasses, and pushed the lid not quite far enough so that it fell on my glasses, cutting my nose and giving me a world-class bruise. ‘Cause let me tell you, vomiting into a bowl is not as awesome as vomiting AND bleeding into a bowl.

“Great,” I thought while heaving, “Food poisoning and breaking my nose. I am accomplished.”

It’s not broken, but the nose sure looks fantastic.

Just for fun, Other Half and I have come up with mismatched stories. When someone asks us what happened we say at the same time:

“Oh I’m so clumsy, I fell into a doorway.”

“We got into a car accident; she hit the dash.”

Good times.

Saturday morning, right after I sent El Guille to his room for a time out, I heard a bang and then the baby shrieking the horrific pain cry. I ran and found Proximo with a massive, massive, gigantic purple goose-egg with dent, on his forehead. I had to remain calm to interrogate El Guille. Do you know how hard it is to remain calm when all you want to do is scream to high heavens? Apparently, El Guille, tired of his brother, decided to get on top of his bed, and throw a three pound FREE WEIGHT onto the baby. I just can’t…

We went to the doctor and the baby did not have a skull fracture and did not appear to have a concussion, especially since he didn’t lose consciousness. The doctor described that a skull fracture is “mushy,” and then stuck his tongue out and shook with the heebie-jeebies.

You guys, a free weight.

The sad thing is that the baby still follows El Guille around all day, trying to do what he does. I think Proximo has Stockholm Syndrome.

Me with my nose, and the baby with his bruised noggin, people are going to start asking questions.

Take it Like a Baby

I'm the oldest in my family, explains a lot, doesn't it?

These days I get to see the world from down under. I watch Proximo take the kind of violent love and abuse that only happens among siblings (and stupid teenagers.) From the moment that El Guille jumps into his crib in the morning to wake him up, to the moment El Guille jumps in his crib at night to ‘play,’ Proximo takes it, well, like a baby. In just one day I witnessed that baby get kicked, rolled on, smacked in the car, nearly suffocated with blankets, pinched, hit with a toy, and peed on.

I’M SORRY MOM because I know I did things just as bad to my siblings—except for the P stuff, I’m pretty sure that’s a snips and snails thing.

So thanks, Mom, for having me today all those years ago (even if you don’t read my blog because you can’t be bothered and therefore don’t get to read the apologetic gratitude.)

Oh, and thanks for howling with laughter tonight when I told you that Proximo was his brother’s target practice for the third time in seven days.

(Boys.)

What do I want for my birthday? For my kids not to P on each other.

Too much to ask?

Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad Week

Sweetest Baby on Earth (tm) has had a wreck of a week.

The first of the pearly whites pushed through and its companion isn't far behind. Other than one sleepless night, he's been a champ about the whole thing--you want to be the Sweetest Baby on Earth (tm)? Well, SBoE costs. And right here is where he started paying...with sweat...and tears...and snuggles (v.v. hard work.) Teeth making is hard, but he manages to make it look easy while battling the sniffles as well.

I was mouse-deep revising a functional spec for work (yes, it's as glamorous as it sounds) when I heard Proximo yelling. I went into the bathroom and found El Guille, not giving his trains a wash-down as is common place, but on the counter, with the water running, and some small containers filled with water. Proximo was standing at the tub, very unhappy since he was soaking wet from the water El Guille had poured on him (do you think he poured it on directly or do you wager that it was a toss from the sink?) I felt bad for the baby, but you can't pass up a photo-op for grandma. I rounded the corner and grabbed the camera. I turned it on as I walked the 4 steps back to the bathroom and snapped this picture:


And that was when I realized that the wet stuff on his head was not WATER...

SHAMPOO.

SHAMPOO all over his precious baby head, into his baby-blue eyes, breathing into his little baby-congested nose.

I grabbed the viscous baby, turned on the tub faucet, flushed his eyes, washed out his hair, tried to wipe his little pink nose. I then threw (not literally, but I felt like it) The Filthy Padawan into his room and shut the door. Baby got to then take a leisurely bath, with lots of pampering and extra washing followed by massage, lotion, and new outfit. Soundtrack: Feist. Extra, extra: snuggling.

After we had a restorative spa experience, El Guille was let out of his dungeon, and was forced to confront this:

Little red baby-eyes and runny nose.
El Guille apologized profusely. El Guille was placed under house arrest and limited privileges for the rest of the day.

That night, to make up for the torture he undergoes everyday, I let Proximo play with the Christmas tree.

Yes, you are allowed.

Ahh, that feels better.


I decided to take the babies to see the Candy Windows downtown. Don't you worry, El Guille had to vacuum the salt he spilled all over the kitchen before we left. Bundled up, we hit the town! Candy windows, the bookshop, the nativity scene in front of ABGs made up entirely of beer bottles--Provo is tres cosmopolitan these days. We stopped by a pizza place to share a personal pie ("Yeah, we'll have half pepperoni and half pumpkin.") I took off Proximo's knit hat and noticed that he had...mini dandruff? What?

SALT.

SALT on his HEAD.

Now it makes sense that I was trying to brush some sort of granule off the Boppy while in use, thinking in my head, "We really need to vacuum more, there's schmutz over everything."

The only comment from Other Half?

"Yeah, being a younger sibling is hard."

El Guille, "You're cool, mom."
Me, "What?"
"You're cool!"
"Thanks."
"You're cool. Can I watch another T.V. show now?"

I dance a little.
E.G., "Can you not do that?"

********************************************
We went to the BYU Christmas party on Saturday. I tried to get a picture of the kids with Cosmo to prove that we're raising them in the way of all light and truth to be Fully Invested. Well, you would have thought that I was asking El Guille to take a stick, sharpen it with an ex-acto knife, and then use both implements to remove his eyes.

I guess that's a "No."

Next we went to the writing tables to "write" a letter to Santa.
"Do you want to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?"
"YOU tell him for me, mama."

*******************************************

We've hit another stage: the I LOVE MY BROTHER TO DEATH stage.

EL Guille wants to PLAY with Proximo. It would be lovely if it was just sharing toys and showing the baby how the trains work. Oh no, this is I LOVE MY BROTHER TO DEATH. Jumping over the baby, only moderately successful with completion of 4 of 6 attempts, is just the beginning.

"BUT he wants to PLAY WITH ME," El Guille assures me as he drags screaming Proximo by the feet of his footie jammies along the hallway.

"BUT I LOVE HIM," El Guille insists as he squeezes Proximo harder and harder, eliciting angry protests from the baby.

"BUT he WANTS to go THIS WAY," El Guille exercises both methods; squeezing harder and dragging by torso across the living room as Proximo shoots me a frightened look.

Yesterday, as I was reading, I heard a sound I had never heard before: the baby screaming in an urgent, staccato, high pitched way that kind of made your blood run cold. We found him in the hallway with a belt TIGHTENED around his NECK as El Guille tried to pull him like a DOG.

Good thing I haven't bought anything for Proximo for Christmas; it saves me from returning them since he probably won't survive the next 22 days.

You were pretty cool, Proximo.

Can I watch another T.V. show now?

I Got a New Job!

I am now a referee.

*WHISTLE*
"Illegal jump over baby brother; repeat couch to chair attempt. Loss of TV privilege."
"Roughing the baby; personal foul."
"Toy interference; defense recovers the ball."
"Blocking the baby; removal of blanket."
"False start; offense "beeping" loudly in ear of defense, causing cessation of nursing; loss of train."
"Illegal use of hands; remove from underwear. Gain of pants. "
"Offsides; player touched Christmas tree ornaments."
"Intentional grounding; baby recovers the car."
"Repeated flicker of Christmas lights on and off; ejection from game."

*WHISTLE*
"Tree ornament interference; redirect baby."
"Attempting to eat toilet paper; loss of bathroom privileges."
"Intentional face grabbing; loss of lap privileges."

*WHISTLE*
"Too many men on the field; mother retires to locker room."