What Terrifies Proximo

The scream started in the boys' bedroom and ran down the hallway until it crawled with its owner, one Proximo, into bed with me. "I think the smoke detector is up to something," he said to me, in his most serious voice, "The red light was blinking."

Proximo has a problem with inanimate objects. He lost three weeks of sleep last summer to a reoccurring dream about the toilet plunger. The thing would be waiting for him in the bathroom, and then chase him around the house, trying to suck his brain out of his head. He makes us promise to move the vacuum away from his bed's line of sight. Any vacuum left, even unplugged, in the hallway is just an invitation to horrors.

So it just makes sense that the smoke detector, with its nefarious red, blinking eye would be the next tormentor to rise up to defeat our hero. All the better for the bunk bed to make its move, trapping our young hero between the wall and the slats. 

These days Proximo mostly concerns himself with writing love notes and posting them. He makes his own stamps, as you can see:

He and Lulu play all morning before it's time for school. They are great friends, if a little preoccupied with yelling at each other.

"Have a good day at school," I said to him on his way out the door.

"I will," He responded with serious eyes, "I will do my best so I can get into BYU."

Later that day, over a plate of macaroni, he told me, "I always do the right thing at school so I can go to BYU and get my job."

I have no idea, guys, he just came this way.

School Started! School Started!

It seems to me that there are two kinds of back-to-school reactions: The Crier and the Cheerer (you can vote on which one you are here.)

I am mostly a cheerer. I love my kids, but we all do better with the rigorous school schedule. My kids are the same way. Three years ago, E.G. was so angry with me for not taking him to Kindergarten that I had to drive him to the empty school to prove to him I wasn't deliberately keeping him from his education. This year, Proximo starts Kindergarten and he is similarly excited to bust outta this joint. I will cheer, cry, and sleep when they're both in school starting next week. Oh, and work. It will be just me and the baby, refusing to answer the door when random people show up, writing during naptime, and enjoying a house that stays clean longer than 5 minutes.

Today is officially the third day of school, but the first where I "served" cold cereal for breakfast. Proud of myself for making it three whole days. Also proud of myself for forgetting to take pictures of my departing child in absolutely no new clothes. Let's not get too weepy, I'm pretty sure I'll remember to take a picture of him at some point this year. Maybe.

It's Joe's back-to-school time, too. He marooned me with these three people to teach the Future of America. He's been prepping for the school year all summer, and recently started meeting with parents and new students in anticipation of his harder classes. Which is where this conversation happened:

"Well, Mrs. So-and-So, I know I just met you, and after talking with the other teachers this seems crazy, but on this paper is my email and number, so if you need to, call me, maybe."

The mom thanked him without a clue and the daughter did an eye-roll facepalm. Your tax dollars at work, people.

Lulu has been cutting teeth for the past two weeks, turning me into a zombie with her midnight, 3am, and 5am blood-curdling wakings. It's been a good time. Only four more years until she's in school, too.

Perhaps I should see if someone is selling some sentimentality and pick some up? Also, extra emotional tears? Because I'm not sad about school starting, not one little bit.

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:

Freezing Time

In the chilly morning I’d pulled baby into bed to nurse with me while Proximo snugged in on the other side of Lulu. The three of us under a pile of warm covers and bright eastern light.

Lulu stops nursing, turning around to laugh at Proximo’s little tickling fingers, his now lanky arm crossing her chubby tummy and wiggling into her sides. One laughing meant the other would laugh, which meant that I would laugh, all of us in a triad of soft happiness.

“Let’s go camping!” Proximo exclaims, pulling the white sheet over our heads until the cotton brushes our cheeks and fingers.
 “Is this our tent?”
“Yes!” Lulu reaches out with her dimpled hands and touches the sheet, rolling between us, little toes tucked into a sleeper. She grabs at Proximo’s glasses. He giggles and says, “No, baby.”
She turns her attention to my glasses, smears them with tiny prints.
“I want to lay on your belly,” he says.
"Why?"
“Because it is soft. Move over so I can have the warm spot.” (This warm spot is his obsession, the place our bodies have heated, if we get up from the couch, or a chair, Proximo rolls into a ball and claims our seats.)

I oblige, moving to the colder half, a baby on one side and a child on the other, laughing over me, under a sheet, in a cozy house, the cold January winking at us from outside the window.

It's a Pot Boiler!

I've jetted off to Seattle to see if I can make a pot boil just by watching it.

Not that it's not fun to walk around downtown Seattle with all the homeless people and women without makeup, but it's more fun when you're making your pregnant sister walk around with you. I like hearing her say, "Yesterday" when people ask her when she's due. I will not like it so much on Sunday when I have to fly home and she will not have had my first nephew. We also think it's funny when she's holding Baby Lulu and is awfully pregnant in public. A decent woman would be in her confinement! You can see people doing the baby math in their heads and trying to figure out this hyper-fertile lesbian couple taking the light rail.

The day before I left Proximo woke up with a sore throat and quickly developed a fever. I'm no over-reactor, so I just kept an eye on him. My eye does not possess magical healing powers, because he added vomiting to his symptoms by 7pm that night. He woke up every two hours after that complaining that his tummy hurt, but that he did NOT need to throw up, and then threw up. (See? Even if the baby sleeps through the night doesn't mean I get to sleep.) I was in more of a panic than usual, so after touching him, or wiping up his inaccurate aiming, I'd scrub my hands vigorously and then follow with anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. I was terrified of the baby getting sick.

Today, after three days of fever that wasn't abating, and me two states away, J took Proximo to the doctor where he was given scarlet fever. You pay a co-pay and you get a disease in return, right? Excellent.

Sometimes, after these doctors appointments where they award your child something scary, all I can think is, "100 years ago my child would have died from this."

The tooth abscess E.G. developed in July of his 6th year? Dead.
Proximo's scarlet fever? Dead.

If I'm feeling especially soft I'll cry over the dead child I do not have but would have had. Yes, I have that many spare tears.

Today my watched pot and I will head off for more bargain hunting and to meet Marie for a snack. At least that's the plan if my nefarious plot to send her into labor by schlepping all over the city followed by Internet-assisted foot reflexology didn't work.

Boil, pot, boil!

Advice on Sharing a Room?

Alright, Hive Mind, I need your ideas and advice.

The Problem:

Six months ago I put the boys in one room and into what Proximo calls bunka-beds. It was several months before Miss Lulu would be born so it would give them plenty of time to adjust to sleeping in the same space.

They have not adjusted well.

It turns out that EG is an early bird. He needs his sleep. He would prefer to go to bed early and get up in the awful early morning hours. He's chipper and with it in the morning. He can even coherently do homework (sometimes faster than if he tries it at night.) No matter what time he goes to bed, he's up early and ready for school.

Proximo is a night owl. (Oh, now that's a shocker.) He invents one million reasons to leave his bed. There is always one more drink, one more hug, something he forgot to say, has trouble sleeping, ran out of sheep to count. He sneaks out of bed and will sit behind the family room door until his breathing gives him away. He will sleep in mornings, and if he stays up late, he'll absolutely sleep in. He's a bit of a grump on the bright side of dawn.

Now, these two have the same 8pm bedtime. EG is exhausted and on his last fumes by this time of night. Proximo is just getting started. Proximo is sometimes literally bouncing off the walls. He's chatty. He won't stop trying to engage EG in conversation. EG is frustrated and begging him to settle down.

Conversely, while Proximo would be fine if he stayed up and slept in, EG waking up and leaving the room often wakes him up. Then he's grumpy, fussy, tantrum-y for the rest of the day.

So EG is often heard yelling in frustration at his brother, who is giggling and hanging all over furniture like a monkey, long after bedtime. Sometimes EG will be able to fall asleep anyway. They will exhaust each other several hours later. I thought it would be better by now, six months into this mess.

Yes, we have a bedtime routine. No, they don't usually have any screen time two hours before bed. We finish homework, engage in hygienic cleaning activities, and read a book or two together. Yes, we've tried wearing Proximo out. Just tonight he literally ran across BYU campus, rolled up and down hills, and raced his brother.  We eventually had to put Proximo to sleep in our room so EG could get to sleep in his. That can't be the answer, can it? We have three bedrooms, so the boys need to share.

What would you do? What have you done?

SAVE US HIVE MIND!

Yelling WITH Your Children

Over my career, most of my superiors have been fantastic and brilliant people. Nevertheless, I certainly had a few stupid bosses in my very early working years*.



But I’ve never, in any job, been screamed at for 45 minutes because a boss woke up on the wrong side of the bed, had refused to put on pajamas the night before so they are cold, standing in front of me in just their underoos, yelling for a blanket, angry that I got the wrong blanket, angrier that I didn’t put on their blanket right, crying because I’m paying more attention to getting someone else out the door so they don’t miss the bus, screaming that I’m hurting their feelings, and upset that they have to use the bathroom like a normal human. 


It would be unacceptable for a boss to scream at underlings or coworkers with that kind of frequency, amplitude, and chaos.

People love to get upset with moms who yell at their kids. I don’t like to yell at my kids, but I will, especially if they can’t hear me otherwise. Don’t get those self-righteous panties in a bunch, I don’t scream at my kids. What’s the difference? Screaming is angry, abusive, and out of control. Yelling is encouraging, provides direction, and in control. Yelling is how stuff gets done. Just ask any mom who has lost her voice due to laryngitis: nothing gets done.



Do those same people get upset at kids who yell at their mothers? I need to know.



Anyway, there’s plenty of yelling and hollering from my kids. I got a big holler from Proximo today because I wouldn’t skip the commercials on the TV show he was watching. I tried to explain that it was “live” TV, but these spoiled, entitled children don’t understand; they’re still frustrated that the TVs at grandma’s don’t pause--like, at all. Our previous analog limitations defy their tiny comprehensions.   





“WHAT?!?!” screams EG when I ask him to do something awful, like pick up the family room. He follows the screaming with a flop onto the floor and crocodile tears. Dude. Maybe I should get you a dog and let it get run over so you get some perspective. Cleaning the SMALL family room is nothing. You should see the 1000 acres of weeding, baseboard scrubbing, and the Bataan Death March I had to do at your age. I don’t even make you can. We didn’t have a dishwasher. I was the dishwasher. And TV? Not only did our TV not pause, but we didn’t even have a TV. That’s right. Please, stop screaming about picking up 3 socks and your Lego battalion.



Yes, I yell sometimes because I love. And because I want stuff to get done. But you don't get to yell back at me because your blanket is on backwards. That's ridiculous.

*No, none of them read this blog. We’re talking a supervisor at the call-in service center, that sort of thing.

Keep a Better Eye on My Kids

"Hey blog."
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."
"I know, it's been a while, but I've been busy."
"So busy you couldn't write on me?"
"Yes."
"Busy writing every place else except here?"
"Sadly, yes."
"I see. I'm your oldest piece of work and now that there are shiny, new places to write, you don't like to write here."
"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, you are a piece of work."
"I see what you did there, and I don't appreciate it. Your mother makes bad puns for jokes, don't go skipping down that path."
"It's inevitable that I become her, I might as well embrace puns."
"You'll embrace no such thing. Anyway, what do you want?"
"Can't a girl sling a few phrases together to say 'Hi!'"
"I suppose that's possible, but that's never enough for you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know perfectly well that you use seven words when three will do, and ten penny words at that. Do you really expect that people reading your blog will read it with dictionary.com open in the next tab?"
"I don't consciously pick big words, this really is my vocabulary."
"It's annoying. And pretentious."
"You're pretentious."
"I'm a personification of a weblog, hardly grounds for pretension. But let's get down to business."
"Remember how I'm bad at supervising my children?"
"Why, yes! As that anonymous commenter very helpfully informed you! Thanks for turning back on the anonymous comments, by the way, because it always ends so well for me."
"Well, while I was feeding the baby and also maybe working, this happened:"

"Are those books?"
"Yes. It's the lower half of my library laid out end-to-end in a large circle through my living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and the foyer."
"It's almost like an installation piece!"
"And he did it while completely naked, so I really do think I was experiencing a visceral, deep social commentary on the modern condition."
"He's clearly a genius."
"Clearly. Less genius was what happened a couple months ago..."

"Wait, is that..."

"Yes, a bucket of flour with a half-naked 4YO stuck inside it."
"But...how...is he...a shirt...what did you do with the flour?"
"I threw it away. After I made them some pancakes. No need to be wasteful."
"That's disgusting. Anonymous commeters back me up on this one: you really should keep a better eye on your children."
"But if I keep a better eye on them, what will I blog about?"
"Bait. Nice."

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...

Proximo is Going Places

You know that traditional graduation book from Dr. Suess "Oh The Places You'll Go"? Well, Proximo has places to go and things to do and I, apparently, am not privileged to that information.

Read more....

Advanced Storm Warning

I don't want to scare you...

...but you might want to watch out for miniature storm troopers in your vicinity. Storm troopers can strike without warning during Spring hours. Best to take precautions (step to the side and hold your arm out to keep them from advancing.)

What's In Your Easter Basket?

Proximo's 4th Birthday!

His body is lengthening, limbs stringing out, knobby-inside knees that are mine. He looks older.

Most days he hangs on me like a stole. Today, as I sat at the table helping his brother with homework, he climbed to the top of the chair and leaned over my head, stretched his arms around my neck, and made a right angle.

Have I told you that 4 is my favorite? It is. It's my favorite age. 4 is the reward for the hard work of 2 and 3. It's before the emotional neuroses of 5.

He planned his birthday party himself. We were going to a park, there would be balloons, and lots and lots of friends.

We disagreed about the cupcakes. I wanted them, he didn't.
"NO," He said, frowning* at me, "I want a CAKE."

"But a cake will be hard to cut for your friends at the park."

"NO."

"Look! Here are a bunch of cupcake liners, red, blue, green, and you can pick which ones you want if you have cupcakes! If you don't like them, I'll make a cake." After some consideration, and another frown, he conceded, ".....FINE. Red AND blue."

Devil's food with raspberry filling and marshmallow tops. They were ridiculously delicious, and I don't even like cake.

So many friends to play with! Not having to be the tag-along little brother! Friends just for him!

You see that black haired vixen? That's his crush. He made her a special Valentine. He calls her "Weesabella."

Proximo decided he wanted to ride home with his Tia Jeffiner. This is what happened in the parking lot on the way to the car:
Tia Jeffiner, "So, Weesabella is fun, huh?"
Proximo, "Yep, she's fun."Jeffiner, thinking she's digging a little deeper, "She's kinda pretty, too, huh?" Proximo stops and gives her the famous frown* and says,
"Weesabella's prettier than you."
Jeffiner gasps, "What? No, she's not."
"Yes, she is."
"No, I'm Tia pretty."
"No, she's jus prettier."
We're just different kinds of pretty."
"NO."

3 months

1 year

18 months

2 Years

3 Years

4

(*the famous frown)

Happy birthday, baby!

The beautiful birthday party pictures were taken by Tia Jeffiner, the Fotohok, who's an amazing photographer, and available for your kid's birthday, or other life event.

Snacks

Proximo made me a snack. The butter hunks were particularly delectable (Kirkland vintage 2011.) The nickel was because he loves me (also evidenced, I guess, by the cookie cutter heart used to cut the bread.)

The news today of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed current trial plans reminded me of this post, Mastermind, which made me laugh all over again.


What I wrote for you in other places:

Do you listen to old people music? (Hint: yes.)

Are you Today's MILF? (Hint: I cannot possibly answer this question for you.)

Do you dread Saturday evening or Sunday morning phone calls? (Hint: I have exhausted this construct and yet persisted in using it.)

I Lose My Favorite Job

“I don’t want you in my family anymore,” declared Proximo, “I don’t want you as my mama!”
“Oh, I’m not your mama anymore?”
“NO!”
“And I don’t want daddy or my brother, either.”
“So you’ll live here by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well. Who will make your breakfast?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will put on your shows?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will help you with your socks and shoes?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will help you put on your jacket?

*pause*

“Grandpa.”
“Who’ll tuck you into bed?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Oh, can I go then?”
“No. Stay with me. Don’t leave. AND you’re an IDIOT!”
“An idiot, huh?”
“YES. You’re AN IDIOT. Know who else thinking you’re an idiot?”
“Who?”
“Nana thinks you’re an idiot. Grandpa thinks you’re an idiot. Tia Jeffiner thinks you’re an idiot. Abuelita thinks you’re an idiot.”
“No they don’t, they love me.”
“You’re an idiot, and you’re not my mama anymore!”
“Ah. OK. I still love you, you’re my baby.”
“No, I’m not. When is dinner?”
“I thought I wasn’t your mama.”

*significant pause*

“You can be my mama again. You can be in my family.”

Is It Girl or a Boy?

What did he ask Santa for?

A baby sister.

Do you know what he's been asking for almost once a week since last March?

A baby sister.

Do you know that when he prays at night he asks the Almighty for a sister?

Until he found out that we really were expecting a baby, and then he prayed that the baby in Mama's tummy would be a girl.

"Why do you want a girl?" I asked.

"Because it's not fair," he answered, "I'm a boy, Proximo is a boy, daddy is a boy, and you are the only girl. It's just not fair."

When we asked Proximo if the baby in Mama's tummy was a girl or a boy he looked over his glasses and said, as if we were complete idiots for even asking, "It's a baby."

Today is the day we find out if E.G. will have another little brother to steal his Legos and torment his friends, or his long-imagined and much hoped-for baby sister.

What do you think we're having?

A Sudden Onset of Panic

It was 5:20 pm on a Wednesday when I arrived at my sister’s place to pick up Proximo.

“Hey,” said my sister, “Have you noticed his eye?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at his right eye, it’s lazy.”

“What? When did you notice it?”

“Oh, on Sunday.”

“And you just waited until NOW to tell me?” I asked her, my voice rising (mostly because I, as his mother, hadn't noticed this obvious vision emergency.)

I knelt in front of Proximo, “Hey, baby, look over there. Now look back at me.” I made him look a dozen different ways and every time the result was the same: while his left eye came right back, his right eye didn’t. I started panicking. It was already after 5:00--too late to call a doctor. By the strangest of flukes, J had taken El Guille camping with my dad for the only night that will ever happen, so I bore the brunt of this development alone.

And what an alone.

I was pretty sure that Proximo had a brain tumor pressing on his optic nerve. What else could such a sudden change in his eyesight be except cancer? I told Noelle. “No,” she answered, “That only happens to other people’s children, like your friend’s friend, that doesn’t happen to us.”

“I’m someone’s friend’s friend,” I replied, not feeling very convinced.

The absence of J’s force of logic propelled me into the Diagnosis Fear Cycle (DFC.) You know the one: type in the symptoms and start Googling. First comes WedMD, then major websites, and finally the fringe health boards. Before you know it you’ve got seventeen different diagnoses, have decided you aren’t going to let a doctor tell you what to do, and have written down the experimental treatment options with a vague curse at the FDA thrown in for good measure.

Narrow down the diagnoses to the most probable one.

Now, search your diagnosis.

I did. I found a support group on Facebook and I joined it. I nearly cried with relief at finding other moms whose children’s eyes had issues and would be patching with possible corrective surgery. I left an emotional response on the group’s page (best to handle the introductions, I’m going to be needing these ladies soon enough.) I sent out a bunch of emails to friends who I thought might help. And finally, after working through the DFC, I went to bed with Proximo in the next bedroom, clueless to his newly helpless state.

I woke up in the morning and called Bek. I told her the symptoms. She asked me far more detailed questions than any doctor would and gave me a course of action to expect. She’s good like that, her kids have had everything.

I called the doctor after Bek (of course) and they gave me an appointment a month away. A MONTH? A MONTH? We’re not supposed to have waiting lists until AFTER socialized medicine! I pushed back a little and asked if perhaps, considering his delicate three years and sudden onset, they might be able to squeeze him in earlier? Success! An appointment in a week.

That’s when we learned that Proximo has estropia with astigmatism and is farsighted. Glasses it is! Cancer it is not! Nor is it anything else really terrible, he just has to wear corrective lenses.

Turns out I had to unlike the support group. Not the right group.

Jumping the gun and all that.

But I’d already signed up (in my mind) to organize the 1K for Lazy Eye! The kids could just walk in a circle!

All photos by my sister, fotohok, who's a great kid-wrangling photog.

Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

Three!

Happy birthday to Proximo, who turned three last week.

Yes, three.

Can you believe it?

You might remember how I was a medical mystery because he didn't want to vacate the premises.

A week later I dropped the first hint that I had post-partum depression (that didn't go away for a year.)

He made me give up chocolate.

I got annoyed when he smelled like other women.

How about the time his brother put shampoo in his eyes and salt on his head?

The bloody gore post when his sliced thumb was documented--WHAT? I told you it was bloody.

Or that time last year when he turned two.

And had a story told about him.


Some things you should know about Proximo:

1. He will eat you under the table. EG will have half a serving of dinner. I will have one. Daddy will have two. Proximo will have seven. That is not hyperbole.

2. He has a loving heart. His Tio gave him a foam sword for his birthday. "Go ahead," said Tio, "Hit someone with it!"
"But," said Proximo, his eyes brimming up, "I don't want to hit anyone!" and he cast aside the sword. And then turned it into a plowshare--who knew he was a blacksmith!?

3. He is not a blacksmith.

4. He will call me on the phone and ask me to make pasta and chicken for dinner, and demand that I come home and snuggle him. Truly. A phone call asking when I can get to him to snuggle.

5. He tried to fix the deck all by himself with Elmer's Glue today. Yup.

6. He is Felix to EG's Oscar. He gets bent out of shape when things are not put back where they belong. Our home will be a hard place for him to live.

7. We like him a lot and have had his contract re-upped for another year.

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.

Obligatory Halloween Pictures

Last week's madness has vanished, replaced by a beautiful indian summer, all the leaves we could ever hope to rake, and a pile of empty Whopper wrappers. 

I stayed up late to make sugar cookies for El Guille's school class.  I was to bring them to school for the kids to decorate as part of the Halloween party. I was also a little nervous since I've never been a room mother before. From what I remember of room mothers, they were the ones responsible for dying the milk green at my second grade St. Patrick's Day party that turned into my lifelong fear of artificially-colored foods. Hey, that's me! I am shaping the future neuroses of our children!


Proximo pitched a fit because he wanted to help a student decorate his cookie for him. The other kid, surprisingly, didn't want help from a 2-year-old. Proximo, who will not take no, logic, or attention diversion for an answer, was beside himself with anguish. "But I want to HEeeelp him! I hep! I hep" he sobbed. I resorted to stuffing M&Ms into his mouth to stop the crying. It worked. Must start carrying M&Ms with me at all times. 

E.G. was in the third group of kids to decorate. He walked into the art room and was so excited to see me, "Hey everyone! This is my MOM!" Everyone nodded a little, because moms are nothing new, and got down to decorating their cookies with black sparkle gel and orange frosting. "My mom makes the best cookies EVER!" E.G. declared. I nearly died on the spot from happy-shock with complications of bursting heart.
"Who here thinks my mom makes the best cookies, raise your hands!" Three or four kids, who have not even tried the cookies, raised their hands. Thanks for the votes, kids.

I made the kids eat oatmeal for breakfast and then raw vegetables for dinner two days straight. True story.  That way I felt less guilty about the volume of junk they were about to consume.

I made Proximo's costume. He went as a crayon. 

Here's a before shot of his teeth so when they rot out by next Thursday, we have a memory of pearly whites past:

El Guille went as an army guy. He begged for two months. I think it was mostly a ruse to get a gun.

(He didn't get a gun.)

He did, however, get an ACU (Active Combat Uniform) from Captain Galan and La Yen, stationed at Fort Bliss.  They are the exact same uniforms as the real soldiers wear, down to the fabric and number of pockets. "If these are camouflage, mom, then how do they find their friends?"
Good question, we might have to ask the captain.

E.G. was so excited that he wore the costume for three days. I even put him on latrine duty so he could have the full experience. He woke me up by standing next to my bed in his gear. "I bet you can't even see me right now, can you?" he giggled.
"Nope," I answered, "Who is even talking right now? I can't see anyone!"

What I didn't know, until I got to school on Friday, was that his best friend also dressed as an army guy so they could be soldiers together.

And YES, real soldiers wear cute black snow boots with fur sticking out the top (right?)

Boy, we had a lot of fun.

Especially Proximo, who spontaneously kissed several old women simply because they gave him candy.



Love these pictures? My sister took them.