Magic Vomit-Away Cleaners!

I am quite aware that the next thing I was supposed to post was the Guinness crock pot brisket. I'm totally gonna get to that. But we've been sick.

This family doesn't get colds. Oh no! Not a simple little case of the sniffles. When we get sick, we do it in an epic way. We get the plague. Bear, for instance, rarely gets a head cold. But she HAS had an intestinal parasite, mono (which caused hepatitis and jaundice), and has a tendency toward recurrent staph and MRSA. TMI? Sorry.

We have, as a family of five, had a horrendous vomiting virus. This comes immediately after both the older kids had a recent bout with strep. Roo came through that unscathed (and, honestly hasn't had more than a runny nose in her almost-eight months) but she caught this one in a big way.

I thought it was her new food of beans, which Wes totally thanked me for when he changed her diaper, but, no. Wes and I, as a couple, spent quality time together hanging out with the porcelain god, being truly sexy to one another. As a side note, it will be a LONG TIME before we eat Swiss steak again. The next morning, true to fashion, I spent no time alone in the bathroom, with my personal cheerleader, Monkey, right along side me as I was on all fours in the bathroom floor.

"Mommy? You doing?"
"I'm sick."
"You throw up?"
"Yes."
HEAVE
"Good JOB, Mommy!!"
HEAVE
"Good JOB!"
HEAVE
"Good JOB, Mommy!"
...continue in similar vein...

So, I was the idiot who got better when everyone else got sick. Wes has managed to conjure up an infected toe and knee, so he was useless. Therefore, I was one to be vomited upon, spit upon, peed upon... I truly believe that the difference between moms and other humans is the natural reaction to cup your hands and hold them in front of a child vomiting...or not. I do. FML.

Regardless, my carpet has absorbed a ridiculous amount of vomit in the past few days. Add that to the fact that our neurotic cat, Adso, has decided that the kids' bathroom is her own carpeted litter box, and it became necessary to CLEAN OUR CARPETS.

That was today's task. So my carpet cleaner came with a detergent, but I've found that most carpet detergents leave behind a film which actually ATTRACTS dirt. I guess, if you're a Dirt Devil CEO, that's a good thing. I'm not. I'm a mom. A rather lazy mom who despises the smell of cat piss, vomit, and the act of carpet cleaning. So I began my Pinterest search for a magic carpet cleaner machine solution that would solve all my problems. I got nada.

Bitches, I came up with my own.

The solution reservoir on my Dirt Devil holds *about* a gallon (??). So I used 2 cups of vinegar, 3/4 cup of peroxide, and a few drops of lavender essential oil (in a grapeseed carrier). I filled up the rest with hot (reeeeally hot) water. Before I began, I sprinkled the carpet with baking soda. I know baking soda is the miracle cure, but I didn't really want to make a science experiment volcano in the machine's reservoir.

That shit is awesome. I shall now commence to slap myself a high five. It's like liking your own Facebook status....

So after two hours of meticulous carpet cleaning, I could still, with my bloodhound nose (my kids will NEVER be able to smoke pot and get away with it) smell cat pee. I hate that damn hairless cat. I rue the day I rescued her.

So I had to make a carpet freshener. And, of course, I had to wait til the carpet was dry to apply it. That gave me time to play, AHEM, search diligently for a carpet freshener recipe on Pinterest. Good deal.

I mixed a cup of baking soda with the recommended 20 drops .... I lie. I overdo everything. I used more like thirty drops of lavender essential oil, which I happen to have on hand from News-Muz, and spent the next thirty minutes whisking the shit out of it. Poured that mess in a Parmesan cheese container and sprinkled it generously about the kids' bathroom.

Vacuum. Amen.

Omg.

Magic. Lavender. Awesomeness.

Again....

You're welcome.

GUEST POST: The GO-gurt

For your reading pleasure today, I'm posting a story from my sister, Jennie, who also has three kids. I'm not sure if this convinces me that my family in its entirety is completely dysfunctional, or if simply everyone has as much "fun" as I. Either way, it's sure to leave you in stitches. If not, it'll at least make you feel better about your life. :D

•••••••••••••••••••••

I had been warned that raising 3 kids was kinda like a 3-ring circus.  Either that or you lose your mind after the 3rd one is born.  One is easy.  Two?  No problem!  Add a third child, and it's like a whole new ballgame.  Today was living evidence of that.

Living in GA has its perks.  It's relatively warm in the winter, and being only 10 miles from the Atlantic Ocean keeps it pretty nice in the summer, too.  Today, however, Old Man Winter made his one and only (I'm hoping) guest appearance.  It was COLD.  Well, cold for south Georgia.  It was all the way down to 35!  So when my alarm went off at 5:00 telling me it was time for my morning run, I decided that I could wait until tomorrow when the temperature is supposed to only be 49.  Hey!  Fifteen degrees is a big difference!  Especially when you are running in the pre-dawn stillness.  I rolled over and promptly overslept.  At 5:50, I leapt out of bed and began the mad dash to get myself and 3 kids ready for school.  In addition to the fact that I have 3 kids to get ready, I also live 45 minutes from the school where I teach.  However, to make my life simpler (*insert dry chuckle, sotto voce, here*) we've enrolled the kids the the school district where I teach instead of the very bad school system where we live.  So, although it makes my life simpler in the afternoons, it also requires that the kids are up and out the door no later than 6:45 a.m. because the elementary school my middle child attends starts at 7:30.

"Let's go, let's go, let's GO!"  I'm racing around, getting the kids dressed and trying to get the youngest, who is a very dedicated sleeper, up and out of the bed.  My oldest, Liz, is usually a really big helper.  Today, though, I'm thinking she had a bad case of "brain-freeze."  I can only hope it's because of the cold.  I'm more afraid it's hormones.  As I am about to get in the shower, she comes into my room and says, "What does David want for breakfast?"  Keep in mind, now, that my middle child, David, just turned 8 and suffers from mild hypoglycemia.  If he doesn't eat, we're talking about a major blood sugar crash including the shakes, crying, incomprehensible stuttering, the whole she-bang.  Remember that scene from Steel Magnolias when Julia Roberts' blood sugar crashes in the beauty shop?  Yeah, something like that, except it's with a little boy.  Not fun.  To help me out, for the last several weeks, Liz has been fixing breakfast for David and Caleb (the sleeper, who takes his breakfast to school and eats with his PreK class) while I take a shower.  "I don't know!  Ask David!" I reply.  She asked David and I hear him tell her he wants the leftover grits from yesterday that are in the fridge.  Easy enough.  Insert grits in microwave, zap! and bob's-your-uncle, you got breakfast, Georgia-style.  Granted, a little butter and brown sugar help, but whatever.  Simple breakfast, you'd think, right?  Little do you know....

All the schools around here are in uniform. The choices for pants are khaki, navy, or black, so you'd think that getting ready for school would be kinda simple, wouldn't you?  Wouldn't you?   After my shower, I dress, do my hair, and check on the boys.  Caleb is hiding under a blanket in front of the space heater and David is wearing a pair of size 6, torn and dirty khakis,  (remember he's 8).   Thus ensues the following conversation:
"David, you can NOT wear those pants.  They're dirty!"
"But I accidently dribbled pee on my other pants and I can't wear them!"
"Where are your navy pants?
"NOOOOO!  I'll look like a DORK!" [When, WHEN did 8-year old boys suddenly become aware of fashion???]
"You will not look like a dork.  Everybody wears blue pants."
"Yes I will.  I don't like those pants."
"Put the pants on.  I'm sorry.  They are all we have.  I'll wash the others tonight."  After a back-and-forth battle of wills, I finally force him to put on the pants.

I wrestle my very sturdy 5 year old, Caleb, into some of his own clothes and head to the kitchen.  In an effort to get David to stop sniffling about looking like a dork, I offer to heat up the leftover soup and put it in his soup container in his lunchbox.  This does the trick.  I order him to go make his bed and put on his shoes while I fix the soup.  I throw the soup in a pot and turn on the stove, turn around to find David back in the kitchen, sniffling again.
"Momma!?"
"WHAT?!"
"There's a great big hole in my pants."  I go to investigate, suspecting him of making a big deal out of nothing just to get out of wearing the pants.  But, no, there really is a rather large hole in his pants. Right at the crotch. Crap.  What do you expect from Wal-Mart?  High quality?
"Fine. Go take them off and I'll sew them up."  I take the pants and ask Lizzie to watch the soup.  By this time, it's 6:25.  We are running out of time and I'm getting frantic.  I don't have time to rethread the sewing machine and wind a new bobbin, so white thread will just have to do.  I fix the pants.  Whew!  Crisis averted.

I take over in the kitchen and Lizzie goes back to get her backpack and books out of her room.
"Momma?!"  I turn around to find Caleb shuffling into the kitchen wearing his pants and underwear around his ankles.
"WHAT are you doing?"
"I'm sorry, Momma!  I couldn't make it to the potty!"  Dear sweet baby Jesus.  If I leave the soup, it'll burn.  (The whole time this is happening, I'm really beginning to resent my husband who is still peacefully sleeping on the couch.  How do I know this?  Because his snores are rattling the windows.  *sigh*)
"LIZZIE?!  Help your brother find some clean underwear and pants.  He's peed in these!"  Caleb goes hopping down the hall, little white buttcheeks bouncing like the Easter Bunny.
I go back to stirring the soup.
I finish the damn soup and go to check on Caleb.  Lizzie has dressed him in black pants with a navy, yellow and red top.  ARGH!  "Put these jeans on him and LET"S GO!  We're going to be late!"

Finally set, I usher the kids into the car.  Lunches, backpacks, books, bags, purses, everyone buckled.....WAIT!  I'd forgotten my phone.  I go running back into the house to get my phone.  I come running out through the kitchen to find Lizzie slamming about looking for a spoon with a yogurt container in her hand.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET IN THE CAR!!!"
"David hasn't eaten any breakfast."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'DAVID HASN'T EATEN'?  DIDN'T YOU FIX HIM BREAKFAST?"
I kid you not.  She actually looked at me and said, "Well, I was fixing toast and David said he wanted grits."  Surely I misheard her.  Surely she didn't just tell me that she didn't fix her brother's breakfast because she was 'doing toast.'  But I didn't have time to dwell on that.  We were LATE.  "Fine!  Just get the damn yogurt and get in the frickin' car!"  I am truly beginning to lose it by this time.

Finally in the car, we're on our way.  David digs a spoon out of his lunchbox and opens the yogurt.  Granted, I should've told him to wait until he got to school.  But I wasn't thinking.  I was still seeing red from "I only do toast."  Driving like Cruella DeVille in 101 Dalmatians, I tear out of the drive, manage to get the green arrow at the end of the road and take off like a bat outta Hades.  We get one block down the road and David starts wailing, "The yogurt is spilling!"  [I'm sure it had nothing to do with my driving....and all over his favorite blue pants!]

Now, pause just a moment here.  It is 6:50 on a cloudy morning, headed northwest.  It is DARK.  I can't see anything except what the lights in front me show. Imagine the scene.  Lizzie's in the front seat.  David's in the middle of the back because the child gets so carsick that he must be able to see in front of him or he'll puke before we go 5 miles and Caleb is sitting in his booster seat behind Lizzie.  David reaches forward to hand his yogurt cup to Lizzie, unbeknownst to me.  And I, in a fit of temper, sweep my right hand back and across, catching the bottom of the yogurt cup in Lizzie's hand and knock the yogurt, topsy-turvy, all over the inside of the car.

There's yogurt everywhere.  There's yogurt across the inside of the windshield.  There's yogurt on the gearshift, the emergency brake, the seats, the windows.  It's on David, it's on the bookbag, it's on the floor.  Caleb starts screaming and crying, "You got yogurt in my hair!"  There's yogurt going down his back (I have no idea how it got BEHIND his head and down his back, but it did.).  "You got yogurt in my eye!  It's not nice for you to put yogurt in my LEFT EYE!" [As opposed to your RIGHT EYE?]

I honestly don't know whether I should've just called in sick or what. Instead, I do a u-turn in the middle of Victory Drive (ironic, huh?) and head back home.  All three have to change clothes and the yogurt has to be cleaned up and David STILL has not eaten.  Caleb cries all the way home, reminding me again how "NOT NICE" I am for putting yogurt in his LEFT eye!  We get home and order the kids inside while I start cleaning up the car.  I look up to see them standing there. "Daddy locked the door when we left."  GREAT!  PERFECT!  BRILLIANT!  I unlock the door, and start the cleaning process.

15 minutes later, we're back in the car.  Caleb's hair is washed out with a wet cloth and he's wearing yet another outfit, David is back to wearing the torn, dirty, size 6 pants, and Lizzie is completely in tears.  The inside of my car smells like a sour burpcloth and peaches and we are now a complete 30 minutes late getting off to school.  And I now have to stop by McDonald's (my absolute least favorite place) to buy David some breakfast.


I am seriously thinking about starting my day tomorrow with a shot of whiskey.

Mucus Monsters Roam the Halls

All three of my kids have been fighting off colds for weeks. I've tried homeopathic remedies and the like, but Monkey finally succumbed to all the mucus that had inundated his head. He started running a fever and I didn't give him anything for it because it wasn't that high and I figure the body is fighting something, better let it do its job.

Let me just say: he is sooooo sweet when he's sick. This is a red-headed three-year-old who is running at full-throttle 12 hours a day. So it was nice for him to just want to snugs and cuddle with mommy. But I ended up taking him to the doctor.

Is this not the most pitiful picture you have EVER seen??

I'd just like to know who made the rule that if kids are deathly ill at home, they will be just fine and dandy when they get to the doctor? I always look like that worry-wart mother that takes her kids in if they sneeze once. By the time we get there, he is playing and talking and not running a fever at all. I have been assured that it's not just my kids who do this.

But he was legitimately sick. Sinus and double ear infection. Gross. He had so much mucus in his head that it was literally coming out his eyes. Yeah. So they put him on antibiotics (I try to avoid them, but, man, when they are needed, by God, they are needed).

 So Monkey is on his way to recovery. Go team!

Naturally, I get sick. It had been coming on all week, but the cough turned into a lung shutdown. Gasping for breath is not high on my list of things to do while being clobbered by children. And when a 35 pound three-year-old wants to be held constantly, it starts to take its toll. By Friday night Monkey was feeling better and I had almost lost my voice. So while he is jumping off the coffee table over and over (and over and over and over...) I'm laying on the couch nursing Roo, so I can't get up, and I can't even make myself heard because my voice is almost gone.

stop, pleeeease *cough cough* stoooop

I have adorable brochitis. They said it's acute, but I think adorable sounds better. Apparently it was almost pneumonia. Sigh. Sometimes you just can't fight off the germs, no matter how hard you try. On the plus side, Monkey is back to his old self.

By the next morning...

Well, almost.

Crying for daddy. Can't win em all.

I know hell is hot, but how's the humidity?

So. I remembered that I have a blog. Last time I used it was '09 and it wasn't even something I wrote. But I know a lot of shtuff about a lot of crap, so, now I guess I will use it...

But then came the issue of what to write about. And then I was all, "Hey me, it's your blog. Write about whatever the hell you want..." So I said ok. So my first real post shall be about my day from hell: last Thursday.

The whole day was rather shitty. I was supposed to buy a minivan, and writing checks for $10,000 puts me in a generally bad mood... But the hubby came home on his lunch break and so we watched some tv til it was time for me to go pick up my oldest kid from school.

I have the three young'uns. Bear is the oldest at 7. Monkey is gonna be three in October, and I just had the Roo in June. We haven't figured out what's causing them yet... So both the babies are napping when it comes time for me to get Bear. So we decided to just pick them up and toss 'em in their car seats and take off. When I say we, I mean Wes put Roo in her seat and I put Monkey in the car, and I left and he went back to work.

Now, Roo being the incredibly gassy baby that she is, soaked her onesie with spit-up, so I had taken if off of her. It was close to 600 degrees outside anyway, I figured she'd survive. And Monkey takes all his clothes off before he naps (yes, that's my child) so he was diaper-clad, as well. And of course, being the classy chic I am, I had on Daisy Dukes, a nursing top with a flimsy shelf bra (NOT adequate for the load they were bearing) and flip-flops, no makeup. Awww yeeeeah. But, hey, we weren't getting out of the car or anything, right?

Bear at the tv station.

We get to the school and I'm one of the last mothers in line. I pull up. No Bear. The teacher directing this clusterf**k checks the name, goes in, looks for Bear, comes back. Asks me to pull up and park.

"Is she in an afterschool program?"
"No."
"Does she go to daycare?"
Woman, I'm here to get her, why would she need to be in daycare?? "No."
"Well, she's not in the gym, and we can't find her..."
What. The. Hell.

So I start having a mini-panic attack, but what I actually said was, "I have an infant and a toddler in the car, I can't really get out and search for her."
"Could she be in Girl Scouts?"
"She asked to be in Girl Scouts, but I told her no, that she already has plenty to do with gymnastics and acting classes."
She told me to park back by the door and they would look again. As I shift out of park, I hear, "Here she is!!"

Yes, that is my child, being led by a hand held by another random teacher, wearing a size 4 winter hoodie in the dog days of August in western Kentucky. Score.

"She was in Girl Scouts..."
And Bear is in tears because "I just want to be a Girl Scout, blah, blah, blah..."

FINE. "You reeeally want to be in Girl Scouts?"
"Yeeeeeeeesssss."
FINE.

I pull up to the door, and get her BACK out of the car, figuring I just need to pop my sexy butt into a classroom real quick and sign a permission slip. Oh look. There's the principal in the lobby of the school.

"My kids are in the car, I will be right back, ok?" I say to the principal.
"Do you want me to keep an eye on them?"
"Well, they aren't going anywhere, just make sure no one hops in and steals 'em, ok?" I give my best I'm-not-a-horrible-mother-I-really-care-if-my-kids-are-okay smile.

As we pass the group of teachers involved in locating my 7-year-old Houdini, I hear them saying, "And she just wanted to be in Girl Scouts, and you could tell she was really upset, but her mother told her she couldn't, and..."

Nice.

Bear leads me, not to a nearby classroom, but aaaaaall the way to the back of the school, out the back door, to a trailer that apparently houses the music room. And we enter, me in my oh-so-motherly outfit, say the Pledge of Allegiance, repeat the Girl Scouts pledge, begin the rules of Girl Scouts... Seriously?

"I'm sorry, but I have to get back to my other kids in the car. Do I need to sign a permission slip...?"

Nope.
They didn't need a damn thing from me.
Awesome.

So I kiss her, leave, walk out to the door into the school, aaaaaand it's locked.
Shoot. Me. Now.
Let me tell you, those teachers haul ass outta that school when it is over. There was no one to be found. So I suck it up and take off to walk around the entire school at top speed. I'm so glad everyone had gone home.

Ninety-nine percent humidity does a lot of things. One thing it does is make a pair of short-shorts ride straight up the ass of whomever has the luxury of wearing them as they trek across blacktop in August. But that was nothing compared to what was happening in my chest region. That shelf bra is no substitute for a good sports bra, or, you know what? Any bra would have been better.

As I finally round the front corner of the building, I realize that NOT everyone had gone home. The teachers who were standing in the lobby (the front of which is all glass) all slowly turn and look right at me.
Hello.
I should have waved.
Now, remember, my last name is spelled M-A-N-T-E-R-F.......

I make it to the car. As I suspected, Roo is screaming her little head off. So I go to comfort her so I can get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, aaaaaand--- Wes didn't put the binky in the car seat.

F**ck my life.

The rest of the day was insane. I'm talking straight jackets and padded cells insane. But it wasn't nearly as funny. So I'll leave you with this mental picture of hilarity at my expense for now, and try to think of something entertaining to bring you next time.

*UPDATE*
Yesterday, Thursday,  I get a phone call from the school.

"Hi, this is Nancy. Who is picking up Bear today?"
"Um. She has Girl Scouts."
Talking to Bear "Did you forget you had Girl Scouts?"
Mumbling in the background
"Ok, we'll send her to Girl Scouts."

A little while later....

"Hi, this Nancy again. You can pick Bear up around back of the school when it is time."
"You mean the same place I picked her up last week?"
"Yes."
"Ooookay."
"The troop leader said she wasn't on the roster."
"Well she wasn't on the roster last week and no one could find her."

I go to pick her up.
No kids around back.
I see my friend in her van.
"Where are the girls?"
"Mine are in the back of my car"
"Where's mine?"
"I don't have yours."
What the crap????

I'm like clueless mother of the year. Apparently Girl Scouts only meets every other week. How the hell would I know that? Bear attended Brownies and got a double dose of scouts. Go team.