Shits and Giggles

Last night our friends, Hollis and Ricky, came over for dinner. They come over on a pretty regular basis since they live so close and we all have a mutual dependency on Ryan’s cooking. While he was grilling out back with Ricky, I let Henry loose on the deck since he loves to be outside at any given chance even if it means running away. I told Ryan not to let him run in the yard since neither of us has cleaned up after George since before Palmer was born. 

While Ryan and Ricky were grilling, Hollis was contributing the side dishes and I was contributing empty beer bottles. As 7:30 approached, I knew it was time to start getting Henry to bed. I went out back and said, “Henry! Are you ready for bed?” and he replied, “Yes, Mommy! I’m beat! Let’s go now!” Psych. He ran into the corner of our yard and screamed, “NOOOOO!” So I said, “Ok, five more minutes!”

It was then I noticed the string of grass trailing from his shoes and remembered that our backyard is a minefield. And it’s tiny. So your chances of stepping in dog shit are… hold on… I’m not very good at math… 100%. Henry had undoubtedly stepped in crap and I was the brainiac who put Crocs on him. I asked Ryan if he'd picked up any of the poop out back and he said, "Umm, some of it." Which meant none of it.

After the requisite warning period was up, I went out to ask Henry to come inside. Knowing that he wouldn’t go softly into the dark night, I poised myself for a face off. I would have to go into the minefield and catch him, like he was some kind of greased pig or something. 

After some maneuvering, I caught the little sucker and carried him whilst he was kicking and screaming, flinging shit off his Crocs along the way. Once I pried his shoes off, I saw in horror as he had shit caked in underneath his toenails.

I screamed and picked Henry up and Hollis hurried to help me scrub his feet in the sink. As Hollis scraped poop from underneath Henry’s toenails—

This is why we are friends

--We both noticed that the smell of dog shit was not going away. I started screaming again because I realized he’d sat in a pile of poop and it was now on my arm. Ryan and Ricky came in to see what was going on, and Ryan, ever the helpful one, was quick to shout out helpful directions like, “Dry his feet off!” Because that’s what I’m worried about when I have dog shit up my arm.

I yanked Henry out of the sink, undid his belt and pulled his pants and underwear down in one fell swoop. And that’s when I saw it. Poop Soup. There was at least a half pound of runny poop in his underwear. It was a cauldron of frothy feces. It was not only in his underwear but had seeped up and over into his jeans.

At this point everyone is screaming and I am covered in George and Henry’s shit. I started screaming, “Oh my GOD! What do I do?!?” Because what do you do? Really, what do you do? I grabbed the poop soup underwear with one hand and with a pinky on the other hand grabbed a plastic bag and threw them to Ricky. Meanwhile, Ryan and Hollis have sprung into action and are hosing Henry’s butt down with the sink faucet. I resisted the urge to ask them to close the blinds to the window over the sink because, well, there was shit everywhere and George was circling like a shark waiting for its next meal.  

It took us about an hour to all get cleaned up, get Henry to bed, and finally sit down to eat. Dinner was delicious, albeit a bit cold and overcooked, but nothing a few beers didn't take care of. 


So how am I enjoying this beautiful spring weather today? Picking up poop out back. Ain't that some shit.*

*Oh, c'mon! I had to throw at least one poop joke in here!

That Time Henry Ran Away

In case you've never heard of the term the Arsenic Hour, let me explain it to you. It's the time of day when moms (or dads!) are trying to get dinner on and the kids are on their worst behavior. It's a recipe for disaster, which is why I never go into Arsenic Hour without an adult beverage, especially because Arsenic Hour is not an hour in my house. It starts at 4 p.m. and ends when the boys are in bed. 

Yesterday, was like any other Arsenic Hour. The TV was on. Henry and George were on the lookout for Daddy to come home and both went ape shit when he did walk in the door. (Let the record show that I receive no such fanfare when I return home). I was feeding Palmer. Music was playing. Dinner was cooking. But the balance between order and chaos is always precarious in my house as evidenced by my tale. 

Enter Hollis.

Hollis dropped by to pick up a few things, so we were talking in the kitchen. It's important to note that when Hollis and I talk, it can take hours to have a single conversation. Mostly because we should both probably be on some kind of attention deficit drug, but also because we both have kids and it's impossible to have a conversation uninterrupted. The ADD just makes it more fun because it can take us weeks to finish a single story. We were right in the middle of our third unfinished story when Ryan came downstairs and asked, "Where's Henry?"

I immediately called for George because the two are inseparable. Henry likes to think it's because they are best friends, but it's actually because he's like freaking Hansel and leaves a trail of crumbs, and now feces, wherever he goes. 

When Henry didn't answer and George didn't appear, Ryan immediately flew into Nervous Nelly mode and ran out the door. I, always the calm one, went upstairs to check and see if he was playing hide and seek, but Hollis shouted, "Oh, he's definitely outside!"

I ran out the door and, sure enough, our neighbor Amanda had George and Henry. Apparently, when Amanda was walking her dog, Doc, George burst out the storm door to play and Henry followed. 

What's great about this is that Ryan's reaction was, "Oh! Henry! You had us so worried!" and kissed his forehead. All the while, Henry was smiling at me guiltily. 

So if you ask Ryan what happened, he'll tell you that George burst out the door and Henry followed to stop him. If you ask me, I will tell you the truth. Henry saw George break out and followed suit, probably screaming, "Hey! Wait up, Dude!"

Wait up, Man!

This Is Why I Have a Dog

This morning as I was doing laundry (still), Henry came running through the room leaving a stink trail in his wake.

Before I continue this tale, let me explain that Henry is still not potty-trained. It's becoming a thorn in my side, especially since I keep getting coupons for Pull-Ups in all the diaper packages I buy. I also get them spit out at me when I check out at the supermarket as if I need more reminders that Henry needs to be potty-trained. Fuck off, Huggies. Don't you think I want my child potty trained? Assholes.

Anyways, I grabbed Henry and he wanted to go "poopy in the potty". And I'm all, "Sure, boss, but you're a little late there". I peel off his poopy diaper, put him on his potty, and shut the door because the kid likes his privacy in the bathroom, and who could blame him? I haven't gone to the bathroom alone since 2010. I give him a few minutes to do his thing while I toss his dirty diaper outside in the trash and when I open the bathroom door it's like... I don't even know how to explain this... like a poop bomb went off. Like Hiroshima. 

Henry is scooting across the floor like a dog with worms and there is a puddle of pee on the floor and an imprint of a butt on the wall made out of poop. There is poop smeared on the toilet and on the vanity and even on the air vent, like he wanted to air out his butt or something. I can't scream, but I obviously want to. It's a terrifying mess. Incidentally, the potty made it out unscathed.

Instead I smiled and with a trembling voice and through gritted teeth I said, "Wow! You are such a big boy! You went poopy and peepee in the potty!" Even though I want to scream, "HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK?!? JESUS CHRIST! OH MY GOD!" 

I take him and wipe him down with 23,455 wipes. In case you're wondering why I didn't just put him in the bathtub, you should know that putting him in the bathtub would just be more of a mess and a fight since he hates getting out of the tub. Plus, he'd wake up the baby which I needed at that moment like I need a litter of kittens.

So after I send him off on his merry way, I go to wash my hands and grab the Lysol wipes when I see George. Licking his chops. I walk to the bathroom and what do you know? Aside from the lingering smell of fresh shit, and a little puddle, there is no trace of poop anywhere. 

And this is why I have a dog.

George knows how to earn his keep.

What's Working

I'm no Dr. Phil fanatic, but I really love when he asks, "How's that working for you?" Sometimes it just takes asking that question to find value or fault in something that you just deal with absentmindedly. So, Dr. Phil, here's what's working:


My hair
I have had long hair for about ten years, but last month I got sick of looking at my bedraggled mop. There was just too much maintenance and not enough time, so I decided to trade in my long hair for something sleek and pulled together. A part of me worries that this is a mom cliche haircut, but my mantra lately has been "it doesn't have to work forever; it just has to work right now". This haircut takes me 15 minutes to blow dry and looks the same every time. It's a win in my book, and if I change my mind, hey, hair grows!

Now you know who to stalk.

Yoga Pants
Obvi. This is basically my uniform. I put on yoga pants, a cardigan and some ballet flats and BOOM, I'm ready. The trick is finding the perfect pants, which I have just about mastered for myself. And no, they have never been to yoga class. Who has time for that? Keep reading.

And I look exactly like this in my yoga pants.

BB Cream
I'm not one for makeup crazes. The ombre nail polish thing sets off my OCD. BB Cream happened because I ran out of moisturizer and thought it would be a great way to keep my adorable metrosexual husband away from my product. I have had more compliments on my skin in the past two months than I have since... well, I can remember. It's like a tinted moisturizer put on with an airbrush machine. It's working. Mommy rikey. Daddy no rikey.

This is the one I use. No, I am not getting paid for this endorsement, but I should.

Now for what's not working.

Sleep
Oh. My. Umm... I want to go back in time to when I was in college complaining about being tired and punch that girl in the face. And then I want to make that girl go punch another girl in the face. I was not tired. You see, Palmer, aka Puff, aka P Diddy, likes to check in with me anywhere from 3-7 times a night. Sometimes, just for shits and giggles, Henry will also wake up and as soon as I open his door, he goes back to sleep. Occasionally George, the dog, and Gus, the cat will chime in. I feel like it goes without saying that when Ryan snores, I hit him. With my pillow. Filled with bricks.

I heard somewhere that prison guards have made prisoners stay up as a form of torture. I understand. This is an effective form of torture. It makes me tired. Duh. But lack of sleep also makes me indecisive, crabby, unmotivated, and depressed, which all make me feel like a bad mom, a bad wife, and a bad friend. My birthday is next month and I'm not interested in presents. I'm interested in a hotel room to myself.

Time
Once upon a time, a 24 year old me told a friend she was planning on starting her novel when she became a mom because she would have more time on her hands. Fire up the flux capacitor on the DeLorean, boys! I'm going to go beat the shit out of myself!

"WTF, McFly. I told you to bring the Cheetos!"

I somehow got bamboozled into going back to grad school. Something about finishing my degree by this fall in order to save 24 credits and $12,000 I'd already invested in my education... Don't get me wrong, I love grad school. It's like a four hour vacation every week, but on top of my job as a full time caretaker, chef, maid, financial planner, event coordinator, professional organizer, and errand runner, it is stressing me out a *little* bit.

So there you have it. What's working or not working for you? Feel free to use my post idea and link me up to your blog. Or however that works.

Cheers!