"You want million dollar?"

For those of you who have never met my Hubby, he has a fairly zany sense of humour. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with him, and one of the things that helps us through tough times.

Hubby has an obsession with YouTube, especially when he can find episodes of the show Robot Chicken there. And unfortunately, he has a bad habit of showing these (admittedly side-splitting) clips to the boys.

The other day, he found this on the Net:

http://www.dumpalink.com/videos/Robot-Chicken-Who-Poop-Last-5a15.html

The boys, being boys, thought this is the funniest thing they had ever witnessed. For two days, our happy PMQ has rung with shouts of: "You want million dollars? Who Poop Rast!!!!"

It was all very funny until this morning. Super A. woke up at 6:30 a.m. and the first thing that came out of his mouth was the triumphant shout, "Who Poop Rast!!!!"

He woke everyone in the house. Soon his brother and sister were also shouting, "Who Poop Rast!!!" (Baby N.'s version was just the word "POOP" over and over.)

I sent Hubby to put them back to bed. His "poop"y mess, not mine.

You want million dollar?

Beans and cornbread had a fight

My Hubby enjoys food. He will eat almost anything put in front of him. This made the early part of our marriage much easier, since I wasn't a very good cook. No matter how charred, runny or lumpy a dish was, he always cheerfully dug in.

I am a picky eater, however, or rather a recovering one. I was the kind of child who would sit in front of a hated dish for hours rather than try it.

My brother J. tells a story about how I once ruined Thanksgiving. I tried a small bite of something I disliked because my mother threatened to take away dessert. My stomach rebelled, and I GROSSMENT puked all over the steaming turkey. END GROSSMENT

We had KFC for supper that night. J. was bitter for years.

Little I. seems to have inherited his father's cheerful love of food. But Super A. inherited my taste buds along with my imagination. I'm philosophical about it: He is healthy and growing, if a little skinny. I don't make him different food. If he doesn't eat, he goes hungry until the next meal or scheduled snack. It's his body. Whatever.

A.'s pickiness drives Hubby crazy. All A. has to do is say the magic words, "I don't like...." and Hubby's blood pressure shoots. He gets a wild look in his eye and a sneer on his face.

"You try that," he intones.

A. takes a small bite, makes the gross face and spits out the food.

This is where I usually intervene and remind A. of the table rules. One bite of everything. No spitting at the table. No complaining.

Lately, the fight has gotten worse. Hubby is pressuring him to eat more, and A. has been eating less and less.

Today at Thanksgiving dinner, Hubby looked like he was going to jump out of his seat, all over some uneaten potatoes.

What I can't get him to see is what is going on in A.'s head.

It's simple: he is sensitive to food. To its smell and taste and texture and temperature. Stress makes him more sensitive, so pressuring him to eat only makes him like the food less.

I am the same way. Even now, my food must be piping hot or ice cold. I can't eat lukewarm soup or melted ice cream or room temperature meat. Texture is important to me, too. I get it.

I don't know how to diffuse this. But in the end, eating is A.'s problem, not Hubby's. Until he accepts that, he's making it his problem.

I just have to avoid making it mine, too.

The Spider

Autumn has arrived in Victoria in the last few days. Leaves are turning crimson and gold and are falling off the many trees. Squirrels are searching for nuts. Deer are fattening up on berries and clover. And the spiders are moving indoors.

When we first moved here, I noticed the plethora of spiders. They were everywhere. I thought they were pretty big. I had no idea they were just little house spiders.

The other night, Hubby and I were in the kitchen eating a midnight snack when the biggest spider I have ever seen outside the Bug Zoo zoomed across the floor. It was the size of a saucer, and it moved with speed and precision.

Look, I'll be honest. I screamed like a little girl. But to my defence, even Hubby said, "Holy sh*t!" and ran to get a shoe to beat that spider into submission.

When Hubby hit it, it reared up on its legs. Yikes. Hubby pummeled it several times more until it expired. He then dropped it in the garbage.

Does anyone have a nontoxic way of keeping spiders out of my house? Please?

Adventures in pebbles and baby poop

It was bound to happen sometime.

Baby N. enjoys putting things in her mouth. A lot. More than the boys did at the same age, let me tell you. We are constantly scooping stuff out of her gob, everything from pennies to sticks to dust bunnies. She always complains loudly every time we rescue her digestive system from these objects.

Yesterday, however, she triumphed. Yesterday, she swallowed a pebble.

We were out on the back step. I was hanging laundry while Baby N. sat at my feet, playing with a toy. I had scanned the step for swallowable objects when we came outside. Nothing, I thought. Then Baby N. got that gleam in her eye.

She dived. I scooped her up, grabbed her cheeks, pushed on them to open her mouth, and inserted the trusty swiping finger. I could see the pebble at the back of her mouth. We struggled. She screamed, pulled her head back and went gulp! The pebble was gone.

I sighed, brought her inside, and called the BC Nurse Line.

She wasn't choking, wheezing or in pain; in fact, she was sashaying around the living room, enjoying her success.

The nurse told me to keep an eye on what comes out her other end.

"If she hasn't passed it in a week, bring her to the doctor," she said.

Princess Plumber Butt passed the pebble this morning in her ritual morning deposit.

And I wonder why I'm going gray.

M3 W2 D3: Welcome to puke city

Little I. is sick with a fever, vomiting and the most tenacious case of the whines I have ever encountered.

"Buuuuuttttttt it'sssss miinnnnnneeeeee! I want iiiiiiiit!"

"Nooooooo, I want to put on my snowsuiiiiiiit!" (followed by laying on the floor and refusing to do anything, then screams of rage when Mom puts on the suit.)

Multiply this by oh, 50 million times, and that was my day.

The baby is also feeling unwell and clingy, so by the end of the evening I was so fed up I was cursing under my breath and wishing to high heaven I had never given birth to any of them. I had two crying jags today; I haven't cried from exhaustion and frustration in a long time.

A. was a trooper, though. He distracted his siblings as much as he could, making them laugh every once in a while, and helping me in countless little ways. That boy really does have a compassionate heart. He put his arms around me at one point, looked in my eyes and said, "Tomorrow will be better, Mom."

Well, maybe I'm just wishing I'd stopped after A.

One of the reasons I'm feeling this way, of course, is the housework. I have a hard time keeping up on the best of days; add two sick children to the mix and it's darn near impossible. (Warning to HGers: GROSSMENT) My fridge smells like something is rotting, although I can't find it. My kitchen floor is sticky and grimy. My living room is full of clean, unfolded laundry. And my bathroom WAS a toothpasty, smelly mess until an hour ago. I scrubbed it out as soon as I got all the kids to bed. END GROSSMENT

I also managed to start the washer and dryer, wash the dishes and start the dishwasher tonight. Tomorrow night I'll scrub the fridge, the kitchen floor and clean the little appliances in the kitchen. Wednesday night is dusting and polishing. Day times will be laundry folding and vacuuming. By Friday the place should be clean enough to allow visitors.

A. spent yesterday afternoon and this afternoon at friends' houses (it's March break here, so no playschool for TWO. ENDLESS. WEEKS!) I'm hoping he can go out and have fun tomorrow, too, while the siblings recover.

Five weeks and 5 days to go.

Calm out the window

I can't believe how much can change in less than 12 hours.

I'm done. I'm just done with being ignored and picked on and provoked. If these kids weren't my very heart, I would walk out the door.

The baby cried all day -- every time I put her down. EVERY time! So I got nothing done. I stayed home all day to clean and got no cleaning done.

I am also getting another intraductal yeast infection. It hurts to nurse. Thanks, antibiotics.

Little I. moped and whined and tantrumed and refused to talk to his father on the phone.

A. blatantly ignored me all evening, even as I was telling him he had poop on his bum and to NOT touch it. He looked me straight in the eyes, touched it and almost put his freaking finger in his mouth. I grabbed it just in time and frog-marched him to the sink. I wanted to shake him. It took every last ounce of my strength, and probably the arms of his guardian angel, to hold me back.

I ended the night a bawling mess. I would never hurt my kids, but I think my emotional state frightened them.

I sat down on their bed and apologized, making it clear that I am responsible for my actions, not them. They sweetly forgave. "Mommy," Little I. said, shaking a finger, "you frew a tantwum! You need to cool off!"

I want to EAT, but just keep telling myself that food fixes hunger, not a broken mommy heart.

Week three, day six: We've got a floater!

Today bit.

This morning I realized I'm going to have a very hard month financially. Hubby got paid, but his pay stub says one amount and the deposit we got in the bank account was only a third of that.

He told me last month that his first two paycheques will probably be smaller than what he is actually owed, and the third will be normal plus whatever was missing before (payroll snafus at the training facility.) I thought it would be half his pay, and I could live with that. It was a third. And I can't call him and warn him to go talk to the payroll people. I have to wait for him to call.

If he talks to payroll we'll be fine. If not, I'm worried. (and NO, I don't need money, my lovely friends. If the going gets tough I'll let you know. Right now I'm ok.)

Little I. was needy and tantrumy all day.

(Warning to HGers: GROSSMENT)

Then tonight during the boys' bath, as I was shampooing Baby N.'s hair in her oh-so-cute sink tub, the happy, splashy bath sounds from the big tub ceased. And then A. let out a wail.

"Mooooom! Little I. pooped in the tub!!!"

I wrapped the just rinsed baby in a towel, plopped her unceremoniously on the floor (crying ensued) and sprinted the three steps to the big tub.

It contained two wet boys, a dozen bath toys, and five pieces of brown, smelly poop. The poop was busily dissolving in the warm water. The stench was horrendous, like someone had turned a toilet into a Crock Pot.

Little I. had the strangest expression on his face, as if he was thinking, "I know that's mine, but I have no idea how it got out of my body and into the tub."

I pulled the boys out, threw them on a towel and chucked their toys in the sink. Amidst howls from the baby, I scrubbed out the tub, called my mom for advice, rinsed the tub like mad, filled it again and threw the boys back in.

Then I dressed the baby and plunked her into her swing, still screaming. I washed and bleached the tub toys and sink, washed the boys, and sent them to get pajamas.

I picked up the howling, angry baby. She took one furious look at me and then puked all over me and the floor, missing herself entirely.

F*ck.

(END GROSSMENT)

Finally got the boys in bed, baby calmed down and asleep, bathroom cleaned and bleached and living room rug spot-cleaned. And now the laundry I was going to fold tonight is still sitting untidily in four baskets in my living room.

Notes to self:

1. Little I. is not ready to be potty-trained, as he seems unable to tell when he needs to go vs. when he's farting.
2. If Little I. ever gets constipated, sit him in a warm bath ALONE for awhile.
3. Bathing the baby while the boys had their bath seemed like a good way to multi-task, but was a very bad idea.
4. A. deserves a medal for being willing to get in the bath with Little I. at all. This is the second time he's pooped in the tub. Hubby handled it last time, thank goodness!
5. Any ounce of glamour you may have thought you still possessed is a pipe dream. Let the delusion go.