Weekend Photo Round-Up

A typical early morning pile-up.

Checking out the view from the master bedroom.

Checking out the view from....um. There.

Slightly skeptical, sandy.

Only complaint so far: It's just OH SO CROWDED AROUND HERE.

Climbing his first tree.

And getting appropriately contemplative about it.

Exploring, or possibly on a deranged quest to get back to the house kitchen WHERE ALL THE FOOD IS NOM NOM NOM PAPAYA PINEAPPLE CHICKEN FRITTERS SCRAMBLED EGGS HOT SAUCE

Taking time from my busy schedule to sit upright. Slightly.

Bushed babies.

Shut Up

I did not buy this magazine. They have like, every magazine on the planet out in the living room and it was there when we got here. It was THERE WHEN WE GOT HERE. Whatever. I'm reading it for the Obama articles and stuff. I barely even noticed the five-page spread about whats-his-abs there. I'm totally going to read the latest issue of The Atlantic next.

Or maybe whatever has Lady Gaga on the cover.

Landed

I didn't even go to bed last night. I took a packing break and a nap at some point between 2 and 2:30 am; we left for the airport at 3. (And yes, that was THREE TO THE A TO THE M.) We got on a plane. Two planes. However many planes. I put "writer" as my occupation on my customs form and the officer was all, "SO WHAT DO YOU WRITE, AMY STORCH?" And I was all, "Uhhhhhummmmonlineparentingcolumns?" He let me into the country. Some guy tried to hustle an iPhone from my four-year-old. We drove across Jamaica and saw orange groves and burning sugar cane and poverty and cook shacks and beautiful children in their spotless school uniforms. We stopped at a roadside stand and ate the most incredible jerk chicken I have ever tasted while talking with kind people who were easy to talk to. Ezra also ate a ridiculous amount of that chicken, then gnawed on a drumstick before giving up and just dipping his hands in the hot sauce and licking it straight off his fingers. Noah saw a rooster. He is still talking about that unbelievable, real-life, amazing, cock-a-doo-ing-damn rooster.

We are indeed here in Bluefields, and oh, but I am so tired. I will leave you with some photos, and a promise to post again tomorrow and the day after that and so on and so forth until we go home OH GOD THEY ARE GOING TO MAKE US GO HOME NOOOO.

 

 

Call me an optimist, but I think this is going to be a pretty good week.

Amalah On Tour

So I have a real-life friend (SHUT IT. I DO.) whom I've known for a pretty long-ish time. She's known me since before we had babies, since before this blog was the crowning achievement of my life's work, since back when I wore terrifically large and misguided flower pins. She may or may not have played a central part in the Very Last Time I Was Allowed To Play a Board Game With Other People. Although thinking back to that last one, some of my aggression may have had to do with JELUSY, as my friend has a pretty awesome job working PR and marketing for hotels, namely resorts. Beautiful, tropical resorts that she gets to visit and see firsthand. Plus, she's way prettier than I am.

ANYWAY. Right before Thanksgiving, she sent me a message on Facebook: Hey Amy, do you want to go to Jamaica?

I messaged back something jackassy like UH, HELL YES. DURR.

Her reply: Great! Do the boys have their passports? They'd like to send you pretty much right away.

Me: Wait. You were serious?

At that point, I admit I slammed on the breaks, because WHOA. WHAT. I get super-nervous about this sort of thing: there's always the inevitable wank-y fallout, as people grumble over who does and does not merit getting Free Stuff, plus what were "they" expecting from me, as I'm not a travel writer or...or...well, anything other than someone who writes funny stories about dumb stuff but certainly takes this dumb stuff fairly seriously, and my dumb stuff is not for sale! You keep your free stuff out of my dumb stuff! And that's a POLICY.

Turns out that "they" were a local DC family who own a cluster of villas in one of the more far-flung areas of the island -- a fishing village that has only had phone lines since the late 1990s, a village that they are passionate about providing opportunities for, either through employment or helping to provide early childhood education. They also cater to families, providing full-time nannies and such during your stay. My friend asked the owner, after visiting with her husband and baby boy, if they'd thought about reaching out to a mommyblogger. The owner said sure, did she know any?

And the moral of the story is: Wait until your friends are too drunk to remember anything before you backhand them across the face over a game of Cranium.

***

So the deal was, for full disclosure: We pay for airfare and staff gratuities. Bluefields provides the lodging and meals for a week. I bring my laptop and post during the trip, but only about things I want to post about, would usually post about, and no expectation that I'm there to be some bloggy travel-brochure for them.

I continued to hem and haw about it until late December, when I looked around at my little family, my stressed-out and overworked husband, Noah, who has never seen anything more exciting than the beach in his own home state and begs to go to the airport for fun, and Ezra, who I would not want to leave for a week of vacation but who admittedly makes it hard to enjoy a vacation that involves diapers and naps and water safety all by ourselves. I finally thought: Screw it. Screw everything. Let's go on a damn VACATION.

All that stood between us and paradise were passports. Jason's had expired, and neither of the boys had one. And we'd stupidly neglected to ever order Ezra's official birth certificate. This is a problem, for my fellow travel neophytes. And Dear Lord in Heaven: Do not ever attempt to get passports at the last minute, even if everyone assures you that three or four weeks is not technically last minute. We paid a fooldamn fortune to get all three passports expedited, spent an entire Saturday in a quest for an open passport office and then waited in a Line Of The Damned, and very nearly purposely abandoned a child or two at Fed Ex Kinkos in our attempt to get photos taken. (Seriously, though: Ezra looked away from the camera in the first two shots the guy tried, as he is A BABY, and the guy SLAMMED THE CAMERA DOWN on a nearby counter and walked away with his hands over his hard while saying, "THAT'S IT, I'M DONE." Oh...okay?)

In the end, we got everything gathered and out and applied for. And Noah's and Jason's passports arrived after two weeks or so. We assumed Ezra's would arrive the next day. Or the day after that? Shit. Where is it? With DAYS to go, we started calling, and kept getting the same message: It's processing. Finally: It's been shipped.

More days go by.

The U.S. Postal Service: Uh. We dunno. Weird.

You guys, as of YESTERDAY, we still did not have Ezra's passport. You have never, ever seen a more hysterical person. Than me. Every night I laid awake, wide awake, panicking over something I had less than zero control over, because you can yell at people on the phone all you want but that isn't going to make anyone head out and start searching postal trucks for lost express envelopes for you.

(Whenever I did get to sleep, I kept having the same nightmare over and over again, involving these giant alien robots from Neptune invading earth, while I was trapped in this constant scenario of needing to hide while in a room full of hundreds of people who I KNEW would soon be...shot? eaten? stepped on?...but I knew if I could just find a closed space and not move, I might just make it. But then I was always stuck with these two other people, one of whom always failed to grasp the gravity of the GIANT ALIEN ROBOTS FROM NEPTUNE SITUATION and would do something stupid like forget to close a set of vertical blinds or start spinning around in an chair or answer his phone right when the robots showed up, and at this point I would finally wake myself up because I was that terrified, so I have no idea if my plan to hide under office furniture was indeed the correct way to deal with giant alien robots from Neptune.)

Ezra's passport arrived today. We leave tomorrow morning.

(Please don't hate me. Much.)

May I Have Your Attention. Because I Am Fresh Out.

I just spent a good 40 minutes battling with my phone and laptop, attempting to successfully extract and edit a video I shot this weekend at our friends' house, while our collective herd of children ran laps around the downstairs while screaming at the top of their lungs. Over and over and over.

And then, when I was all done, I had a 20 incomprehensible seconds of blurry children running past me while screaming at the top of their lungs. Like this: AAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! 

So I don't think I'm going to post that, as 1) the only way to really convey what the evening was like would be to loop those 20 seconds over and over again, for a good 45 minutes or so, which is how long it took the children to hit the wall -- figuratively, though I think Noah may have collided with a doorknob at some point, 2) it's making me kind of seasick, now that I've watched it a couple times, and 3) the only way it would be kind of funny is if I was all, TURN UP YOUR SPEAKERS THIS IS REALLY CUTE and then you were all GREAT, NOW I'M BOTH DEAF AND FIRED. THANKS A LOT, HOOKER.

Okay, that last bit actually might have been really funny, even though you don't deserve that. What have you ever done to me? Nothing! You have done nothing. Sorry about that one time I thought about trying to get you fired. 

Okay, sorry. You probably couldn't tell, but I stopped typing for another 20 minutes there because I had to go track down that old video? Of the car driving through the countryside? And you were told to watch really carefully for a ghost or something? Do you know that one? And then suddenly something (witch? demon? Rick Springfield?) jumps into frame and screams really loud and it made you jump and spill your Cup 'O Soup all over your keyboard and then you were all YOU ASSHOLE to the person who sent it to you, who was usually standing right outside your office door cackling with glee? Also, do they still make Cup 'O Soup?*

I just watched it again. Jumped out of my fucking skin. Scared the cat. I AM AN ASSHOLE. 

*Huh. I was actually thinking of Lipton Cup-a-Soup. Cup 'O Soup is a costume that Justin Timberlake wore on SNL and something on Urban Dictionary that, if the excerpt in Google's search results is any indication, I would strongly advise against investigating further. Lipton's Cup-A-Soup is quite often listed as Cup OF Soup on many shopping sites, and that's kind of funny to me and you know I really don't understand why I have such a hard time getting stuff done sometimes.

It Is All Downhill From Here. And We're Probably About Halfway Down the Hill Already.

THE UPDATE YOU PROBABLY WEREN'T WAITING FOR: Noah's ear infection magically stopped bothering him as soon as the sun came up. Like a vampire. A vampire who craves xylitol gum instead of blood. That simile worked better in my head. Moving on. The doctor confirmed the infection but didn't think it warranted antibiotics, and sent us on our way with merely a prescription for some ear drops. The line at the pharmacy was too long and Noah was! too! hopped! up! onlifetheuniverseeverything! so I grabbed the over-the-counter version instead, which we haven't had to use ANYWAY, and probably won't have to until two months after they expire. Yesterday, Ezra got sick, really sick, all pathetic and snotty and puffy, with liquids oozing out of his eyes and nose. I had the distinct honor of wiping all those fluids off his face, overandoverandover, and my reward for this TOTALLY AWESOME TASK THAT I WAS ALREADY SO EXCITED ABOUT was for him to fight me tooth and nail every time. Sometimes he would sneeze on me.

IN OTHER NEWS: I've been nominated for a Bloggie. For the first time ever! This is the start of something big! Except...it's for the Lifetime Achievement one. The one that I am pretty sure is the Bloggie equivalent of a gentle little head pat and a "That'll do, blogger. That'll do. You've had a good run, now let everybody else take it from here." But I suppose if I win, officially achieving my entire life's work by age 32 could really take the pressure off the next few decades.

I doubt I will win, though, as the category is basically like, POSTSECRET vs. A BUNCH OF SITES WHO ARE NOT POSTSECRET. Still, though, my friend TJ sent me a cautionary email this morning with the subject line: NOW THAT YOU ARE WASHED UP, YOU MUST PROTECT YOURSELF. Apparently, because I am up for this Major Award, I should get my Twitter account verified:

Mark my words - mommy bloggers are the next Nigerian Uncle with millions of dollars.

Now that you've achieved an entire lifetime's worth of work before the age of 40, you are the perfect target for these shysters. Before you know it, someone will have created @amaiah and be soliciting @ replies that are totally MEANT FOR YOU.

Laugh at me if you want. If you must. But when @amaiah comes along and takes tens of people on an emotional rollercoaster of internet betrayal that stays with them all the way through their 30 minute lunch break, don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm glad I have younger friends who understand Twitter, although TJ has been blogging for just as long as I have. In fact, her old blog was one of the very first I ever left a comment on, and it was a comment about DEODORANT. TRUE STORY. I miss 2003 sometimes. It was a simple time, back then. But not as simple as 2002, when my blog was just a Word document on my Desktop. It was a really good blog. All the post titles were in Comic Sans and sometimes I would include Webdings, just for the hell of it.

Anyway. If you wanna vote for me, that would be kind of nice. If you don't wanna vote for me, that's fine too. And perhaps starting this entry with a graphic description of my baby's snot was not the best choice to sway the undecideds. And my last entry talked about poop! Oh, Christ, I really AM a washed-up mommyblog cliche. You should vote for the postcards. Sometimes they have naked people on them.

PS. PROJRUN!
PPS. FOURPOUNDS!
PPPS. DOGSHOW!

Dante's Eardrum

At exactly 8 pm last night, I left my comfortable suburban existence and entered the 12th circle of hell. It started with SOMEONE I WON'T SAY WHO I BET YOU CAN GUESS taking a spectacularly large dump on the bathroom floor. Also, my foot. And then again in the bathtub, which SOMEONE ELSE WHO WAS ALSO IN THE BATHTUB found to be hilarrrrrious. I did not, and responded to their collective gleeful cackles with the very-useful, very-in-charge-of-the-situation admonishment of "STOP BEING SO GROSS!"

After all of that, and a stupid decision to stay up way too late because I suddenly and inexplicably care (AND CARE DEEPLY) about Conan O'Brien, Noah started screaming exactly 15 minutes after we fell asleep. First he said it was his mouth, so we assumed he bit his tongue and shuffled him back to bed without much sympathy. Fifteen minutes after that, we decided maybe he meant his throat, and since he'd had a cold over the weekend, we dosed him with some medicine that we're probably not supposed to dose him with, but those people who say those medicines don't work and a tablespoon of honey works just as well blah blah blah vaporizer plug-ins are welcome to suck on this here pile of snotty tissues.

Fifteen minutes after THAT (translation: once we could not give him additional, more-suitable medicine) he told us it was actually his ear. Oh, his ear. Oh, the pain. THE SCREAMING. He's only had a small handful of ear infections -- about once a year, really -- but he's never been so goddamned enraged by one before. (I had them ALL THE TIME as a kid before getting tubes in kindergarten, and if I reacted that strongly every time I am amazed my parents did not sell me to the gypsies sometime in preschool.)

I hate these kinds of nights, for all the obvious reasons, but mostly because I feel like such a MEAN PERSON: my child is clearly in incredible pain that I can do little about (except think back to all those times I contemplated those earache relief/numbing drops at the drugstore and did. not. buy. them.), and mostly I'm just wishing he would GO BACK TO SLEEP ALREADY, I'M SO TIRED. At one point, I guess in a preschool-logic attempt to get rid of the source of the pain, he opened his bedroom door and hurled his current weird-attachment-object-du-jour (an Elmo puppet book) out into the hallway. "YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND ANYMORE, ELMO!" he sobbed before climbing back into bed to writhe some more.

Later he decided he wanted to sleep on the couch, a request I blearily obliged, especially since I figured I might be able to sleep through some of his more low-level whining and moaning. (See: Person, Mean, Bad.) I got a brief catnap before the screaming amped up again; when I went downstairs to retrieve him he was sitting in the middle of the coffee table and wailing.

Jason and I took turns attempting to comfort him, offering whatever folksy remedies we could think of, counting the hours before we could safely dope him up with hardcore pain medication again (only to find that about 75% of the stuff we had on hand expired two years ago, niiiiiiice). I finally gave up on ever returning to bed and just stayed with him. He would drift off to sleep for about 10 or 15 minutes before the pressure in his ear amped up again and he'd wake up crying, but as long as I was there he wouldn't escalate to full-on screaming. He kept head-butting me all night, in search of the hardest, firmest part of my body to rest his ear against (sadly, he found few acceptable options), and at one point pressed his ear directly against mine, and I could HEAR the horrible fluid thumping around in there. I did not sleep again until...oh...7:15. Which was about 15 minutes before Ezra woke up (covered in snot, might I add), and it was time to start calling schools and bus depots and pediatricians and put a bra on before the babysitter arrived for her second day on the job. Here are my children! And their multiple strains of disease! I'm so happy you're here so I can get work and writing done and be a professional something somethingzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzomg.

We're headed to the doctor momentarily. He is now, of course, totally fine, and absolutely delighted to stay home from school and play with his new favorite person ever. He's even patched things up with poor Elmo. I would like someone to shoot me in the face. With coffee. Or bullets. Either one.

They Shoot Bloggers, Don't They?

I finally gave in, caved, cried uncle, cried helplessly into a wine glass, however you put it, and hired some childcare. Just part-time, a couple days and hours here and there. I was dreading it, and dragged my feet throughout the whole process to a ridiculous degree, to the point that Jason started calling applicants and having them show up at our house so I'd be forced to take it seriously and offer one of the nice ladies a damn job already. 

I had a mother's helper only once -- after about two months of screenings and interviews, she quit a month later. Oh! And when she told me that she would need to watch Dr. Phil every afternoon I thought this was a perfectly reasonable request, being wholly clueless about...well, LIFE, and in my mind I predicted the exact same thing would happen should I ever try again: I will get talked into paying someone to watch Dr. Phil.

Today, they spent all morning building fantastical Tinker Toy creations and are now at the playground. The laundry has -- get the fuck out -- been folded and dishes put away. I took a shower. Way to show me up, Poppins!

Now, of course, I'm sitting here with hours of uninterrupted work time stretched out in front of me and absolutely no idea what to do first. Mamapop? AlphaMom? Finally get around to writing something besides hurried stream-of-consciousness drivel over here? Book proposal? Book outline? A hearty laugh because I don't even have an IDEA for a book, much less the attention span to write one ooh I know I'll make more coffee look shiny coffeepot SQUIRREL.

What was I talking about? Oh, right. The enormous crazy PRESSURE that comes from being an overprivileged asshole. My first-world problems. Let me show you them. 

Whenever people ask me what I do, whenever I mention that I do work from home, my default I-don't-wanna-get-into-it answer is that I'm a "writer" and if asked, I usually say something vague about "online parenting columns." Which is true! And yet, a hedge-y stretch. I obviously don't blog anonymously, and always assume that everyone I know can and will read everything I write. So I'm not hiding the blog thing because I don't want people to find my online slam book. But at some point I got tired of the following responses:

1) What's a "blog?"

2) So do you like, just write about shit you do during the day?

3) Seriously, like, "I woke up and had coffee?"

4) And you make...(DOT DOT DOT INCREDULOUS PAUSE) money doing this?

5) How much?

6) Wait, is this a porn thing? You can tell me... (DOT DOT DOT OVERLY CREEPY FACIAL EXPRESSION)

So it was funny when Noah's speech therapist hesitantly brought up the fact that she'd found me on Babble. I saw the revelation coming before the words came out of her mouth, like yep, that thing, it is true. Am professional oversharer. One time I peed my pants at work! I got off a train in Newark! And I think Lavar Burton is a little scared of me now.

But! She was totally cool about it and thought it was funny and something more special-needs parents should do, and was all, dude, bitch AWAY about anybody here you want, WHATEVER. And then I threw myself at her ankles like, BEMYFRIEND and it got kind of awkward.

But! But! Not nearly as awkward as a conversation I had the very next day, back at Jason's company's holiday party thing, a conversation so mortifying I am just now getting around to writing about it, when I -- for once! one time! the one and only time ever! -- voluntarily outed myself as a blogger when asked what it was I did for a living. It was probably the fourth or fifth time I'd been asked, and -- embiggened by the Babble thing and the generally positive reactions I'd gotten that evening after I drilled through "writer" and "online parenting columns" and down to the details of "blawwwgging" -- I finally just shrugged my shoulders and informed a nice-enough looking young woman that I was a blogger. Hear me roar! Or...type. Or whatever it is we do. Rabblerouse. Technoratidiscohashtag.

Here's a rough overview on how the rest of the conversation went:

1) Oh, God, BLOGS. Really?

    1a) Yes. Really.

    1b) Aren't blogs kind of stupid?

    1c) ...

    1d) I...guess so?

2) Who has time for that? I mean, I guess if you stay home.

    2a) Well, I actually started it back when I worked full-time as an editor...

    2b) Oh, well, I guess if you have that kind of job...

3) I can't imagine putting stuff about our life on the Internet.

    3a) Yes, well, the Truman Show aspect isn't for everybody, but I try to tell stylized stories with a lot of humor and...

    3b) Can you imagine, honey? If I wrote about our life on the Internet? HA HA HAHA.

    3c) ("Honey," who may or may not actually work for my husband, begins to look vaguely panicked.)

4) You don't put your kids' photos on your blog, do you?

    4a) (abort abort! mayday mayday!)

    4b) Because my sister is really careful and won't put her children's photos anywhere online.

    4c) (do I know ANYBODY ELSE IN THIS GENERAL AREA? is that my PHONE RINGING? why are we SO FAR AWAY FROM THE BAR?)

    4d) You know, because of the child molesters. And pedophiles. Aren't you worried about that?

    4e) Jason magically sees someone else that "we absolutely have to talk to real quick, but we'll see you guys around okay bye now!"

5) Nice to meet you! What do you do?

    5a) I'm a writer.

    5b) I write some online parenting columns.

    5c) THE END.

So that was really fun, basically getting every well-trod criticism of the Internet Age thrown in your face during a five-minute conversation with someone you've just met, right when you absolutely cannot think of a single well-reasoned response because your shoes are too pinchy. Hi there! I write quality things on the Internet! You can tell by all the "uhhhhs" and "ummms" and deer-in-the-headlights stares I use when dealing with real live human beings.  I also live in a hobbit hole, my best friend is a webcam and I think breathing through one's nose is overrated.

Also, I paid someone to watch my children just so I could write the crowning achievement of modern literature that you have just wasted entire minutes of your life on. 

Aren't blogs kind of stupid?

Yes. Yes they are. Happy to help prove your point! I'll be here all week. All month, even. And longer, because like it or not, this is just what I do.

15 Months

He's 15 months old today. What? WHAT?

Even though he's long since corrected the pronunciation of his name (Eye-zah, he says now), his first attempt has stuck, at least with me. Zah. Zahbah. Zahbahdahbah. That last one, of course, gets sung to the tune of "Mahna Mahna" by the Muppets. I don't think anyone finds that as amusing as I do, but I can't help it. He's just so very, very Zah.

He drops his cup off the edge of his highchair and sighs to himself: Ohzah. Ohno.

He points to one of the dozens of photos we have on the wall: Baybee. 

He picks up the phone: Havoh?

He waves: Baybye.

He reaches for me: Uppah.

He stacks blocks: Ididit!

He blows kisses: Mmwah!

He sees something wondrously impressive, like a light switch, the dog, a very exciting bit of paper: Ohwow! Ohwow. OH. WOW.

He pushes a crust of bread around his tray like a car: Vroommmm!

He wants to use a fork and a spoon so badly that he'll sit on the floor with one, practicing over and over. He gets the empty utensil into his mouth: Yum!

He can sign "more" and "sleep" and "drink." And though that last one is supposed to an index finger moving from chin to throat, his version is a bit more insistent, as he just jabs the finger straight into his mouth. And if you aren't paying attention the very second he signs "more," he will still unleash that crazy, eardrum-splitting scream of righteous anguish.The sign for "milk" vanished when he weaned and he will not use it anymore, no matter what.

He still eats everything, and SO MUCH OF IT.  His breakfast these days consists of a milk/yogurt/fruit smoothie, two scrambled eggs, a waffle, some Cheerios and an unbelievable number of blueberries. Or maybe a pear or two. Sometimes there's chicken sausage. An hour later he'll be raiding the pantry while my back is turned, gnawing on some uncooked egg noodles that he found lurking behind the rows of canned goods.

Up the stairs, down the stairs. All day, only taking breaks for naps and egg noodles. He does not particularly like books, the TV is only fun for turning on and off, he just wants to do is go go go open close explore climb overturn look behind on top of go go go. 

I reread this list and think, "This is not a baby. This is a little boy, already." Then I look at him, with his downy hair and chubby cheeks and zombie walk, and I think, "Nope, baby. Still. Always."

PS. WOW HOLY SAPPY BATMAN. If you need a return to the snarking, the season's first Project Runway recap is up?

Bait, Switch

Every morning Noah sneaks into our bed. Well, he thinks he's sneaking, though of course we're usually awake by the time he's noisily swung open his bedroom door, padded into the bathroom and made a terrific racket with his stool and potty seat and cheerful morning greetings to the monkeys on the shower curtain, wandered down the hall while clutching his latest Lego creation, shedding and retrieving blocks along the way...but then he arrives at our bedside and holds his breath and caaaaarefully and quiiiiiiietly climbs and over us, jabbing us with elbows and knees while he caaaaaaaaaaaaaarefully and quiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiietly takes his place under the covers between us. "I love you too," he murmurs, even before we've said anything.

Jason gets up first while Noah and I stay in bed for as many extra minutes as I dare, nuzzling and snuggling until his feet are no longer icicles against my shins. I cannot think of a better way to start the day, although would it kill him to go downstairs and brew me some coffee first? I mean, really.

This morning was no different. He crept in and coaxed some big bear hugs from a still barely awake Daddy, then rolled over to my side once Jason got up. He was a bit extra talkative, saying something something about his friend? His friend liking a parrot? I assumed he was talking about his Lego people, who are all currently kept inside his recreation of the house from Up, complete with sails and windows and an appropriately damaged foundation that is SUPPOSED to be like that, did you not see the movie? God.

He sort-of half-laid on my head, so I could just see over his shoulder when I finally opened my eyes and squinted against the brightness...and the giant-ass stink bug sitting contentedly on his shoulder, about two inches from my eyeballs.

An unholy sound came from my throat, probably something like GAAAAAMAHGAWDHUUUUUUUHHHHHHH, while I attempted to both scream and gasp at the same time, frantically and half-blindly swinging at the vile thing several times before making contact...sending it ass-over-ass-like-head...directly onto my child's face. Years of practice with these bugs (DO. NOT. CRUSH.) saved poor Noah a instinctive face-slap, since I knew, even in my half-asleep haze, that it needed to be flushed intact lest we bring about yet another onslaught of dozens. Plus, the guts really, really smell.

Grabbing a tissue, though, was beyond my problem-solving capacity at this point, and I only succeeded in violently flicking the bug off his face and into the vast unknown. Probably behind the bed, to be hunted with the ShopVac later.

But right then, I could do little more than collapse back on my pillow while Noah wailed about the loss of his PARROT, WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PARROT. I buried my face and shuddered and announced that it was high time to get out of bed.

When I went into the bathroom I realized I had an amputated stink bug leg stuck to my face. 

Anyway! The end! That was my morning. I'm just sharing because I love you. Come give us a cuddle.

PS. Doctors Without Borders, American Red Cross, Hope For Haiti.