This Is Me Not Writing About Being Sick; This Is Me Writing About Being an Idiot

I took a couple half-hearted stabs at blogging yesterday — probably out of some pseudoephedrine-fueled psychosis where I believed I could make being sick "funny" — but I kept coughing mid-sentence and losing my train of thought, so all my attempts fizzled out and either became First World Whinefests or kind of gross, full of overshare-y details like what it's like to blow your nose and have stuff come out your tear ducts.

(See? Aren't you glad I spared you that one?)

(Waaaaiiiiit...)

By late afternoon I decided I felt a little bit better and that leaving the house sounded like a nice idea. Putting on pants, even! The sun was shining! It was a beautiful day and I AM SO HOPPED UP ON ADVIL RIGHT NOW WHEEEE.

So I took Noah to karate. Minutes after we arrived, I realized my phone (and thus my sole source of entertainment, because no offense, Precious Child o' Mine, but watching the 3,204,280th game of karate dodgeball is no longer the thrill it once was) had died. I also realized that my child was coughing. And sneezing. And sniffling. Profusely. 

OH COME ON.

He'd been completely healthy all of five minutes prior in the car, but apparently managed to come down with cold #4,293 somewhere in the parking lot.

His symptoms were obvious enough that the other parents in the seats ahead of me were shifting around uncomfortably and side-eying each other, clearly trying to figure out who the hell brought the contagious diseased child to class. 

Now, a normal, thinking human being would probably just get her kid's attention and leave, since obviously a regrettable — yet easily correctable — mistake had been made.

But you know, I'd put on paaaaaants. 

So instead, I also turned around, like, who the hell? 

(Note: THIS IS WHY I DYE MY HAIR RED. PLAUSIBLE GENETIC DENIABILITY.)

Of course, this move would have been much smoother if I 1) hadn't been sitting in the back row, and 2) didn't start having a coughing fit right at that moment.

Being an expert in How To Adult, however, I had an escape plan ready to go before anybody could give me a dirty look: FAKE PHONE CALL.

My phone was dead, but I pulled it out, scowled at the imaginary called ID and pretended to answer it while getting up and heading out the door, like a POLITE cell phone user who was not at all the sort to show up and hack germs and parasites all over innocent people. 

Another mother and her child were just coming in as my fake phone call and I were exiting, and...I froze.

The obvious script "Oh hi yeah hang on I'm at karate let me step outside blah blah" flew out of my head, and I stood there blocking the door like an moron, with my mouth hanging open and my completely dead phone by my ear while this random woman stared at me, possibly wondering if I was having some kind of neurological incident.

"Oh hey..." I started, which only made the encounter more awkward, since NOW she probably thought I was talking to her instead of my fake phone call.

In a panic, yet committed to this stupid pointless charade that nobody else was probably even paying attention to until I went and turned it into a thing, I blurted out the first name that popped into my brain.

"...Beyoncé."

Yes.

Yeah.

Beyoncé.

SHE'S PROBABLY ASKING WHAT SONGS I THINK SHE SHOULD SING AT HALFTIME THIS WEEKEND, OR WHETHER OR NOT SHE SHOULD CLOTH DIAPER BLUE IVY. YOU KNOW, THE USUAL DRAMZ. 

At this point the other mother was clearly aware that she was wasting precious seconds on a crazy person and stepped aside so I could leave. Which I did. With my phone still glued to my ear, where it remained until I was fully out of view from the glass-fronted karate studio. Because BEYONCÉ. 

I wandered over to a coffee shop and ordered a Mortification Tea for myself and a cookie for Noah. Which I waved through the glass windows at the end of class as bait because don't make me go back in there. It's not safe. I can't be trusted. Put on your shoes and let's go, omg. 

The good news is that I actually am feeling better today! The bad news is that several of the boys are now sick with a completely different cold that I will probably get, and also that I have no idea whether the Destiny's Child reunion rumors are true or not. Dammit Bey, I thought we were close!

THIS IS ME NOT WRITING ABOUT STILL BEING SICK

...

....

.....

......

WELL. THAT WAS FUN. I'M OUT. 

Baby, It's Cold Outside, But Let's Not Be Ridiculous About It

Oh my God, this week. Fuck you, week! Get off my lawn.

I'm concerned I'm becoming one of those bloggers who starts off every entry with an apology/explanation for why they haven't been blogging, which: Shut up. You're blogging right now! GET ON WITH IT. 

On Wednesday we had the terribly exciting pleasure of getting a new heating system installed in our house. Our heat pump actually died two months ago, but thanks to the mild weather (and occasional use of the emergency heat setting) we were able to procrastinate on the replacement until now. "Now" being when I heard Ezra matter-of-factly explain to a playmate that "the floors in my house are like ice-skating." OKAY FINE. YOU COULD JUST WEAR TWO PAIRS OF SOCKS BUT WHATEVER. 

So of course, the day we finally scheduled the installation was the week the weather plummeted down to the mid-20s. Holy shitbags, was this house cold. The kids and I wore double-sweaters and basically stayed in bed under the covers all day until the new system was up and running. The good news, obviously, is that we have heat and are grateful and fortunate and blahhhhhh one single day without heat, boo freaking hoo, AMERICA.

The bad news is that goddamn, heat pumps are expensive and also letting Noah bring LEGOS into my bed was a bad call. 

Yesterday, I spent literally MY ENTIRE MORNING on a post about the American Horror Story finale, which was supposed to be something funny and short and breezy and then (as these things always seem to go for me) went off the talky-run-on rails and turned into a damn research paper about Final Girls, Character Motivations & the Authentic Redemption of Self, With Bonus Zombies & Adam Levine's Chopped-Off Arm. Time well spent, I'm sure.

1,700-plus words later, I hit publish on that and then took all three children to the doctor for belated physicals. (We switched pediatricians which is always a seamlessly easy thing to do logistical paperwork nightmare.) Ezra and Ike needed multiple vaccinations and even though Noah didn't need any he wouldn't stop talking about SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS WHEN DOES EZRA GET HIS SHOTS and so I ended up with two kids screaming from SHOTS and one kid who was sympathy-sobbing over the SHOTS and Ezra apparently failed some fine-motor-skill milestone and Ike needs prescription butt paste and then Ezra ran away from me in the parking lot because SHOTS and...

...you know? I don't really want to talk about it anymore. Instead, here is a picture of Ike hiding under the exam table while wearing Ezra's Angry Birds hat.

Today? Well. Today I am sick with a terrible cold, where my chest hurts and my throat hurts and my head hurts and all my sinus pockets (tubes? are sinuses more like tubes?) in my face hurt. And apparently we're going to get an inch of snow tonight so the entire DC area is all adorably panicked and the schools are sending everybody home early, which: GREAT, THERE GOES MY PLAN TO DAY-DRINK SOME NYQUIL. 

Have a good weekend, everybody. Stay warm and may you not wake up to find LEGOS in your pajama bottoms. 

Ezra the Ezra-iest

It was a very Ezra weekend around here, and yes, I AM using his name as an adjective in and of itself. That's so Ezra. What an Ezra shirt you're wearing. This soup tastes Ezra-y. EZRA!

First, on Friday, Ezra randomly decided that NOW, THAT MINUTE, he was ready to do karate like Noah. We've done this song-and-dance before, and it's always ended with us showing up to the class, only to have Ezra suffer from an Attack of the Shys and refuse to set foot on the mat or participate at all. (Followed by a spectacular meltdown later in the car, when he would ask where his karate uniform was and learn the bitter truth that we didn't sign him up because he refused to set foot on the mat or participate at all we are terrible monsters of the cruelest order.)

TA-DA! He did great and he loved it. So congratulations! You now officially get to spend even more of all of your money on goddamned karate classes. Blark. 

On the other hand:

TINY KARATE PANTS. Size triple-zero. For your household's most fearsome peanut.

On Saturday, we had some friends and their children over for dinner, so it was time for a minor costume change.

Complete with the revolutionary accessories of the day:

Several hours later, Jason and I struck upon what seemed like a great game for motivating the end-of-the-night playroom cleanup: The Zombies Are Coming To Eat All The Toys On The Floor. I did a pretty convincing zombie shuffle and moaning bit when I went downstairs to check on their progress, as most of the kids shrieked and laughed and frantically hurled toys back into baskets as I approached. 

MOST of them, that is, except for poor Ezra, who I found hiding under the wooden train table, wailing in abject terror. Win, you guys. Am such an ass.

I think I made it up to him on Sunday, he and I attended a classmate's birthday party at Build-a-Bear, which I did not know was a thing you could even do, like oh my God, why not just have your party right in Disneyworld, or in a candy store on the moon? 

(I am turning 36 this year. Please RSVP if you would like to attend my birthday party. It will be at Build-a-Bear.)

The whole way over to the party, Ezra was adamant that he didn't WANT to build a bear, he wanted to build a rabbit. Being mostly unfamiliar with the Build-a-Bear party parameters, I tried to prepare him for the possibility that a rabbit would not be one of the choices, and also: DUDE. YOU SCORED AN INVITE TO A PARTY AT BUILD-A-BEAR. DIAL BACK THE DEMANDS, OKAY?

When we arrived, it turned out a rabbit was an option. 

So naturally he chose a bear. 

The kids were also allowed to choose an outfit, because WHY NOT, LATER WE'LL MAKE IT RAIN BUBBLEGUM FOR Y'ALL TOO. The party host held up a karate uniform with a variety of belt colors, which made me irrationally excited because it was so tiny and cute and guadruple-zero and gaaaaahhhhh wantwant. Wantwantwant. 

So naturally he chose the football uniform, despite never 1) playing football or 2) watching football or 3) being at all aware of football's existence prior to that moment. 

Whatever, everybody knows the best part of Build-a-Bear (besides EVERYTHING) is the box you get to take your toy home in. 

In conclusion, here is Ezra doing his best Maru impression:

Which is just about the most Ezra thing he's ever Ezra'd. 

P.S. After hitting "publish" and checking out this entry live on the site, I realize that there are Build-a-Bear ads showing up in the sidebar. Those are just network ads tied to any keywords that get detected (or possibly browser history and/or dark magic, I don't fully understand how it all works). But I now feel the need to clarify that this post was NOT sponsored, AT ALL, and that I received no money or free tiny karate pants from the Build-a-Bear people. SWEARSIES, carry on, etc. 

The Ike Formerly Known as Baby

Hey, what's going on here?

Oh, nothing much. Just my baby checking out his new preschool.

WAIT. WHAT.

It is true. My baby, who you may recall I just gave birth to all of five minutes ago, is starting preschool. 

Our childcare woes are very close to being almost-solved: A wonderful part-time nanny will start working for us in just a couple weeks, for three days a week. Ike will attend the toddler program at Ezra's (wonderful, oh-God-we-love-it) Montessori school the other two mornings.

Technically, it's a two-year-old program, but they will accept Ike at 20 months (February 1st). I don't know if this is standard practice or if they are making an exception because they loooooove us and because Ike is amazing and awesome and the size of a two-and-a-half-year old already...or because I begged and they felt sorry for the crazy-eyed lady who just spent a morning apologizing for all the shrieking during multiple conference calls. 

(It was rough going there for awhile, you guys. Occasionally the shrieking even came from one my kids!)

This morning I took Ike over for his official classroom visit, something I've done with both Noah AND Ezra at this very school, when they were closer to three. And while THEY both behaved like possessed pinball machines the entire time (running! touching! toppling! defying! No, I don't want you to show me something, I just want to DANCE!), Ike was the most perfect brilliant little angel who ever angel-ed. He played quietly with whatever the teacher directed him to, he observed the other children without getting all up in their business, he colored a picture and demonstrated both his awesomely advanced crayon grip* AND said "yes" at least a dozen times. 

It was sweet and wonderful and happy. And absolutely the end of Baby Ike. 

His brothers have stopped calling him that, all on their own. I thought it would be a hard nickname to shake, but...well. Look at him. He's still got the padded diaper-butt and his little mass of baby curls on the back of his head (while the rest of his downy-blond hair refuses to grow, sparing me the agony of the to-first-haircut-or-not, so far), and his hands are still too knuckle-dimpled to look like "real" big boy hands. But he's not Baby Ike, he's Toddler Ike, which just isn't quite as fun to say, so...Ike. Just Ike. 

Ack. This kid. I just love him so much I can't even take it sometimes. 

*Yeah, I did just brag about my toddler's crayon grip. Look. When you're dealing with a small, stubborn human who still craps in their pants, you get your sources of pride in weird places sometimes. IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TOOOOOOO. 

On Being Outnumbered, Part Whatever (Of A Never-Ending Series)

In an oddly convenient coda to yesterday's post, last night I got a flu shot while my children watched. I wanted to show them that no, really, shots aren't a big deal. It ended with me almost saying the f-word in front of them, because DANG THAT HURT LIKE A MOTHERHUGGING CHEEZIT CRACKER. 

ProTip: RELAX your arm. I forgot to do this and remained coiled up and tense, probably since I was so intent on bracing myself to display absolutely no facial reaction at all, because I was trying to be a badass in front of Noah and Ezra and, in retrospect, set up dishonestly high expectations that shots don't hurt at all, when everybody knows they DO hurt and now the next time they get a shot it will further erode their trust in me, forever and ever amen. WINNING!

But listen: When I took them for THEIR flu shots a few weeks ago, there was so much goddamn sturm und drang over it — I'm talking children hiding under waiting room chairs while wailing for someone to help them, why won't someone helllllllp them — that I finally turned sweetly to the receptionist and asked that she instead put us down for two of the nasal mists, please. Then I pretended like I didn't know them for awhile, until our names were called. Hello! Look at this adorable and oblivious toddler sitting on my lap! This is mine! Just this one! Those other two might look a lot like him but I dunno. I think I saw them come in with a pack of wolves. Their packmaster must be getting his parking validated or something. 

Hmm. I am suddenly aware that a lot of my recent jokey-jokes about my children are possibly making it sound like we are some kind of traveling circus of feral dogs, which is of course not true. They are splendidly behaved most of the time, capable of eating out at restaurants with napkins on their laps while discussing that day's events ("and so I says to Peter I says, it's MY turn on the swings, ol' chap"), or navigating the grocery store without knocking anything over, provided you're generous with the free cheese samples. 

They're just, as Melissa McCarthy said in Bridesmaids, a lot of energy to deal with. So very much energy, both good and bad. They feed off each other, too: If one is hyper, the whole gang is running around screaming for no real reason before you know it. Three-child pile-ons happen at an alarming rate, usually beginning as "group hugs" and quickly escalating to something more like I LOVE YOU AND AM THEREFORE GOING TO SQUEEZE THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR ESOPHAGUS. And if one of them is anxious and decides that a flu shot = murder, well. You've seen 28 Days Later, right? It's like that, only less bitey and more 28-secondy-er. 

When they reach that point I usually separate them and send each boy off to his favorite activity (Noah = Legos, Ezra = play kitchen, Ike = chalkboard wall). And then they have the audacity to act like this is a PUNISHMENT, being forced to leave each other alone just seconds after they were all howling in rage because touching! Bothering! Bottom-of-the-brother-pile-ing! Moo-ooo-om! Make him stop! But not really.

Anyway, I am at a loss as to how to tie this entry together for a satisfying conclusion. (Flu shots! Profanity! Wolves! Boyfights!) So instead, let's just send all these disparate points off to sit in their disparate corners. We'll stay over here with Ike at his chalkboard wall mural and pretend he's the only point we brought up today. 

The Hypocritical Oath

Yesterday, I punished my firstborn child for swearing. 

(Here is where every reader who has ever cringed at or suggested I curb my horrible language and penchant for the f-word lets out a well-deserved cackle.)

He said the word...hell.

(Here is where every other reader who could not give a flying fuck about my fucking language and who appreciates a good mastery of creative fucking obscenities also lets out a cackle, followed by a sigh and a YOU USED TO BE COOL, MAN.)

But yeah. Noah told Ezra to "get the hell out" of the bathroom. Twice!

Which, on the one hand: SERIOUSLY. HE WAS GOING. GET THE HELL OUT OF THE BATHROOM, EZRA. 

But on the other hand: I heard it the first time and sternly reminded him that no, you do not talk to your brother using that kind of language, even though I COMPLETELY feel you, dude. I told Ezra to give Noah his privacy but was still within earshot when Noah repeated the slightly PG-rated command.

God fucking dammit, kid. Why you gotta make me give you shit?

I felt like a huge, self-aware tool as I sent him to his room and waited outside just long enough to let the YOU'RE IN TROUBLE NOW, CHILD, WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A TALK sense of dread build a little bit. (Oh yes, that's how I roll.) And then we talked about That Word and why we don't use That Word Like That, especially at school or in front of his little brothers or other adults and blah blah disrespectfulcakes. Manners! Upbringing! Show the nice people that you weren't (entirely) raised by a pack of incompetent savages!

For the record, I actually think I'm pretty good at watching my language around the kids. At least compared to the potty-mouth I chose to procreate with, who is incapable of driving from point A to point B without letting a few choice words fly at That Fucking Idiot Asshole Over There, What The Hell Is He Doing, Jesus Christ. I've certainly had...moments, though, where I've caught myself a second too late and had to add a bunch of nonsense blibble flabble sounds to distract from the staccato'd motherfuck..uh...duck..uh...er that I accidentally let fly.  

And yes, as curse words go, "get the hell out" is pretty low on the ratings scale, and could have easily been picked up from a wide number of sources, including movies and TV shows we've possibly deemed appropriate for him before noticing all the hells and damns peppered throughout. THOUGH AGAIN, JASON IS WORSE! JASON IS WORSE! He is the slowest remote-grabber in the world when watching something wildly inappropriate for children and will sit there engrossed in like, Showgirls or something for entire MINUTES before noticing that Ezra is standing there, grinning and pointing and saying, "Heh. Butt."

(That is actually a true story.)

Though speaking of Ezra, he once thoroughly impressed me when, as a still-fairly-new talker, he dropped a toy on the floor and let out a perfectly-placed OH SHIT.

As hilarious as it was (note: FUCKING HILARIOUS), that was the moment when I realized how spoiled Noah's initial speech delay and refusal to mimic anything had made us. Noah never repeated anything we said! So we never had to worry! And now we did! It was like...as if...how does that saying go? SHIT JUST GOT REAL Y'ALL.

But yesterday marked the first time any of my children deliberately, knowingly swore (at least in my presence, anyway) and I hope I did not bungle it too badly. I didn't want to make a huge deal out of it but also do not want to get regular calls from the principal's office or his friends' parents...so, sorry, kiddo. You're gonna have to do what your mother did and watch that mouth until you get a summer job in high school, where you will learn all sorts of delightful new words and combinations in the employee breakroom, and you will revel in the freedom to weave them into a colorful tapestry of adolescent offensiveness on a daily basis. 

And then hopefully we can have a laugh over that time I sent you to your room for telling your brother to get the hell out of the bathroom. God, what a bitch I was sometimes, right? LOL. 

I'm Too Embarrassed To Accurately Title This Post Because STUPID

Have we established that our household is especially prone to really weird-ass homeowner-related crises? From multiple extended power outages whenever there's like, wind or a slight drizzle to OVEN FIRES to ZOMG BIRDS/MICE/SQUIRRELS, our house really seems to enjoy forcing us to confront our dazzling lack of adult coping skills. 

Last night I made some homemade chicken tenders for dinner, and served them with a dazzing array of absolutely not-homemade dipping sauces. (Exotic foodie stuff, like "honey mustard" and "ketchup" and "I think this is BBQ sauce that's been in the fridge since 2008 but the label got pulled off but I'm sure it's fine because bottled condiments last forever like Twinkies, right?") I put everybody's favorite respective dipping sauce into small food-prep bowls, like this one:

You may notice the ridge of this particular bowl is a tad beat-up looking. That will be important later.

You may ALSO notice (or not, because we sure as hell didn't) that this bowl is almost EXACTLY the same size of the average kitchen sink drain. That will also be important.

One of our delightfully helpful children deposited his dinner dishes directly into the sink. Jason proceeded to run the water and the garbage disposal, failing to notice that this bowl was floating around in there, until...

SCHHHHWWWOOMMPP.

The bowl settled directly into the drain, where it got stuck. Like, perfectly, completely stuck. It sealed up the drain and was completely immovable and ungrabbable, like a concave drain-stop.

Huh. Okay. Now...what?

After trying (and failing) to dislodge the bowl using 1) a butter knife, 2) an oyster shucker, 3) a fondue fork, and 4) a goddamn mini-crowbar thing and a giant rubber mallet, I decided to turn to the Google.

And wouldn't you know it, despite this being...uh...an extremely, almost painfully specific problem, I discovered that lo, we were far from the only people in the world to get a prep bowl lodged in our sink drain. Yahoo Answers was full of advice, as were several message board threads. Use a plunger! Fill the sink with ice so the bowl will contract! No, hot water! No, use cooking oil! Run the dishwasher! 

(Speaking of service-y advice, this blog still gets a shocking number of search referrals re: iPhones dropped in toilets. Happy to help, Internet!)

Unfortunately, the thing that ended up working for most people was breaking the bowl. Which is doable if you're talking about a glass Pyrex bowl, but we were dealing with a melamine bowl. Which I had bought instead of the Pyrex because these came in a variety of pretty, Martha-Stewart-approved colors. 

(THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, MARTHA.)

And this time, Googling "how to break a melamine prep bowl that is currently wedged in a sink drain under four inches of muck-water" did not return any results. We were on our own, out in Idiotville. We were going to have to call a plumber and get the stupid garbage disposal stupid disconnected so we could push the stupid bowl out in the other stupid direction and it was going to cost stupid money because STUPID.

The plumber came this morning. He repeated our futile attempts to dislodge one side of the bowl with a screwdriver and a hammer. Then a different mini-crowbar. He really didn't feel like disconnecting the garbage disposal either, which was a nice thing for us to have in common. We bonded a little bit there, in our joint bafflement over how the FUCK to get this stupid bowl out of the drain. 

Finally he went back to his truck and came back with a giant-ass drill. 

Fast-forward to now, when we're down 95 damn dollars and one prep bowl*, and I would just like to contribute this tiny bit of knowledge to the universe, or at least the portion of the universe that may currently be searching for a solution to their melamine-prep-bowl-lodged-in-sink problem: Get a giant-ass drill and drill a hole in that motherfucker. BOOM. 

Once it's sufficiently shattered, you can finally get a grip on the bowl and pull it out. Then wash your hands. That standing muck-water of leftover condiments was no joke. 

*We're actually down six prep bowls, because I promptly chucked every single one of those suckers and ordered some silicone prep bowls instead. Look at me! Learning and stuff and shit. Baaah. 

Yes Ike Can

Despite an early surge of talky-ish mimicry, Ike pretty much clammed up and stopped talking altogether around his first birthday. He'd gesture and babble and all that, but it was a long time before we heard any real words from him again. 

He was testing me, of course. He was waiting for me to say something about it, to put the soupy dash of worry I was stirring around in my brain into words and admit that I was concerned about his lack of speech, especially as he rapidly approached 18 months — the age when Noah was officially put on the wait-and-watch list.

(Noah was 21 months when he was evaluated and found to be speech delayed, though by that age some of his sensory issues were already very pronounced — toe walking, texture and oral motor issues, lining up toys, etc. — and it was pretty clear that was all probably related.)

I refused to play that game, this time. Instead, I did exactly THE OPPOSITE what I've probably advised a hundred dozen advice-seekers who have emailed me over the years with concerns about their own children's development. I ignored the shit out of it. 

To be fair (and to sound slightly LESS monstrous), Ike has two older brothers who are basically talking ALL THE TIME, and quite often talk on his behalf. He uses gestures and sigh language (Noah did not point or wave, either), and does not toe-walk or exhibit any signs of sensory issues. Food textures, grass, clothing, noises — nothing bothers this kid. No delays in fine or gross motor, either. So I told myself his silence was probably just another sign of his laidback personality and general affability. A language explosion was just around the corner, probably. 

SPOILER ALERT: He's fine. He's talking now. I won. This time. 

He's certainly not as advanced a talker as Ezra was — that child started talking at 12 months and was practically speaking in paragraphs by this age, but...wow. It's almost like I gave birth to three entirely different human beings, or something! Imagine that. But Ike is now saying a perfectly acceptable number of words and making decent attempts to learn and use more on a daily basis. 

WORDS HE CAN SAY: Shoes, sit, go, off, open, peekaboo, ball, book,  cat, woof woof, vroom vroom, hi, bye, there it is, what's that, teeth, cheese, juice, hat, Elmo, Ezra, Daddy.

WORDS HE CANNOT SAY: Mommy. Or mama. Or mom. Or wonderful exalted woman who gave birth to me. Whatever.

But his favorite word — oh my goodness, his favorite word in the whole world that he says a million times a day — is quite possibly the most marvelous thing ANY of my children have accomplished. And they've all accomplished some pretty damn marvelous things. 

"YES." 

Yes! The opposite of NO, which he actually does NOT say. He'll shake his head for no if he has to, but 99% of the time he'd rather answer your question with YES. 

IT'SSOADORABLEYOOOGUYZZZ.

And yes, it's hard not to abuse a little bit and ask the same question over and over again, or ask questions that he doesn't understand in the first place, like whether he believes in climate change or whether these jeans make my butt look amazing. "YETH!" he'll respond. "HIGH FIVE!" I'll say. "Good talk."

(And double-yes, I realize that by typing all this out and uploading that video, he will probably wake up from his nap screaming "NOOOO" at the top of his lungs, forever and evermore, amen. But it was real cute while it lasted, I guess.)

Germ Warfare

FIRST WAVE: 

Child #1 coughs once. Maybe twice. That is the end of it, and also the beginning.

SECOND WAVE:

Child #2 starts coughing all over the place. Especially at night, or at 5 am in the morning. They also develop a runny nose. Any tissue that touches even the outermost bare edge of their nostril is immediately discarded in utter disgust because BOOOOGERS. Yet there is no such similar aversion to walking around with their sleeve as a reusable snotrag all the livelong day.

THIRD WAVE:

Child #3 comes down with the bug just as soon as Child #2 has thrown out the last perfectly usable tissue, and comes down with it HARD. Coughing, hacking, sneezing, wailing, gnashing of teeth, tearing of garments, hurling of sippy cups, etc. Maybe they toss in a fever, just for fun. Sleep goes all to hell, unless Child #3 is held upright by you, with your shirt/skin/hair as the resuable snotrag while they sigh and moan pathetically. You perform this job gladly, of course, because snuggles are snuggles, bitchez. And hey! At least it's not barf. This time. Yet. Oh, God. 

(Note that if you make it through this wave without a middle-of-the-night ear infection, it will be a goddamned Christmas miracle.) 

(Yup. Hi.)

We were deep into the third wave yesterday, but thankfully Ike woke up this morning greatly improved. Which means now we get to sit around and wait for the FINAL WAVE, which usually comes right after Children #1, 2 AND 3 are back at top speed and full volume, and consists of the worn-to-a-nub parents (who, as a reminder, have likely not gotten an uninterruped night of sleep since at least the second wave) getting whacked at the kneecaps with the worst cold of their adult lives. Or the worst cold since the LAST worst cold of their adult lives. 

Anyway, I need to go take some zinc or vitamins or antibacterial soup tea or whatever, and wash my hands up to the elbows for the 20th time today. Also, does anybody know if you can just hose a house down with bleach? Asking for a friend.