Friday, July 27, 2012

Mrs. Yoy: A Dirty Player

Last night was a late night for the Yoys.  We hit up the Atlanta Food Truck Park for some mac n cheese deliciousness, cupcakes, and playground time.

We arrived home around nine.  The boys were pretty wound up.  Like a rancher, I tried to herd the cattle, I mean my kids, inside to begin bath time.

Little E was cooperative as usual, but Big E had other plans.

First he went and hid dangerously close to the rose bushes.  He'd rather get attacked by thorns than take a bath.

As I strode over there to pick him up, he leaped up, and ran for it.

Down the hill he went.

He veered off the sidewalk and was headed up the next street.

I was shocked.  Is he for realsy running away from me?

Do I run after him and leave Little E sitting in our driveway?

Ugh, it was too hot and too late and this was all too ridiculous for me.  This is why people started leashing their kids!

What to do?  What to do?

I quickly scanned my resources.  I was desperate.  I did something really mean.

A few months back, I took Big E to a dog park when we were visiting my family in NYC.  Ever since then, Big E has been deathly afraid of larger dogs.

So, I pulled the dog card.

I dug deep for some realistic acting skills and yelled out for my whole neighborhood to hear:

BIG E, LOOK AT THAT GIANT DOG RUNNING TOWARDS YOU!

He stopped dead in his tracks.  Turned around and SPRINTED towards me.

PICK ME UP!  PICK ME UP!  PICK ME UP!

I picked him up and looked at the panic on his face.

I felt horrible.  Honestly, I did.

But it was either this or risk him being hit by a car.  I chose mental terror instead of death.

Big E kept looking for the dog.  I told Big E the dog must have gone inside to take a bath.

Just like he was.
Cujo:  My New Weapon 


Monday, July 23, 2012

Introducing Skeletor

Shortly after making his appearance on Earth, Little E inflated to the size of a Smart Car.

There were rolls, creases, folds, and my favorite, the rubber bands, all over his body.  

I had to fend off total strangers who wanted to poke and prod him like he was the Pillsbury Dough Baby.

I know you are growing tired of me blogging about Little E's girth, but what I'm going to tell you right now will BLOW...YOUR...MIND.

As I was diapering Little E this evening post-bath, he was wiggling around quite a bit and did a full body stretch and that's when I saw them.

HIS RIBS!

They were protruding from his trunk like he was some high-paid b*tchy super model.

YOU HAVE RIBS!  (I actually joyfully exclaimed this to no one, except maybe the dog).

I thought Little E's ribs were only a myth.  

So this is what it must have felt like the first time some one caught sight of the Loch Ness monster.  

In honor of this shocking discovery, I've decided to put together a short list of some of my favorite myths.

1) People who hate dessert

2) Bigfoot

3) Faithful Politicians

4) My six pack (abs, not beer)

5) Jewish Athletes

Care to add any to my list?

Little E started out like this...

But has recently morphed into this guy...

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Big E: In Need Of An Anatomy Lesson

Tonight was a pretty smooth night.

We were scheduled for an on-time departure.  And by departure, I mean when the Yoys departed me and went into their respective beds.

As I pulled the Yoys out of the tub, I glanced at my watch. 7:10!  I will have all night to read some magazines, catch up on Teen Mom, and not blog since my kids were pretty decent human beings today.

Big E must have sensed my upbeat mood.  He must have known my readers were clamoring for an entry.

And so it began...

I had just taken both Yoys out of the tub.  I was diapering and dressing Little E.  Big E had climbed up on his bathroom step stool and was clamoring to brush his teeth.  He yelled for my help.

I ran into their bathroom and told Big E to wait five minutes, I was putting Little E down and then we could go gang busters on the teeth brushing.

I finished up with Little E, read him a few books, and tossed him in the crib.

One down and one to go.

Time: 7:20.  I was floating as I entered the bathroom. Tonight was going to be aweso___.

My thought was stopped dead in its tracks.

There, standing proudly at the sink, was Big E.

I BRUSHED MY TEETH, MOMMY!

Umm, more like he painted the sink, countertop, cabinets, his own body, and my personal favorite, his hair, with sticky, blue, Toy Story toothpaste.

It was like he set off a toothpaste bomb in the three minutes since I last laid eyes on him.

SERIOUSLY?  SERIOUSLY?

Here I go again repeating questions I didn't really want to hear the answers to.

I busted out the baby wipes, but after a few half-hearted tries, I surrendered.

BIG E, GO TO OUR BATHROOM.  YOU ARE GETTING A SHOWER.  AND IF YOU TOUCH ANYTHING ALONG THE WAY, YOU BETTER JUST PACK YOUR BAGS!

As the shower water washed away the remnants of toothpastegate, I allowed myself to chuckle.  And then I told Big E to not make two bedtime washings a habit. The City of Atlanta water bills are crazy ridiculous, and I'm not sure we could afford it.

The Yoys are asleep now.

I spent some time washing down their bathroom.  As usual, our cleaning people were here this afternoon, so things stayed clean for approximately 5 hours.

A little later than I planned, but I will now go read magazines and catch up on Teen Mom.  And I even blogged!
Just an FYI, teeth are in your mouth.  They are not fingers.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Mrs. Yoy: An Undomesticated Goddess

I'm going to say it.  I pretty much hate to cook.  

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy eating home cooked meals.  I can control what is going into the food we are eating. And I LOVE control.

My fatal flaw is that dinner is at the end of the day.  

By the time dinner rolls around I am exhausted.  I am on empty.  All I want to do is sit the boys down at the table and throw whatever food I happen to have in my fridge at that moment on the table, toss them a couple of forks, and yell out GO TO TOWN!  Plates are optional.

The crock pot has been my window back into cooking.  I prepare things in the morning, before my patience wears out.  I cook it all day and by dinner time my house smells delish and we have something real to eat.

This weekend I found a recipe for homemade mac n cheese in the crockpot.  Whole grain pasta, all organic cheese, milk, eggs -- it sounded like such a wonderful and loving thing to make the Yoys.

I made it today.

I actually shredded cheese.  From a block.  Who knew it didn't always come in a resealable bag?  My hand was hurting after the shredding, I was using muscles I didn't know I had.

I threw everything into the pot and stirred it frequently to make sure the pasta cooked evenly.  This was serious effort from Mrs. Yoy.

It looked and smelled delicious.  I was so excited to serve it up.

I plated the MNC and brought over my creation to my kids.  I also included some steamed veggies and watermelon.  I may have even yelled TA-DA!

Both Yoys briefly poked at the pasta and then thumbed their noses at it.  They ate their veggies and fruit and left the MNC untouched.

I was so insulted.  That was the last time I cooked for these ingrates.

Next time, they'll be eating Target brand MNC.

That'll fix their wagons!

I'm off to ice my hand.  Ouch.
What's next?  Ordering a Big Mac when we take them to Bone's?

The Ugly Stepsister

I've mentioned one or two or four hundred times that fitting shoes for Little E is challenging.

It's not just that his feet are wide, but they have about an inch of fat padding on top of them.

For the record, I wear an 11N, so you just know this wonderful genetic trait is courtesy of the Mr. Yoy gene pool.

Right before summer, I ordered Little E a pair of Stride Rite sandals.  They aren't wides or even extra wides. They are extra, extra wides and guess what, they are too dang tight.

They leave imprints across the tops of Little E's feet when he wears them for extended periods of time.

I give him the choice of which shoes he wants to wear each morning, the XXW sandals or his sneakers.  He always chooses the sneakers.  Even when it was 100+ degrees here in the ATL and everyone was fixin' (see, I'm almost native) to burst into flames.

He'd rather wrap his little sausage feet in blankets and then shove them into unventilated shoes then wear his XXW sandals.

I feel bad.  I know he is hot.

So, I ordered him a pair of Crocs off the internet last week.  They looked wider and are riddles with bullet holes, so I thought they might work.  They arrived today.

The only way I can describe the scene of me, and then Little E, trying to squeeze those suckers on, would be when the ugly stepsisters were jamming their feet into the glass slipper.  It just wasn't going to happen.  Ever.

Little E was so disappointed.  As I placed the shoes back in their box, Little E circled around me shouting SHOES SHOES SHOES.

Sorry, buddy, your feet need to go on a diet ASAP.

Until then, it'll be your sneakers.  Every day.  Until the end of time.
This is not an exaggeration.

Friday, July 13, 2012

The Devil Wears Carters

I am not a superstitious person.

I do not freak out if I walk under a ladder or have a black cat cross my path.

I have enough real things to worry about like will Big E ever be tall enough to ride Space Mountain or will Little E stop eating tooth brushes.

This afternoon we were packing up to head out to a play date.  I finished stocking up the diaper bag, grabbed the Yoys, and headed out to the car.

I noticed as I was buckling Little E into his seat, he had smuggled some plastic colored number magnets out to the car. I tried to pry them out of his hands.  He put the death grip on them.  I relented.  It was only a five minute car drive, hopeful he wouldn't chew on them and swallow magnets.

Once we arrived, I again tried to pull the three magnets out of Little E's pudgy hands.

I wrestled them free, for a brief moment.  When I looked down at them, I noticed something odd and bone chilling.

My sweet Little E had pulled three number six magnets off the fridge.  Little E had morphed into Satan's messenger.

6-6-6

What in the hell?  Literally.  Was Little E trying to tell me something?

Should I rename him Damien?

Am I the only one that thinks this is a little bizarre?
This happened.

Monday, July 9, 2012

A Lesson in Digestion

Big E has babies on the brain.  He has just spent the last nine months watching Aunt Yoy grow his new cousin.  He was very intrigued with the baby in Aunt Yoy's belly.

Fast forward to this afternoon.  We were cuddling on the couch.  Big E was laying on me and watching  his new, must see show, Little Einsteins.  His ear was aligned with my stomach.

WHAT'S THAT SOUND?

He sat up and looked at my belly with interest.

I smiled at Big E.

I'M DIGESTING MY LUNCH.  WHAT YOU HEAR IS MY STOMACH WORKING THROUGH MY SANDWICH AND BAKED LAYS.

That answer was not satisfactory for him.

NO IT'S NOT!  IT'S YOUR BABY!

Now, I busted out laughing.  I quickly pointed out that there was no baby in my belly.

WELL, THEN WHAT IS THAT ROUND THING?

Oy.  Kill me now.

IT IS CALLED FAT AND SOME STRETCHED OUT SKIN THAT IS PERMANENTLY DESTROYED FROM GROWING AND BIRTHING YOU AND LITTLE E!

That should have been the end of our painful discussion.

NO, IT'S A BABY!  IT'S ROUND!  IT'S MY BABY BROTHER! (He assumed it would be another boy, of course)

I, again, tried to convince him otherwise, but he was adamant about it being a baby.

FINE, BIG E, IT'S A BABY.  (A Jason's Deli baby)

I was desperate for some peace and I was so enjoying our snuggle time up until this conversation popped up.

His eyes glowed with excitement.  He was satisfied with that answer.

I'm sure he will begin telling everyone we come across that I have a baby in my belly.  That will make for some super awesome, awkward moments.

I'm off to do 500 stomach crunches and then some internet research on tummy tucks.

Good night, readers!
I probably just need to wear these.  Every waking minute of the rest of my life.

Footnote:

This is not the first time some one has mistaken me for pregnant, only the first time my own child has.

For my embarrassing party encounter, click here.

For my embarrassing Synagogue encounter, click here.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

And I didn't think last night's 10PM Panda Express dinner could be bested!

STRIKE ONE

We promised Big E that tonight, we would take him to Jim-n-Nicks for dinner.  He is obsessed with the cheese biscuits.  During a previous parenting lapse, we allowed him to eat unlimited biscuits.  He housed seven or eight before he gave up.  I was pretty impressed as he is a little squirt.

We arrived at the restaurant and were seated almost immediately.  Mr. Yoy and I scanned the menu and planned what we were going to order the boys.  We have streamlined the dining out experience, as we know we are in possession of two ticking time bombs.

Five minutes passed and we had not been greeted by our server.

I'M HUNGRY!  I'M HUNGRY!

I pop the top to a fresh canister of Puffs.  Big E grabs for them, not realizing the top is off.  He made it rain Puffs in the middle of JNN.  Normally, I would have been mortified, but I was hoping his spectacle would grab the attention of a server.

Ten minutes and nothing.  No one has approached us.  I tried to flag down the host to see if he knew who our server was, but he declined to make eye contact with me.

Now we are done with Puffs.  We are pretty much dead.

The table next to us was occupied by another family with young kids.  The little boy, around Big E's age, was suffering with some sort of whooping cough.  Special thanks to his mom, who not only allowed him to approach Little E, but didn't stop him when he began running his germy, nasty hands all over Little E's arms.

I wanted to reach out and break his hand.  I refrained. But I did give his mom death stares.

Fifteen minutes and this is becoming a joke.

We call it.  Big E erupts.

I WANT BISCUITS!  I WANT MAC N CHEESE! (I promise I feed them stuff other than utter crap)

We go running out and decide we aren't coming back to JNN anytime soon.  We usually have sh*tty service there, but this is the first time that we've actually had no service.

We left with nothing but some sort of disease that will present in Little E within 24-48 hours.

STRIKE TWO

We debate going home.  It is now 6:35 and getting dangerously close to bedtime.  We are out of snacks.  We are playing Russian Roulette.

Big E really, really, really wants to eat at a restaurant. You can quote him on that.

Mr. Yoy sells Ted's Montana Grill.  I jump on board because I can eat the sh*t out of some pickles.  We debate between the Cumberland Mall location (also notorious slow service) or the E/W connector.

We decide to go out the E/W connector.  It is further than we remember, we arrive around 6:50.  Where are all the cars?

IT IS OUT OF BUSINESS.  TRUE STORY.

So after pumping Big E up to eat there, we have to explain the sour economy and how restaurants are always the first to go.  He quickly loses interest in our sad, but cautionary, tale.

Across the parking lot is an IHOP.  It's not even our 18th choice, but we are desperate.

Big E does NOT want to eat there.  We give him a fair choice.  This or nothing.  He chooses IHOP.

Mr. Yoy and I eat a totally unsatisfying dinner.  The boys coat themselves in Mac N Cheese, pancakes, and fruit. Mr. Yoy actually moves over one table because he can't stomach eating so near to the animals.

So our lovely Sunday night family dinner was a complete bust.  We jump in the bus and drive home in defeat.

Just when I thought the night was a total loss, Big E's song came on the radio.

CALL ME, MAYBE!

Big E was belting it out.  Mr. Yoy looked bewildered.  I couldn't control the urge to fist pump.  We were rocking out.  People in the neighboring cars looked on with jealously.  They wanted to be in our big, fun bus.

And when I thought it couldn't get any better, Mr. Yoy busted out with the Harvard Baseball Team's Call Me, Maybe dance.  Seriously, check this out.

I almost drove off the road.

My night had been recovered.  It was amazing.

This really doesn't have to do with anything, I just found it hilarious.  And if you don't know the song I'm referring to, you live under a rock.  That is all.



Saturday, July 7, 2012

A Murder in our 'Hood

Earlier, we went to a birthday party in our neighborhood.

Birthday parties, in general, are a source of severe stress for me.

I always feel like my kids behave like wild animals.  Way worse than they ever would at home.  I don't know if it is because they have an audience or they are being pumped full of juice boxes and cake, but most parties end with me sweating and embarrassed.

Today was no different.  The kids were all partaking in cupcakes on the back patio.

At one table sat two little girls eating their cupcakes.  It's not like they were cutting up their cupcakes and eating them with knives and forks, but they were definitely managing the situation just fine.

My eyes scanned over to the table next to them.  Location of the Yoys.

It's like fangs had grown out of their mouths, and they were murdering these cupcakes.  I'm pretty sure they were making sound effects.

Little E was the absolute worst.

He managed to grow a full cupcake beard, not just a five o'clock shadow.  He took his fat little icing covered hands and rubbed them into his hair like he was shampooing in the shower.  Then he rubbed them over his belly.  It's like he was saying this tastes so good in my belly, but in sign language.

The other parents laughed.

I wanted to yell out:

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH MY KIDS??!!!

Of course, I didn't.  A look of embarrassment and shock settled over my face.  I tried to rationalize things to make myself feel better.

Sure, those little girls are behaving so politely now, but just wait until they are teenage girls.  Then, I felt a little better, sort of.

One dad offered to spray Little E off in the backyard.  I seriously entertained the offer, but in the end we decided just to evacuate to our house and throw them both in the tub.

I wouldn't even let them back in my neighbor's house.  I made them walk around the side.  My kids literally did the walk of shame out of a party.  Oy.
I really should just send Little E to parties naked.  Clothing is too much of a hassle.





Thursday, July 5, 2012

Sarcasm: An Acquired Art Form

At 6:30, I decided it was time to take the Yoys up to do bath and bedtime.  Big E had been washed earlier, but Little E was a giant ball of avocado paste.

As I walked out of their playroom, I noticed the couch was covered in what appeared to be water.  I leaned over and smelled it to be sure.

Unfortunately, it was Poodle Yoy's urine.  In puddles on my beautiful leather couch.  Sweet.  Just what I wanted to do at this exact moment in time: a leather intervention.  I got to work cleaning up the mess.

Little E was walking around with a plastic fireman's hat on.  This hat has been in our possession for close to a year.  Neither one of my children has shown any interest in it.  Until tonight.

Big E shadowed Little E and repeatedly knocked it off his head.  Little E would cry until I put it back on him.  Then Big E would knock it off again.  Wow, this game sucks. Bad.

I asked Big E to leave Little E alone.  He ramped up the stakes and moved the hat to the middle of our kitchen table where Little E had no shot in hell of reaching it.

I then told Big E to report to time out on the bottom step. He politely refused and ran and hid partially under the dining room table.

In between soaking up the dog urine and applying the leather cleaner, I made a trip to the dining room.   

I DO NOT LIKE THIS BEHAVIOR.  IT IS UGLY AND IT NEEDS TO STOP.

Big E started whining.

I HAVE TO PEE!  I HAVE TO PEE!

That is Big E's patented go-to time-out move.  It is such bull, and at this point I'm over him.

THEN PEE IN YOUR PANTS, BUT YOU ARE STAYING IN TIME-OUT, EVEN IF YOU ARE UNDER THE TABLE.

It was quiet for a few minutes.  I finished cleaning up the couch.  Little E continued on with his fireman hat.

MOM!  I DID IT!

My heart stopped.  Please, oh please, oh please, let it be something awesome that he did.  Like solving the Rubik's cube or being able to burp while reciting the alphabet.

He walked into the kitchen with his pajamas soaked in that all too familiar pattern around his crotch.

SERIOUSLY?  SERIOUSLY?  SERIOUSLY?

I think I yelled that like 12 times in a row.

Big E, it is called S-A-R-C-A-S-M.  I was joking when I told you to pee in your pants.

Big E immediately erupted into tears.

I'm not going to lie, frustration tears welled up in my eyes, too.

Ok, so maybe it is like 2% my fault because I TOLD him to do it.  I didn't think he would actually do it.

I knelt down on my beautiful dining room rug.  I felt around in the area I last saw him and sure enough it was soaked with urine.

I had this down to a science since it had been approximately three minutes since I last cleaned up urine.

I shook my head back and forth as I cleaned up the rug. Big E was draped over my back, crying hysterically.

We finally made our way upstairs.  I excused myself from the boys for a few minutes and locked myself in the bedroom.  I was on the express train to Losingitville.

I called Mr. Yoy to vent.  I could hear him stifle a laugh over the phone.  At that moment, I wished I could reach through our connection and snap his neck.  I was so upset.

Both Yoys are sleeping now.  Big E asked me if I would still be mad at him in the morning.  It made me feel bad.  I just have to remember that I'm dealing with a three year old, not an adult, even if he sometimes talks like one.

This is basically how it went down.  And, yes, this is my SECOND Billy Madison reference this week. 




The Snack Cup: A Follow Up To The Carrot Test

Little E was one, fata** baby.  I can say that now.

At the time, I was oblivious to his weight issue.  Well, sort of.

Sure, people made crazy comments every time I ventured out in public.

WHAT ARE YOU FEEDING THAT BABY?

HE SURE DOESN'T MISS A MEAL!

LOOK AT THOSE PULKES!

But I just saw my sweet little boy, when I looked at him.

He began walking in January (FINALLY) and pretty much stopped eating around the same time.  I even heard that some of the other kids were gossiping about his babyrexia.

Personally, I believe Little E heard and understood every back handed comment that had been casually thrown his way and had finally had enough of it.

For lunch today, I made him mini tortellinis, carrots, and a tangerine.

He excitedly ran to his little table, sat down, and proceeded to house the tangerine.

And then he was done.  He ran off before I could even wipe the citrus juice off of him.

Frustration pulsed through my veins.  Why won't this kid eat his meals?  He has got to be hungry.

I didn't have too much time to worry about it, as we had to leave to pick Big E up from camp.  I looked at his plate full of food and had another great, mind game idea.

Remember the carrot test?  When I don't think Big E is hungry, as he is always begging for food, I offer him carrots.  If he eats them, I know he is for real.  Who wants to eat carrots, anyway?

This time I popped open a snack cup.  These are usually reserved for bribery goodness such as goldfish, puffs, and raisins.  Interestingly, all things that Little E has no problem eating.

I dumped the contents of his plate into the snack cup, and threw it in my diaper bag.

Once I had Little E loaded in the bus, I pulled out the snack cup.

SNACK!  SNACK!  SNACK!

His eyes lit up.  The straps of his car seat cut into him as he tried to lunge forward at the prize.

I happily handed Little E his lunch, camouflaged as a snack cup.

And you know what?

That little turd ate the whole dang thing on the way to camp.  The same exact food he had refused to eat minutes earlier.

I was one happy Mrs. Yoy.

DISCLAIMER:
I, in no way, ever thought Little E had a weight issue. Neither did his doctor.  It was just every one else in the world.
These legs are seriously amazing.  I miss them every day.