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Showing posts from September, 2012

Big E: Sleep Nemesis

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MOM! MOM! MOM!

My heart sinks into the depths of my belly.  He's up.

I roll over and face my sleep nemesis, Big E.

YES, BIG E?

I take a look at the clock.  2:45.  Didn't I just fall asleep like 20 minutes ago?  It was more like 10:30, but it felt like 20 minutes ago.

I HAVE AN IMPORTANT QUESTION FOR YOU!

This simple phrase is the blue screen of death for the remainder of my restful night.

SH*T SH*T SH*T!

I didn't say this to my child, but I knew what was about to go down and I was not ready for it.  Not this night.

I had spent the day fasting and then gorging and I just felt all out of sorts.

WHERE DO ROCKET SHIPS LIVE?

What the hell?  That is your important, 2:45 AM question?

I won't let this goober stump me, even in my zombie like state.

OUTER SPACE!

Mr. Yoy and give each other imaginary high fives.  He is up, too.  He stifles a laugh.  I smile at him, but also want to punch him in the face a little.

Clearly it is the Yoy genes that keep Big E up all night.  If yo…

Big E: Urine Trouble

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Tomorrow evening at sundown begins the holiest day of the year for my people, the Jews.

It is the day we atone for all the terrible sins we committed during the past year and make a promise to do better in the coming year.

I was in the middle of listing all of my sins out, but then a friend called and we had to gossip about all the bad mothers we know.  (KIDDING!)

Obviously, I've steered clear of murder, theft, and adultery (some of the really bad things on the stuff you shouldn't do list).

I've even tried my hardest to raise my children with some level of morality and goodness.

Things were looking good for Big E this year.  He was pretty decent.  Especially for a three year old.

But last Friday he may have sealed his fate for the coming year.

Big E was romping around in our Synagogue's garden after school with some of his classmates.

One of the little girls needed to use the bathroom.  While walking inside seems like a simple solution, the Synagogue/School is locked …

Big E: The Boy Who Cried Poor

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On Wednesdays and Fridays, both boys go to preschool.  On Monday, Big E goes alone.

We kept Little E home on Mondays, because he just turned two and I felt like he'd enjoy some alone time with me.

I was wrong.  Every Monday as we load Big E up for school, Little E stands an inch from the car and loses his damn mind.  He wants in.  Like now.

Mr. Yoy and I have discussed sending Little E on Mondays and have even asked the school to let us know how much it would cost to send Little E on Mondays for the remainder of the school year.

Big E picked up on Little E's despair and began lobbying for Little E to go with him on Mondays.

This morning, Big E asked me for the 22nd time why Little E couldn't go to school with him on Mondays.

I was out of answers.  And patience.

LITTLE E DOESN'T GO WITH YOU BECAUSE DADDY AND I HAVE NO MONEY.

It is REALLY expensive to send these kids to preschool.

Big E went off to school with Mr. Yoy.

As Mr. Yoy walked Big E into school this morning, B…

Freshman Dorm

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The weather here in Atlanta has been glorious.

We have spent the late afternoons outside playing bubbles, chalking up our driveway, and racing up and down the hill next to our house.

The Yoys, who sweat just thinking of exercise, come inside at dinner time with an evenly distributed sheen.  Their hair looks freshly showered.

I noticed the other day that their wing of the upstairs is starting to smell very similar to the boys' side of my Broward Hall dorm floor.

I instantly flash back to 1994.  I walk from the Tresor scented girls' side and cross over to the hot, musty, closer-to-campus boys' side of my dorm.  I try and hold my breath until I reach the stairwell.  Yes, the unairconditioned stairwell is an improvement.

Boys smell.  I knew this.  I guess I just forgot.  Or maybe just thought I'd still have a few more years of that sweet baby smell.

It is gone.

In its place is a hot sweat sock odor.

I've got all the windows open, fans on, and I'm Febreezing the sh…

Why I Heart Diapers

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After a morning of gymnastics, I took the E's to the mall for a haircut and some lunch.

As we rode the elevator up to the food court, I saw Big E pull a Michael Jackson.

You know, the crotch grab.  When Big E needs to go to the bathroom he sometimes uses that move.  By the way, is that trademarked?  Mr. Yoy?  Anyone?

DO YOU HAVE TO USE THE RESTROOM?

I've grown wise to his body signals.

NO, MOM! (I also detected the slightest of eye rolls).

I take his three-year-old word for it.

We hit up CFA and order a barrage of kids' meals, applesauce, milk and toys.

I get everyone set up at the table.

This may be a one sentence statement, but it involves many detailed steps and takes about 5-10 minutes.  I like to think of myself as Swedish Chef meets Mary Poppins.  It is hurried and panicked and complete chaos.

I finally sit down and begin shoveling my lunch down my throat.

We make it about three minutes into lunch.

I HAVE TO PEE!  I HAVE TO USE THE BATHROOM!

The words I dread heari…

The Hunger Games

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Monday and Tuesday were rarities in the Yoy house.  Because of Rosh Hashanah, Mr. Yoy was home with us all day and night.

In the morning, we went to our synagogue for services, but in the afternoon it was all Yoy, all the time.

This was a chance for Mr. Yoy to see how nice it was to be home for dinner, bed, and bath time on a week night.  I really should have had a pow wow with the boys on Monday morning to make sure we were all on the same page.

IF YOU GUYS ARE ON YOUR BEST, BEST, BESTEST BEHAVIOR, MAYBE DADDY WILL TRY AND BE HOME FOR BATH AND BED TIME ONCE OR TWICE (pushing it) A WEEK. LET'S MAKE US LOOK AWESOME!  GO TEAM!

Instead, the Yoys were bloody awful.

Mr. Yoy and I ordered the traditional day two Rosh Hashanah meal of pizza.

Right around the time the delivery guy arrived, the Yoys began their version of the Hunger Games.

Yes, it was a fight to the death.  There were no weapons involved, just old school screaming, crying, and grabbing.

Not only did the winner get to liv…

Little E: Taking Credit For Others' Hard Work

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Like other members of our fabulous, male-dominated family, Little E is never short on gas.
Not the $3.79/gallon type, but the type that clears rooms.
At first I would ask Little E if that was him making all that noise.
He'd look at me and smile.
ME!
And he always owned up to it.  He was proud.
But then things took a turn towards weird.
I've noticed recently that anytime anyone within earshot passes gas, Little E is the first to claim it.
ME!
ME!
ME!
Then it hit me.
For the rest of eternity, we now have the ability to pass gas anytime, anywhere, as long as Little E is close by.
Where we once blamed everything on Poodle Yoy, we will now have a more willing blame participant.  I mean, he actually admits to it.
Yes!
Bring on the Varsity hot dogs! We actually own this book.  Shocking, I know.

Big E: The Standup Comic

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Before bedtime, Big E and I were working on his giant maze book.  This kid is a maze fiend.

I'm thinking this Fall would be the perfect time to drop him at the opening of a corn maze and see if he makes his way out.

Each maze in his workbook has a theme.

Help the frog find his lily pad.  Help the pig find the mud pit.  Help Abraham Lincoln find his top hat.

Hold the phone.  I was not going to be able to sneak that last one by Big E without some sort of explanation.

WHO IS HE?

A great President and American.

WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS HAT?

The wind knocked it off his head (more like John Wilkes Booth, but I didn't want to give him nightmares).

CAN WE SEE HIM?

He's dead (again, no forthcoming details of his assassination).

He was president over 150 years ago (blank stare, concept of time has still not clicked).

WHERE DOES HE LIVE?

Illinois.

Now this is where my story gets HI-LARIOUS.  But only if you know a little hebrew prayer. Sorry for everyone else.

He looks at me and says …

The Bubbe Jackpot

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A quick vocabulary lesson for my non-Yiddush speaking friends.

Bubbe n.  - A grandmother

That's the sterile version.

To me a bubbe is like a grandma on steroids.  They are rich in crazy stories about the old country, cook incredible foods that you love until you find out what they really are (wait, I just ate cow tongue?), and brag endlessly about their wonderful grandchildren.

Ok, on to my story.

After school today, the Yoys did their required ten minute run through our synagogue's Holocaust Garden.  Mid-stride, Big E stopped in his tracks.

I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!

I rounded up Little E and we headed inside.

Today, synagogue was bumping.  There was an event and busloads of elderly people had been brought over from the Jewish Tower (the local old person home).

As we weaved our way around the crowd, I could see Big E struggling to hold it in.

We got stuck behind a woman with a cane walking slowly down the hall.  I thought this was going to be the end for Big E, but I als…

MUST. POWER. THROUGH. AGAIN.

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Last night was another epic night at our home.

This time it was Little E who garnered the title of Worst Behaved Yoyser.

At 3:49 AM (precisely two minutes earlier than his older brother the night before), Little E woke up Mr. Yoy by screaming for MAMA!

I, of course, didn't hear sh*t because I had settled nicely into my sleep deprived coma from the prior evening.

Mr. Yoy alerted me to Little E's screaming.  And by alert, I mean a nudge to the rib.

I threw on my glasses, my superhero cape, and went dashing down the hall.  Little E is my good sleeper.  He rarely makes a peep between the time I put him down and the time I get him up.  I braced myself for the worst.

I flung open his door and grabbed him.  He was pee, poo, and vomit free, so that was a plus.  He was just upset.  Maybe it was night terrors.

I calmed him down and put him back to bed.

Sleep was not on Little E's schedule.  I was not aware of said schedule.

I repeated the crying/calming/bedding cycle three more time…

MUST. POWER. THROUGH.

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I've been awake since 3:50 AM.

I'm not bragging about this, as I'm sure some of you went to bed around that time.

I'm just stating a fact.

My bathroom butts up to the wall by Big E's bed.  I know he can hear activity in the bathroom through his wall, as I've been in his room when Mr. Yoy is in there. (Thanks crappy Winmark Homes construction)

I get up almost every night to use the bathroom, as my bladder is shot to hell.

Last night I awoke at precisely 3:50 to use the bathroom.  My zombie self got the job done and stumbled back to bed.

I stretched out in my cool sheets and prepared to enjoy the second half of my slumber.

Then I heard the familiar padding of feet entering our bedroom.  I expected Big E to ask me to pull his pants up, but this time, he wanted to climb into our bed.  I know this is a bad precedent, but I'm chronically exhausted, and I just don't feel like arguing about it in the middle of the night.

Big E lays in our bed for about fifteen…

Mrs. Yoy and The Big One

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The Big One would be the massive 3.3 earthquake that rocked Beverly Hills and the surrounding areas at 3:26 am on Sunday.

This isn't a very involved story, I just wanted to point out that both Mr. Yoy and I were woken up by the unidentified noise.

It sounded like a mash up of our door rattling and the hard wood floors squeaking.

We both had the same reaction.

SOMEONE IS BREAKING INTO OUR ROOM!

We peered through the darkness of our room to make sure we weren't having an Alex Trebek moment, and then resumed our snorefest.

Living in the city of Atlanta has scarred us for life.

Our go-to thought was breaking and entering.  We literally have criminal minds.

In a million years, we never would have come up with an earthquake.  Even if we were in California.

It truly is a miracle we survived.

Mrs. Yoy and the Bottomless Chardonnay Glass

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I always joke about how much wine I drink or want to drink.  But in actuality, I'm pretty lame, I mean tame.

No matter how hard I try to unwind, I always have this little voice in the back of my mind reminding me I will most likely be up with Big E during the night and/or very early in the morning.  So I never blow it out.  Or, I RARELY blow it out.

With five days in LA, I knew this was my window, my opportunity to channel the 25 year old version of Mrs. Yoy.

There would be nothing interrupting my wine induced sleep, except maybe an earthquake.  I was up to the task.

Friday night, the bride and groom asked us to speak at their rehearsal dinner.  We were honored and immediately began working on our schtick.

For the record, Mr. Yoy is a fantastic public speaker, national debate champion, and relentless litigator.

As comfortable as Mr. Yoy is speaking in front of people, I am at the opposite end of the spectrum.  I literally wrote out:

GOOD EVENING, MY NAME IS MRS. YOY FOR THOSE OF …

Mrs. Yoy and the Model

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I was at the Shutters' pool.  I had my book, a Coke Zero, and my big, sun-blocking hat.

I stretched out on a pool chair.  I took a big, salty air-filled breath, and dove into Gone Girl.

After blasting through a few chapters, I closed my book and scanned the pool area.

On the people watching scale, I give it an eight out of ten.  I'm always fascinated by people's pool attire.  Not like I'm one to judge, I've poured myself into a Spanx bathing suit with a ruffle skirt.  I'm hiding all of my childbearing scars.

I spot a young lady and her young boyfriend hanging out in a private cabana a few feet away.  I'm going to name her Modelzilla.  She was super tall and super skinny and super accessorized, which led me to believe she was a model.

Modelzilla looked miserable.  Like, I'm about to have all of my teeth pulled out without Novocaine miserable.  Except she wasn't.

She whined about needing to be in the sun.  She slinked over to an unshaded chair and t…

Mrs. Yoy and The Bare Feet

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This post is about everyone's ideal place to use the bathroom: the airplane.

I returned home from a trip to LA (of course you already know this as it is all I've talked about for the past month) this evening.  Flying time was about 4 hours each way.

I'm proud to announce I was able to hold my bladder both there and back.  Yes, I did not partake in the airplane bathroom.  Remember, I've birthed two kids, my bladder is shot to hell, but my anti-plane bathroom feelings run deep.

I am a nervous flyer anyway, so the thought of sitting on a plane toilet, without being seat belted in, gives me heart palpitations.

So, I'm half doing my sudoku book and half watching as my fellow passengers wait in the business class aisle to use the bathroom.

Up walks a woman.  She leans on the seat in front of me and gives me what I'd like to call a tuchus shot.  (Thanks for that!)

I'm irritated by this woman and her tuchus.  I must be crazy to pay extra so people can hover about…