Sunday, June 30, 2013

Cheaters Never Win

On Friday, I left the Yoys with their dad and grandma, and took a trip to visit my bestie for the weekend.

As I (im)patiently waited at Atlanta airport for my delayed flight to depart, I dove into a fresh Sudoku puzzle book.  I had no kids to distract me.  I had nothing but time, according to the AirTran departure screen.

I love working on Sudoku puzzles.  As a math nerd, this is my crack rock.  I love the challenge.  The thinking.  The brain sweats.  I need it to stay sharp.

Halfway through my second puzzle, I found myself stuck.  Around this time, I felt a presence hovering over my left shoulder.  It was a curious young boy I guessed to be around nine.


I then tried to explain how to complete a Sudoku puzzle to a child.  I can barely pronounce it, but now I'm going to explain it?  After my wordy and lengthy synopsis I looked over my shoulder at the young boy.

Crickets.  Blank stare.  Flat line.  I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my puzzle.

The boy continued to watch me struggle.


I politely explained that while the answers were in the back, I was going to try and problem solve.  

And that's when it hit me.

This is our country's next generation.  And they are a lazy bunch of cheaters.  His best solution to the Sudoku problem was to cheat his way through it.  Sigh.

Oh, and did I mention he was wearing a UGA hat?  No disrespect to Georgia's fine institution, I'm just saying that UGA should watch out, because in about nine more years they are going to have a lazy cheater headed their way.

So many numbers...

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Raising Ralph Wiggum

Yesterday was the Yoys' dental checkup.  Big E was super amped to go, as he could not wait to tell Dr. H that he had finally stopped sucking his thumb.  Cue the hallelujah music now.  At our last visit, Dr. H made it clear that it had to stop ASAP, as his teeth were flaring out and his mouth was narrowing.

Deterrents included an apparatus he wore at night covering his thumb, bitter paste to put on his thumb, and finally, threatened amputation (my personal favorite).  I showed him pictures of people with messed up teeth to illustrate what he was doing to his beautiful smile.  It turned out, all I needed to do was put away his baby blanket, which was the trigger.  Game over.

Dr. H walked into the room and I could see Big E puff out his chest to relay his big announcement.


The dentist made a huge deal about it, which I greatly appreciated.  Big E received extra prizes when we left.

Not to be outdone, Little E, or should I call him Ralph Wiggum, also had a grand announcement to make.


My heart stopped.  I shot Little E a death glance.  Leave it to my baby to sell me out.  I had taken the boys to the mall after camp to kill some time.  And this is the thanks I get.

I could feel my face turn red.  Not only do I give my kids cookies, but I give them candy covered cookies.

I belong in cavity jail.

Not sorry to see this go.  Unfortunately, I have to break Little E's habit, as well.

Little E (the resemblance is eerie, I know)

Monday, June 17, 2013

Let's All Agree to Just Not Talk

Let's discuss the awkward time between when your plane touches down and when you actually reach the gate and deplane.

You always have that person who immediately powers up their cell phone only to engage in a deeply personal and completely inappropriate conversation.  Loudly. I leave the plane wondering if the girl in 23D and her loser boyfriend (inferred through their phone dialogue) will make it.

Today was an exception.  It was unusually silent as the plane navigated the gauntlet that is the Atlanta airport.

Good.  I won't have to explain to Big E what some random man is talking about or worry that Big E will try to inject himself into the conversation.

The fasten seat belt sign went off as the plane stopped at the gate.  Big E popped out of his seat.

I HAVE TO MAKE DIRTS! (translation: the kid needed to poop.)

We all know the potential ending to this story.

I try and stay calm.  I feel the heat radiating from my armpits.

CAN'T I CATCH ONE BREAK.  JUST ONE.  PLEASE!!  (I want to shout this out to no one in particular.)


I watch in agony as the plane empties at a pace competitive with my nail polish drying.


My fellow passengers begin to panic.  I see it in there downtrodden eyes.  They refuse to make eye contact with me.  As I have a kid that "makes dirt". Whatever the hell that means.

But I have a few things in my favor.

1)  My kid is so constipated from existing on a diet made up of cake, cupcake, and black and white cookies, that I'm not sure he has the ability to go.

2) Mrs. Yoy has been around the block one too many times.  I've got this kid in a pull up.  If it's going to happen, it's going to be discreet, but I'd still like for Big E to use a real life toilet.

I talk Big E through his poop panic and he makes it to the bathroom.  Where he doesn't even poop.

Lord, somebody nominate this kid for best actor in a dramatic life.

It's a long walk down this aisle...

Mrs Yoy: In Need of a Good Shampoo

Have you seen the whooping cough commercial which urges all adult caregivers and family members to get vaccinated so your poor, sweet baby doesn't get infected and cough itself to death?

It terrifies me on a daily basis.  Not contracting whooping cough.  Just having to watch this horrific commercial.

We had a baby sitting directly behind us on today's flight.  And no, I'm not going to complain about her crying, because I am a mother and I have mad sympathy for anyone flying with children.

I am going to delicately mention that I'm 99% sure this baby had whooping cough.  Every time she coughed/struggled for air, I died a little bit inside.  I'm sure her mom wouldn't take her on a plane if she had some dark ages infectious disease, but it sounded painful.

I hope adhering to a strict Magnolia Bakery diet while on my trip boosted my immune system to the point that I won't be coming down with whatever she was coughing into my hair for the duration of the two hour flight.

Why, yes, I'll have another piece.

A Grand Tantrum

Big E and I just returned from our semi-annual trip to NYC.  We spent the weekend visiting Uncle D and Aunt J.

As in past visits, my brother and his wife bore witness to an epic Big E temper tantrum.  Scratch that.

My brother, his wife, and half of Manhattan bore witness to an epic Big E temper tantrum.

It started with a t-shirt at the Grand Central Station Transit Museum.  I picked out an E line shirt for Little E.  I asked Big E if he, too, wanted one.  (matchy-matchy!)

Big E emphatically declined.  I asked him the required forty-two times.  But he was certain.  It was a no on the shirt.  It saved me $18, so I was fine with it.

I paid for Little E's shirt and we were off.  As soon as I took my first step out of the museum and into the acoustically endowed Grand Central Station, Big E lost his mind.

His howls would have been loud in our modest home.  But in this vast train station, they were deafening.

Big E and I have been working on his constant indecisiveness.  It is maddening. If he makes the decision, then has to live with the consequence.  In this case, he wouldn't be the owner of a cool train shirt.

I was sporting a cute summer dress which Big E tried to lift up in his rager.  People in NYC see crazy sh*t on the streets daily, but even the New Yorkers were staring at us.  My frustration with him brought me to the verge of tears.

He was hysterical.  I tried to walk on hoping we would simmer down.  Yeah right.

Finally, Uncle D picked him up and carried him out of there.  It was either that or have someone from homeland security escort us out.

We walked from Grand Central to the New York Public Library with Big E crying/whining/screaming the whole way.  It came in waves.

We arrived at the library and Big E refused to go in.

As a big-time book nerd, this was a mecca for me.  I had to go in.

I pleaded with Big E.  He cried.

I began to carry him up the ten thousand stairs towards the entry.


Sweet.  Not only will I get to enter the library, but I'll also get arrested there.

Finally.  FINALLY. He calmed down enough to let me take him in.  We went to the children's library and read multiple books.  Big E didn't want to leave.  Unfortunately, he is too young to recognize the irony.

We coaxed him out of the children's room by promising him he could pick out a book in the store to keep at Uncle D and Aunt J's apartment for his visits.  Although I'm pretty sure we'll never get an invite back.

Big E had come back to us.  He was no longer Sybil.  Or Satan.

A little boy walked towards us wearing the train t-shirt that triggered the previous 90 minutes of hell.

I quickly escorted Big E to another area of the book store.  I wasn't about to open that Pandora's Box.

This was all it took...

To bring this place to a standstill.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Flag This Entry to Read at a Later (Frustrating) Time


I checked the clock.  It was 7:45.  The sun was still going strong here in the ATL, but Mrs. Yoy was not.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Big E that it was indeed nighttime.

After multiple reappearances by him, I told Big E I would lay with him until he fell asleep.

I rubbed his back and told him to count sheep.


Somewhere around 108 sheep, I checked out.  While my son has unlimited energy, I'm running on generic brand batteries.  I run out of power by about 7:30 each night.

I'm not sure how long I slept, but I felt Big E kiss my hand.

I opened my eyes and his sweet face was inches from mine.  He smiled at me and rolled over.

Within a few minutes his breathing slowed to a steady pace.

I began my descent out of his bed.  One. Limb. At. A. Time.

My first movement caused Big E to roll back over.  Again, our faces were inches from each other.  The light in Big E's room was fading fast.

He began to quietly snore.  This was my key to freedom.  Big E was finally asleep.

But instead of sneaking out of there, I stayed.  I stared at him.  He was so peaceful and beautiful.  His ridiculously long lashes sporadically fluttered.  I wanted to eat his face.  But not in a Hannibal Lecter kind of way.

I laid there until the room completely darkened and then made my exit.

Big E's Future Tattoo

Monday, June 3, 2013

The Yoysers: Sink or Swim

Last year was the first summer I enrolled Big E in swim lessons.

The teacher is great, but she doesn't take any crap.  She had Big E swimming in four, thirty minute sessions.

I was one impressed Mrs. Yoy.

This year, it was Little E's turn to be indoctrinated into the "dunk club."

Big E was slotted to go first at 3:30.  He walked right up to Miss C and began chatting her up.  I hadn't told him why we were at the pool and he didn't seem to recognize her.  Initially.  Then the light went on.

And he was off.  Big E bolted up the stairs, flung open the gate to the parking lot, and went for it.  I grabbed him moments before he hit the street.

He was hysterical.

So like a lamb to the slaughter, Little E went first.

As soon as Miss C baptized his Fred Flintstone feet in the pool, the wailing began.  It didn't end until he plugged his mouth with a well earned lollipop.

In the meantime, I was in serious negotiations with Big E.

I promised him everything if he would painlessly take his lesson with Miss C.  I may have told him he would get a pony.  Sorry, Mr. Yoy.

I let him watch TV on my phone will Little E's terrorizing screams echoed through our 'hood.

When it was Big E's turn, he bravely walked towards the pool.

He made it about ten minutes without crying.  Then he hit his limit.  Miss C sat Big E on the step to show him something and he jumped out and ran.  Again.

Oy.  It is too hot for this sh*t.

Tomorrow will be the true test as they will know why we are going down to the pool.

There better be a pony tied up out front.

Little E recovering

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Worst. Gift. Ever.

My parents recently returned from a week-long cruise of the Western USA/Canada.

They popped in and out of awesome cities throughout California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia.

My mom was on a mission to locate the perfect souvenir to bring back for the Yoys.

And boy did she ever.

Picture this.

First, you have a trigger.  Like a gun.

You press the trigger but instead of a bullet, a basketball (or soccer ball), because there are two variations of this satanic toy, begins spinning, playing music and lighting up.

The music is eerily similar (anyone know a good copyright lawyer?) to the Pitbull/Jennifer Lopez song that was beat to death by pop radio.  So now those guys are haunting every waking moment of my day.


Sorry, there it goes again.  I will try and control it for the remainder of the blog entry.

The ball opens up and some weird, scary clown guy (IN A TOPHAT!) is giving you the once over with his evil shiny eyes.

One trigger pull is good for about ten seconds of music and scary clown spinning.

But, wait.  There's more.

Attached to the trigger is a whistle.

That's right, folks.  They can whistle while they pull the trigger.

Seriously, what in the hell was my mom thinking?  Maybe she was so amped by her big BINGO win that she temporarily lost her marbles.

This must be payback for all the sass I gave her in middle/high school.  Well played, mom.  Well played indeed.

The Yoys in Action