Monday, July 29, 2013

Mrs. Yoy: In Need of an Oil Change

For almost three weeks, I've had my mom to help me care for the Yoys.  She flew up to the ATL while Mr. Yoy was away for work and then she flew with me down to South Florida where I stayed with the boys until Mr. Yoy retrieved us this past weekend.

I'm not going to lie, I coast when she is around.  Most meals the boys ate during July were prepared by Grandma.  Which may explain why they ate gummy vitamins and sun chips for dinner tonight.  I forgot how to mom.

If I had it my way, I'd ease my way back into hard core parenting.  It's really difficult to go from one end of the spectrum to the other.  Thank goodness I have my sweet boys to keep me on my toes.

We hit up the Toyota service department this morning for an oil change.

Both Yoys brought their backpacks full of learning books and stickers and snacks to keep them quiet for the 30 minutes it takes to change the oil.  These kids were prepared.

I anxiously watched as the pot that is my children began to simmer and to boil.

By the time we reached the check-out window, they were reenacting the final scene from the Hunger Games.


Only one of those Yoysers was going to win the Toyota edition of the Hunger Games.  None of this let's both eat the berries, bullsh*t.  They were fighting to the death.

A woman in line next to me gave me a questionable glance.


I didn't say that, exactly, but I sure wanted to.

I could not control my kids and god knows I tried.  They caught me off guard.  I was on the easy listening channel and they were tuned into death metal.

As we loaded up, I informed Big E, who, as always, was instigating everything, that he had lost his afternoon movie time.  He proceeded to pinch me and try and rip off my cardigan.

Put that in your Sienna commercial, Toyota!

Are you Team Big E or Team Little E?

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Big E: Jewish and Proud

Big E is a talker.  Not only is he a talker, he has zero filter.  Which can be very dangerous.  Mr. Yoy and I are very careful (most of the time) of what we say in front of him.

Half of our conversation is spelled out.  When Big E finally learns to read, it will totally S-U-C-K.

As we were leaving the pool this afternoon, we encountered an employee of the clubhouse leaving her shift.

For the record, she began the conversation with Big E.  Which I'm sure she'll regret forever.

It started innocently, but once she engaged Big E, the information was free-flowing. 





On and on he went.

She asked him about dinner plans.


I finally peeled Big E away from this poor woman.

She yelled some parting words to Big E across the giant pool.


In my mind, I played out what some appropriate answers to her would have been.


But not my son.  He blasted out a jewel that sent everyone within hearing distance laughing.


That was his response.  While true, it is completely irrelevant to this conversation.

I swear it echoed across the pool for five minutes.


I feel like this may sometimes be appropriate.

Little E: He's So Shy

This afternoon, the Yoys were on the verge of tearing my parents' tidy house apart.  Their energy expanded to every inch of this place and it was only mere minutes before someone was crying.  Or bleeding. 

I decided to move them to the kiddie pool up at the club house.

It was perfect. 

Until it wasn't.

Little E, while kicking butt on toilet training, still refuses to go on a real potty.  He goes on a mini one.  That I've been lugging around everywhere.  This kid has peed in half the parking lots in South Florida.

As we played in the pool, I saw a look of panic flash across Little E's face.  It was poop time.  And I left the mini potty at the house.  I grabbed him out of the pool.  He begged for the mini potty, and I had to break the news to him.

He cried.  He writhed in pain.  I told him he could go on a regular potty and he cried some more.  I told him to go in his swim diaper.  I wrapped him up in a towel and like a Baywatch lifeguard, ran his mummified body to the bathroom.

Maybe this would be his big breakthrough. 

I pulled down his swim diaper and he had pooped, but just a little.  This kid has cornered the market on massive man ones, so I knew there was more to come.

Little E refused to go anymore.

Three times we had a code red emergency which included me scooping him out of the kiddie pool, wrapping him up, and running the length of an olympic size swimming pool to get to the restroom where he had a serious case of the shy poops.

I finally surrendered.  We were going to head home.  This was not an enjoyable pool experience for me.  And I didn't want my folks to be branded the people whose grandson pooped in the country club pool.  These old people gossip like middle school chicks.  It is brutal.


Wednesday, July 17, 2013

The Yoys: They Will Never Ever Ever, Sleep Together

Mr. Yoy and I had been tossing around the idea of bunk beds for the boys.  Had is the key word here.

The test run is happening right now at my parents' house.  The Yoys are sharing a room.  They each have a twin blow up mattress.

Tonight will be night four of them bunking up.  We have many nights to go and I'm not sure we will survive unscathed.

Last night, Big E didn't want to go to sleep, so he kept Little E up with his antics.  Once Big E was ready to doze off, Little E was so overtired and insane that he wouldn't let Big E fall asleep.  So they were both whining and crying and fighting. 

I took a shower to escape the noise.  When I came out, my dad had moved Little E's mattress into my bedroom as he was being a trouble maker.  Little E cried and ran back into the room with Big E.

This was not going to work.  I dragged his mattress back into the bedroom of hell.

My dad decided he would go outside and bang on their window.  Or better yet, shine a flashlight in the window claiming to be the bedtime police.

We were all frustrated, but I'm 100% sure that my dad's ideas would cause more harm than good.  They'd be afraid to sleep in that room.

I told Little E the next time I heard him, his mattress was going out back on the patio and he'd have to sleep with the alligators and pray that they don't eat him for a midnight snack.

That finally did the trick.  The boys fell asleep at 9:45.

Unfortunately they were both in my bedroom at 6:45AM. 

I expect nothing but complete sh*t behavior today. 

This will never, ever happen.

The Yoys: Fly Boys

On Sunday, I packed up the Yoys and along with my mom, flew down to Florida to visit with my family and friends for a few weeks before school starts back in early August (!!!).

Big E is a seasoned traveler.  We weekend in NYC often and he knows the routine.  I let my mom sit with him.  He would be cake.

I was (self) assigned to Little E.  The last time I put him on a plane was two years ago for Uncle D's wedding.  It was mildly unpleasant.  I resolved to never fly with him again. 

I know you are salivating.  You cannot wait for all the dirty, uncomfortable details of the one hour and twenty minute flight to West Palm.

But I'm going to disappoint you.  My kids were phenomenal.**  So much so, that once we landed, I lifted up the backs of their shirts to check for a panel and some buttons.  Maybe they had been replaced by robot Yoys.  For the record, they had not.

I added the asterisks as Little E kept stating with supreme confidence the following phrase.


It was creepy and mostly precipitated by the leveling off the plane once we reached cruising altitude. This is hard to explain to an almost three year old, so instead, I just let him ramble on and on about the plane going down as the neighboring passengers gave me weak, uncomfortable smiles.


I wanted to reassure everyone my kid wasn't some freaky crystal ball baby that could see the future.

This was not our bag, but it easily could have been.  Fail to prepare and prepare to fail.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

The Yoys: (un)Easy Street

This afternoon as I was packing up the Yoys to go to a play date, I noticed a man in a blue Dodge SUV stopped in the street in front of my house, snapping away pictures of the Yoy Castle on his iPhone.

Because I'm on edge and a little insane, I swung open the front door and went sprinting into our driveway.



I startled the guy.  He smirked at me, gave a half wave and sped off.

My mind began whirling.




It made me very uneasy.  We left for our play date, but when I returned home, I decided to call the police.  If our neighborhood was competing in the summer crime olympics, we'd certainly get the Gold for robberies.  It's pretty tense around here. And if Blue Dodge is going to return later and murder me, I at least want the police to know who their suspect is.

APD arrived and the officer was very kind.  He explained that taking pictures is not a crime.  He went through a laundry list of potential suspects that I'd like to share with you.

1) Ex-husband:  I haven't had a chance to send Mr. Yoy running for the hills yet, as we've only been married seven years.  Check back with me in a few.

2) Ex-boyfriend: It's been along time since I had a boyfriend.  If I've still got men taking pictures of my house almost a decade after we dated, well then I am f*cking awesome.  Just saying.

3) Private Investigator:  Now I'm intrigued.  Mr. Yoy works 14 hours a day as an Intellectual Property Attorney and I sit on the couch eating bon bons and blogging.  Who would be investigating us?  We are B-O-R-I-N-G.

He assured me my home was in a good spot for not being robbed.  Comforting. I think.

The officer then complimented my flowers and lawn (which I take great pride in) and commented on the weed sh*t show going on in the adjacent lawn.  Don't get me started, officer, then there really might be a crime.

In the end, he recommended buying a gun and sleeping with it next to my bed, like he does.

Sigh.  Atlanta.

I just need to buy one of these and park it in my driveway.  Then I will sleep soundly at night.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Operation Diaper Independence: Day 4

I have survived a sh*tty four days of no diapers.

If I was grading Little E, and let's face it, I always am, I'd give him a "C".

Today he had one accident.  But it was a mega poop in his underwear.  At our neighbors' house.  And waited until I discovered it.  So he gets many demerits for being shifty.

I have found over the past four days, the only time I am truly relaxed is when I slide those Cars Pull-ups over his chunky thighs minutes before bedtime.  I can breathe again.  Angels cry out HALLELUJAH from the heavens.  My heart rate decelerates to an acceptable level for a woman my age.  My deodorant stops working overtime.

I know it gets better, as Big E is rounding the corner to five and he goes to the bathroom without prompting and/or drama.  Unless something so engaging is on the television.  And then he just goes in his pants rather than miss a minute of Jake and the Neverland Pirates.  Priorities.

I just want to fast forward this process and get there already.  I don't even need a Delorean, we can make due with the Sienna.  

I long for the day when I am not stalking Little E.

Eyebrows up?  Are you thinking about maybe having to possibly go to the bathroom?

Grunts?  Are you already doing the deed in your clean underwear?

Optical Illusions?  Is that a shadow on your shorts or are you urine soaked?

In the meantime, I will continue to spew the potty questions every 15 minutes.


My nighttime savior!

Friday, July 5, 2013

Little E: (Diaper) Independence Day

Today is the day.

I've put it off as long as possible.  The phrase I hate to even allow to slip past my lips.

Toilet Training.

It has to happen.  Little E turns three at the end of the month.  But that's not what's motivating me.  One month from today, August 5th, Little E begins preschool and he must be bathroom independent.  We are on the clock!

It is approximately six hours into toilet training.

Little E has used the potty frequently depositing a few drops here and there.  He usually goes to the bathroom when he wakes up and before the bath, so this is not newsworthy.

It's the pooping that is killing me.


Once he didn't even bother to tell me.  I smelled it coming from his training underwear as he meticulously worked on his trains.

The second time was a precisely planned drop between two overturned matchbox cars.  This kid puts lasers to shame.  It was mere minutes after I asked Little E if he had to use the potty.


I got the brush off.

And then I got out of my clorox wipes and went bananas on the playroom floor.

Little E is currently watching a movie, naked, on the floor in my bedroom.  I'm afraid to nap him today.

I hate this.

Like I said when I trained Big E, I'd pay big dollars for someone to do this for me.


Let's do this!

Big E: Extra For The Walking Dead

Yesterday we celebrated the birthday of our great nation.

I'm not sure the Yoys grasp the concept of the holiday, but they do understand it means fireworks, staying up late, and eating normally banned food substances like jelly bellies and chocolate covered rice crispy treats (yes, please!).

After eight, long hours at Mr. Yoy's office, we had finally packed everyone up and headed home.

Big E began to doze off about ten minutes into our drive.

His head slumped forward.


Bedtime was going to be a breeze.  Relief flooded my tired body.


And like a zombie child, Big E awoke from the dead to answer the question.

Fascinating.  This kid is exhausted, but he is also very alarmed that he is going to miss a nugget of what is going on.

I turned around and Big E had reverted back to a dead body.

ARE YOU EXCITED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR TOMORROW AND GET SOME SHOTS? (not a true statement, mostly just for baiting)

Big E lifted his head and briefly objected to going to the doctor for shots.

Wow, this is quite a talent and will be ever so useful in the future.

After that we let him sleep off his day.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Big E: Recycling His Party Tricks

I am patient.

I am patient.

I am patient.

Sorry, I just had to squeeze in that mantra to maintain some sanity this evening.

Big E spent the last thirty minutes before bedtime repeating every word, laugh, eye roll, middle finger (joking, maybe) that I said/did/emoted.

It drove me to the depths of madness I have not yet experienced as a mother.  I always say that sleep deprivation is a legitimate form of torture, but until you've been mimicked by a precocious four-year old, you haven't experienced the true meaning of the word.

This is not the first time I've experienced the pleasure of Big E's antics, it had just been such a long time, I thought (hoped) he had moved on from this childish game.

A few pointers for my son who will eventually read this:

1)  I feed you.  Food.  Don't make me mad.  

2)  Don't parrot me as I prepare to floss your teeth.  I will be sloppy. It will hurt.  But you already know this after tonight.

3)  Bedtime stories will be canceled.  I didn't want to read that stupid Chick-Fil-A Helen Keller book to begin with, but I'm sure as sh*t not going to listen to you repeat it back to me word-for-word.

I think I've finally cooled down.  As always, thanks for listening!