Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Keygate 2013 > Watergate 1972

My kids love treasure maps.  And burying sh*t.  And keys.  And playgrounds.

If I mixed all of these things together in my magic blender, I could pour myself a big, tall glass of the worst afternoon ever.

I pick Big E up from school around 2:20.  We then head straight to the school playground for 1-2.5 hours, depending on how much sugar the Yoys have ingested during the day.

Yesterday, day my car/house keys went missing during our playground adventure.

Big E snuck them from my bag and then handed them off to Little E, which is the equivalent of throwing them into outer space.  He is a black hole.

I interrogated Big E, but for a kid that can remember the graphic details of when he fell off a train car in 2011, he had complete amnesia in regards to my keys he had stolen an hour before.

Bless their hearts, Big E's school mates helped me look for hours.  To them it was just another "treasure" hunt.  To me, it was my ride home.

I explained in detail what the keychain looked like.  


I realized I was really putting myself out there to these Georgia-bred second graders.


[SIDE NOTE:  I was being heckled by children.  But I get it.  Sometimes, I hate the Gators, too.  Especially Driskell.  With his broken body and all.  I do give props to the parents for brainwashing their children at such an early age, though.  Well done, parents, well done.]

I was defeated.  I called Mr. Yoy.  I could feel his annoyance seething through the phone. He left work early and met us at the playground.  He stayed and searched with the Yoys while I drove home to get my extra set of keys.

We finally made it home close to six.

As of today, the keys are still unaccounted for.  

Big E's biggest concern is that someone while find our keys, open our front door, and take his leap pad.

But with each crazy Yoy story, there is a silver lining.  Atlanta's Westside neighborhood is full of awesome people and one of my friends/neighbors has a metal detector that she is going to lend me so I can comb the playground mulch.  

Because we all know my keys are buried there and this is just some sick game my kids are playing.

This will be me tomorrow at the playground.  It will be epic.

Big E: The Tracks of His Smears

At three and almost five, I can leave the Yoys unattended for short timespans without an apocalypse.

This evening I ran upstairs to put their laundry away before bedtime. The cleaning people are coming in the morning, and I have to make sure my house is pristine so they don't judge me and my filth.

It took me five minutes.  That is all.

In five minutes, Big E had used the bathroom.  Yay for him!  Except he left a sh*t trail starting on the side of the toilet seat and down the bowl.

But the damage didn't stop there.

Somehow he managed to smear it down the front of his quads via the arches of his feet.  Apparently, he took up some crazy form of yoga in the brief time I was upstairs.


He looked up at me (because he was busy playing) and smiled.


I asked him to freeze like a statue and went to get the baby wipes.  I wiped up his feet and legs so I could get him to the tub without any permanent poo damage.

As I went to put the baby wipes back, I noticed I, too, was suffering from sh*tty arches.  I had stepped in it, which means it was somewhere on the hardwoods.

I collapsed on the floor and began to clean my feet as well.

Thank the lord my cleaning people are coming tomorrow.  And let them judge me.

Substitute the dog for Big E.  And me.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Are you there wine? It's me, Mrs. Yoy.

After a stellar checkup at the dentist this afternoon, Big E received a coin to put into the prize vending machine.  There were many crappy prizes to choose from.

Big E ran ahead of me and impulse bought a stick-on mustache.  I thought he made a pretty solid decision given his options.  I was going to stick that thing on his face and take some HILARIOUS pictures.

Big E immediately had buyer's remorse.


There are too many indecisive little kids running around this place to have a return policy in place.  The next time you return, you'll get another prize.  That's it.

As I tried to check-out, Big E had a balls-to-the-wall meltdown over his missed opportunity to own a seventh super bouncy ball.  Tears, stomping, pushing as I tried to remain calm, although I wanted to match his crazy with my own that was simmering up inside me.

Not to be outdone, Little E screamed to be picked up.

I signed my life away and hurried out of there with two crying Yoysers in tow.

A few thoughts popped into my head as I dragged my offspring to the van.

1)  Why the hell was I wearing jeans?  It's 80 degrees.  And I know my kids are good for at least one public embarrassment per outing, which immediately raises Earth's temperature by a good 15 degrees.  I wipe the sweat off my brow as I wrestle my kids into their respective car seats.

2)  The size of the tantrum is disproportionally related to the cause.


HELLO BIG E, TODAY YOU WILL NOT GET A SECOND CRAPPY PRIZE AT THE DENTIST. (This is it.  The world is ending. Right here.  Right now.  In Vinings, of all places.)

The car ride home was surprisingly unpleasant.

Big E sobbed his way across 285.




Fine, that I can do.  I assured Big E the prize was going in the trash once we arrived home.

This statement sent Little E off his rocker and he began to cry for the mustache, although I'm sure he had no idea why he was crying.  He just didn't want to be left out of the fun.

I half laughed/half cried the rest of the way home.  I didn't know what else to do.

This about caused Big E's world to end.

Little E: Bootylicious

This morning was Little E's three year old checkup.

Everything was within the normal parameters with the exception of his inappropriateness levels.  They were off the charts.

The nurse asked Little E to disrobe down to his polar bear themed tighty-whities.


And just to reiterate his point, he stretched the word booty out into six syllables.

Yep.  That's my kid.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Pull Ups: The Ultimate Gateway Drug

Both my kids are toilet trained.

In the past, I needed to asterisk the above sentence.

The Yoys had a deep, dark secret that we share with many other families.

After using the toilet all day, we slide our kids into pull ups at night as the ultimate uninterrupted sleep insurance policy.

Any sort of bathroom accident is messy, but in the bed at 3AM with all seven of your stuffed animals is plain Armageddon.  I wasn't ready to dispose of our safety net, and neither was Big E.

Let's just air it all out here.  Pull ups are code for diapers.  Because that is what they are.  They just fasten differently.  They are a crutch.

You may innocently start your child in them for insurance purposes, but like any gateway drug, it quickly escalates to cocaine, I mean, urine-ville every morning.

With Little E, I noticed his pull up was always dry come morning.  With that nugget of truth, I altered my parenting trajectory.  I wasn't going to fall into the pull up trap with child number two.

We blew through our final Costco sized box of pull ups.  Gulp.  I was really going to do this.  It had to be done.  Big E will be five in November.  Enough was enough.

I purchased waterproof mattress covers for the Yoysers' beds.  I am a realist, if nothing else.  I expect there to be accidents, but I'm hoping it happens when I'm on vacation and someone else is watching them.

We've made it to night three of Operation Eliminate All Diaper-Like Products From Our Home.  Little E has made the transition more smoothly than his hooked older brother.  Detox is such a b*tch.


Usually these requests are reserved for such goodies as ice cream or Mentos.

But everyone has been dry in the morning and with each passing night I feel increasingly confident that we WILL end the cycle of addiction.

Everyone has fun peeing in their pants.  Just look at this little boy.  

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Little E, Fat Lip

Just in time for the high holiday season, Little E is rockin' a fat lip like he's Lisa Rinna stirring up trouble on Melrose Place.

Unfortunately for my raging mommy guilt, this injury was my fault.

Little E was laying in the hallway on his belly rolling his Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine back and forth.   I managed to clear Little E, but the bumper of the Mystery Machine had a fight with my flip-flop and Scooby-Doo and his ride took flight right into my poor, sweet Little E's mouth.

Blood.  Tears.  Swelling.


I wanted to cry, too.

I made him suck on an ice pack, wrapped in paper towels.  Apparently that tasted the same to him as the Yoforia we ate on Sunday.  Note to self, cross that fro-yo place off the list.

So if you run into Little E tomorrow, please don't ask for his autograph.

1) He can't write.

2) He is NOT Lisa Rinna.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Candyland is for Suckers

As a family, we viewed zero television today.  Not one news report.  Not one fifteen minute episode of Fireman Sam.  Nothing.

Big E's punishment for lying about being sick was a full day unplugged.  I certainly wasn't going to make staying home sick fun for him.

But my stubbornness came with its own set of consequences.  The most dire of which, involved me.  I spent 12 straight hours in constant dialogue with Big E. Every facial expression or under my breath comment I made was then fully analyzed by Big E.  It was exhausting.

But my kids evolved.  They made up some crazy games which I will share with you.  Maybe you can teach them to your kids when they run out of things to do.

1) Yank My Chain.  The title IS catchy, isn't it?  This involved my kids launching themselves off Big E's bed in an effort to reach the chain that turns the fan light on and off.  Based on the thuds and substantial cheers that followed, my kids were masters at this game.  I peeked in once and evaluated the dangerousness of the situation.  I'm happy to report no injuries and the fan is still installed in the ceiling.  

2) Prison Break.  One child would wiggle under my bed and the other would block the exit with all my decorative pillows.  After much screaming and pushing, one son would reappear from the under(bed)world sweaty and laughing.  Again, a weird choice, but it kept them busy for an hour.  That is an eternity in little boy time.

3) Treasure Hunt.  This was my least favorite as it involved me walking around the house while Big E indicated via clapping speed if I was getting close to the "treasure."  For the record, I don't consider a toy Seder plate and fake matzo a treasure.  To me it seems more of a choking hazard.  Double thumbs down for this game.

4) Cliff Hangers.  I watched in horror as Big E scaled the back of our leather sofa and hurled himself onto the buttery cushions below.  Climbing on furniture is always a NO-NO at the Yoysers, but it was 5:45 and I was barely conscious. Little E sensed I had let my mother guard down and took a header onto the hardwoods as his stumpy legs tried the impossible.  

I have to admit, I am very impressed with my kids' creativity.  They played with zero of their traditional toys and still managed to keep busy with their imaginations. 

And we all survived.


Unfortunately, Little E went right off the cliff.

Big E: The Yoy Who Cried Wolf

This morning Big E awoke from his extended weekend.  He was groggy and grumpy.

I, on the other hand, was singing from the mountaintops a la Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music.  My kids were returning to school.  I'm sure many of you had awesome Labor Day weekend plans.  Mine involved spending Sunday and Monday with them while Mr. Yoy worked.  It truly was a Labor Day.


Big E grasped at his stomach and even made a lame attempt at vomit.

After multiple questioning from both Mr. Yoy and I, we decided to keep him home.

Mr. Yoy left the house at 7:30.

Poor Big E.  He was ill.  My plan for him was to lay in bed all day.  He was going to rest up from whatever ailed him and be as good as new for tomorrow.

Around eight, Big E emerged from his bedroom.  Angels sang out.  He was a new man.  Completely healed.  It was a Rosh Hashanah miracle, I tell you!

I had been had.  Lied to.  And I was angry.

I am a sympathetic mom, I promise.  When my kids are truly sick I am the best caregiver around.

Big E had come down with a case of the three-day-weekends-shouldn't-ever-end.

His "sick" day will be the most mundane day he has spent on the planet.  No television.  No Leap Pad.  No computer.  Nothing awesome.  I will make him rethink his fake illness strategy.  For. Ever.

First up, his Sunday School homework.

By eleven, he was begging me to drop him off at school.


He thought about it for a minute.


So there you go.  This has been a recurring topic in our home.  He is very happy in pre-k with the exception of the 60 minute rest time after lunch.

Let me summarize.  He subjected himself to a day of punishment because he didn't want to lay still for 60 minutes.  What I wouldn't give to have a mandated 60 minute rest every afternoon.

Only four hours until dinnertime.  It's going to be a L-O-N-G afternoon.

Monday, September 2, 2013

The Art of the Transfer

We have reached Monday evening of Labor Day weekend.

We have done tons of eating and playing and swimming and learning books. Not much napping and most definitely not much sleeping.

As I navigated 285 on the way home from a visit with our family, my mind wandered to the upcoming week.  It wasn't until I was about half way home, that I noticed the eerie silence that had enveloped the van.  I peeked into my bus driver mirror and saw both Yoys, heads slumped over.


I yelled this to myself for fear of waking the beasts.  I spent the remainder of my drive strategizing how I would get them out of their car seats and neatly tucked into bed without a flutter of the eye.

So take note parents.  This may be helpful to those of you struggling with the transfer.

1) Always carry a set of pajamas.  I had the Yoys bathed and fed when I left D-Wood...just in case an opportunity arose.

2) Once home, close the garage door with all car doors shut.

3) Exit the car and head inside (while leaving the door from the garage to the house open!) to do some pre-transfer work.

4) Close blinds in bedroom, turn on sound machines, turn on fans, pull back blankets, and crank air conditioning.

5) Slowly unbuckle first Yoy.  I chose Big E as he is more of a challenge.  I carried those 37 lbs of love and energy precariously up the stairs as Poodle Yoy panted and danced around us.  I think she forgot the part where she is geriatric.  I'd appreciate it if she played the part instead of trying to wake up my kid.  As I dropped Big E into bed he looked at me briefly and then rolled over.  I quietly shut the door.  My mission was 50% complete.

6) Slowly unbuckle second Yoy.  This process was made more interesting by the puddle of drool that had lubricated the buckle.  Again, I carried a sack of potatoes up the stairs as my dog tried her best to trip me. Little E's descent into his bed was a little sloppy as I was getting excited.  He briefly woke from the feeling of falling (many people have this happen when they sleep), except this time it was actually because I dropped him.  I quietly shut the door.

And it was over.  The perfect transfer.  I did a victory lap around my bedroom and the bonus room.  I high-fived no one in particular as Mr. Yoy is at work.  But it was 7:15 and I was clocked out. **

**As I typed this, Big E's door swung open.  Like any good mom, I quietly stood up from my computer, tip-toed to my bedroom, laid down in my bed and pretended to be asleep.  After a few tense moments, Big E located me.  He just wanted a re-tuck.

 If you fail to plan, you plan to fail. - Many Smart People

Keeping the Yoys G-Rated

Last night Mr. Yoy and I climbed into bed around eight to binge watch Orange is the new Black.

Shortly after our show began, we had not one, but two haunting visitors.  Big and Little E.

Obviously, we didn't want them to watch our prison show.  They can't comprehend bad words or adult themes, but we wanted to freeze them in their extra-wide tracks.


Mr. Yoy dug deep.  His acting rivaled the great Robert De Niro.

A flicker of fear washed across Big E's sweet face.

He did a 180 and sprinted down the hall back to the G-rated walls of his bedroom.

Mission Accomplished.