Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Big E: Always Be Catalog Selling

This afternoon, my new neighbor innocently rang my doorbell.  Her car battery was dead and she wondered if I could drive over and jump her car.

Of course I could, but first, what is a car battery?  Kidding.  Sort of.

She had the jumper cables and actually knew where they went so I just popped the hood and let her work her magic.

Big E saw this as an opportunity.  He ran in the house and gathered all of his fall fundraiser catalogs.  He was finally going to get his chance to close the deal with a neighbor.

He went through his whole spiel and pressed for the hard sell on the cookie dough.  I felt bad and I didn't want her to think that she had to buy something from him.  Even if we were jumping her car and saving her from calling AAA.

I told her we'd bake up the cookie dough we'd already purchased and bring some cookies over to her and her daughter another day.

That seemed to appease Big E, the closer.

Have you thought about the Chanukah wrapping paper?  It's a great deal!

Big E, Little Modesty

Big E got into big trouble at school on Friday.

He and a few of his classmates thought it would be HI-LARIOUS if they pulled down their shorts and undies in the cafeteria during lunchtime.  It was not. Because no one wants to see your hot dog while they are actually eating a hot dog.

Big E's teacher sent a note home in his backpack detailing the incident.  He knew he had messed up.  Upon arriving home from school, Big E ran into his playroom and shut the door so he could "be alone with his toys and his backpack".  Maybe he thought he could destroy the evidence, but I'm too sharp for this kid.  Because I've been a kid.  Although, I was perfect and never got into any trouble.

I sat down and asked Big E why he had done this and explained why it was inappropriate.  While everyone was laughing at it today, he could find himself in real trouble if he continued showing his privates in public.  He seemed to grasp why I was so upset and disappointed in him.  Shower, yes.  Bedroom, yes.  Salad bar, no.

Once I had gathered the full story,  I called Mr. Yoy to discuss punishment.  Big E could either miss Bingo Night that evening (which he has been waiting for for precisely 364 days) or he could go a week without any screen time.  No TV.  No computer. No Leap Pad. No iPhone.  Just a boy and his old school toys.

Big E chose to give up his screen time.  Amazingly.  Although after he didn't win at Bingo he tried to negotiate his way out of the contract he wrote up and signed.

Yep, we made him write up a contract saying he was to have no screen time for a week.  And then sign it.  And because we are super mean parents, we made him write a seemingly insurmountable amount of times the following:

I WILL NOT PULL MY PANTS DOWN IN PUBLIC.

Big E cried his way through his writing punishment.  He yelled at me for being mean.  But I was just as upset.  I had the kid that didn't know when it was appropriate to show his privates.  He will be six in about seven weeks and he is old enough to know.

We are on day five of no screen time.  The first day was rough.  He cried for it. He "NEEDED" it.  But it was not oxygen.  It was not water.  It was not food.

I directed him towards his playroom full of toys and he began to play and keep himself entertained.  The old fashioned way.  Today we took Sorry outside and played a few cut throat games on the front patio.  Big E made no mention of the television.

With the exception of the Lego eating incident, I have been surprisingly pleased at how quickly my kids adapted to the no screen time rule this week.

It makes me seriously consider doing this on a more frequent basis.




L'eggo My Lego

Yesterday I made a run to Publix with my visiting mom.  She was helping me pick out food for my Rosh Hashanah dinner menu.

We delegated the task of grabbing the Yoys from the bus stop and watching them until we returned home from Publix to my dad, Poppy.  It was a mere thirty minutes.  Whatever could go wrong?

I pulled into the garage, popped the trunk, and hopped out of the car.  I immediately heard horror movie type screams coming from inside.

I threw open the door.  Big E stood there.  Hysterical.

I SWALLOWED A LEGO!

My dad was flustered, to put it nicely.

I'VE TOLD HIM EVERY DAY NOT TO PUT THOSE IN HIS MOUTH AND NOW HE SWALLOWED ONE!

I tried to calm Big E down and get some details.  The piece was a 4 by 1, for all of you Lego professionals out there.

I DON'T WANT TO BE CUT OPEN!

It was time to spring into action.  I called Mr. Yoy.  He didn't seem impressed by our current crisis.  I hung up with him and called his doctor.  Because the Lego was plastic, the nurse said Big E will pass it in his bowels within the next 48 hours.

I DON'T WANT TO POOP IT OUT!  IT'S GOING TO HURT!

Oy.

So now we are just waiting.  And I've been relegated the task of searching poop until the ingested Lego is found.  Those 12 bottles of Apothic White wine I bought on sale at Publix will definitely come in handy.

I just hope the offending Lego piece isn't a vital part to their Lego Police Station, because there is no amount of bleach that will save it.





Monday, September 15, 2014

The Yoys: Bloody Hell

It began with escalating yelling from the playroom.  From my well-worn spot on the sofa, it sounded like Little E was repeatedly wrecking something Big E was building.  Typical annoying little brother stuff.

Before I could intervene, I heard one final yell and then a scream so high that all the neighborhood dogs were beckoned to my front door.

I ran to a hysterical Little E.

WHAT HAPPENED?

No response.  Just silent crying.

HE WAS RUINING MY BUILDING!  HE KEPT GRABBING THE BLOCKS.  I HIT HIM IN THE HEAD.

Big E spoke up.  His bottom lip was quivering.  He knew he was in the dog house.

For the record, Little E was having a rough week as I'd already tried to wipe off his face with a soccer ball.

I knelt down to try and soothe him. I couldn't tell where the point of impact was. Maybe his forehead? There was a smudge of blood.  Maybe Big E had cut him with the magnetic blocks.

It was only then did I notice the drip, drip, drip of blood onto my hardwoods.

WHERE IN THE HELL IS THAT COMING FROM?!

I bounded up the stairs to grab a wash cloth to put on Little E's gusher.

I found the cut in his hair, behind his ear.  It was a doozy.  

I yelled something at Big E about how his brother would look like Freddy Krueger by the time they both left for college.  His once porcelain skin would be a road map of old fights and scars.

Big E ran upstairs and hid.

I called my dear friend, Nurse C.  

CAN I COME OVER TO SHOW YOU LITTLE E'S GUSHING HEAD WOUND?

Big E bolted to the car.  He was super pumped about this last minute play date.  I was so upset with him I could barely speak.

In five minutes, Nurse C was working her magic on Little E.  No stitches for him, thank goodness.  His tears subsided, especially after Nurse C handed him a frozen pop.

NURSE C, WILL YOU BE MY BEST FRIEND?

We returned home with Nurse C's $500 medical bill and instructions to not wash Little E's hair for a day.

I got to work on the trail of dried blood.  I scrubbed the floors until all evidence of bloodshed was gone.  I just hope no one goes all CSI on this place and sprays that sh*t and shines that light on the floor right outside the playroom.

IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE IS TRYING TO HIDE SOMETHING, DETECTIVE!

I sure am!  My ineptitude to raise peaceful, loving sons.


Weapons of mass destruction.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Mrs. Yoy: Break It Like Beckham

This afternoon we were playing on the school playground.  It was mostly deserted and the boys were getting b-o-r-e-d.

We decided to play a harmless game of soccer.

Little E and I versus Big E.

Little E mostly ran around, played some hopscotch, and sucked his thumb.  He was not a very solid teammate.

Even in my dress and Croc sandals, I was determined to destroy Big E.  I lined up for a big kick and fired away.

I'd like to blame my rubber sandals for my misfire, but it might just be my soccer ineptitude.

The ball fired off the side of my foot and straight into Little E's face, a mere five feet away.

I gasped.

Little E began screaming.

MOMMY, YOU HURTED ME!  MOMMY, THAT HURTED!

Over and over again.

Oy, the guilt.  I felt horrible.  Big E immediately recovered the ball and scored on me while I comforted his baby brother.  He is clearly soul-less.

So many tears fell down Little E's sweaty red face.  Tears welled up in my eyes, too.

IT HURTED ME, TOO, LITTLE E.  IN MY HEART.

These have been my go-to summer sandals.  I walked 27 miles in them when we went to Vegas and I had no blisters.  Great for gambling, not so great for soccer.

Little E: Dousing Flames

Up until the start of school, Little E was still peeing like a girl.  

I knew once school began the lure of the tiny urinals would convert Little E to a stand-up urinator, but I was delaying this as long as possible.

You see, last year I painted their bathroom wall a beautiful blue.  I purchased a new shower curtain and coordinating rugs that I really loved and enjoyed.  I'd walk into their bathroom and smile.  I had actually successfully decorated a space in my home without the use of a designer.  It was perfect.

And I wasn't about to let a bunch of urine destroy my dream.

But as I predicted, Little E began to ask to use the toilet standing up.  And you know what, his aim was pretty decent.

What WAS I worried about anyway?

And then I remembered.

Little E must have been hallucinating before bath time on Monday.  I think he believed the bathroom wall was on fire and was in need of a hose down.  So he graciously provided the "water".  He soaked the wall and even my leg as I was bent over putting the plug down in the tub.  I'd say 0% actually made it into the toilet.

After the shock of being peed on wore off, I gave the bathroom and myself a good bleaching, but the smell of urine still lingers.  

My beautiful bathroom has been transformed into a public restroom and for that, I am sad.

Foreshadowing 

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Mrs. Yoy: Bring On The Bookcases!

Last week Mr. Yoy visited Washington, D.C. for work and like any good daddy, returned with presents for the Yoys.

One was a 3D puzzle of the White House and the other was a fake Lego, which I will from now on refer to as Flego, of Air Force One.

The boys' eyes lit up when they saw their gifts. I just saw a giant headache in the making.

On Saturday, while Mr. Yoy was at the office, the boys decided they wanted to put together the Flego plane.  I opened the box and the bag and handed the instructions to Big E.

GOOD LUCK, BUDDY.

And with that, I returned to the kitchen to clean up breakfast.

MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM.

CAN YOU HELP ME WITH THIS?

I knew this moment would come.  I gulped down some Coke Zero, swept the cobwebs from my brain, and sat down on the floor in the playroom with the Flego instructions.

The Flegos instructions were most likely printed in the same factory as the Ikea instructions.

IS THIS IN SWEDISH?  AND IS IT UPSIDE DOWN?

This well-intentioned "present" cost me two hours of my Saturday.  I've previously mentioned that I'm horrible at these build projects, and yet they keep showing up at my home.

I had sweat dripping in the cracks behind my knees.  My kids were impatiently hovering above me.  Every time I attempted to put on one of the 17 stickers it came with, Little E would knock my arm or jump on my back.

Here I am, performing sticker surgery on this thing, and my helper keeps sabotaging me.  I'm pretty sure he was doing it on purpose.  He could smell the blood in the water.

And here it is.  The stickers look busted, but it was finished.

I use the term "was", because by the time I came back from our Saturday night out, the boys had already destroyed the parts not kept together by stickers.  It may have been the many spiked Arnold Palmers I drank that evening, but I definitely shed a tear for the remnants of Flego Air Force One I discovered scattered by the back door.

The pilot is still MIA.







Friday, September 5, 2014

Little E: Bilingual?

This afternoon we met some friends at the local Chick-Fil-A for some indoor playground time and an early meal.

My friend and I watched our four crazy boys through the extra thick glass.  We weren't about to enter the play area where their laughs and yells were amplified to deafening levels.

But we watched other kids' moms go in there and sit on the germ infested bench and slowly bake to death.

I noticed Little E was getting very chatty with a few of the moms.  I could see his mouth moving, but had no idea what information he was disseminating.  I prayed it wasn't anything incriminating or personal.  Or both.

One of the moms approached me when she was leaving.

IS THAT YOUR SON IN THE BLUE THOMAS SHIRT?

Gulp. Um, yes, I guess I'll claim him.  But only if this is a good, positive story.  If not, he's my friend's son.

YES, IT IS.

She went on to explain that she was speaking to her kids in Spanish and Little E recognized it as such.

She asked him if he knew any Spanish.  He proceeded to rattle off his numbers and this little ditty:

NO HABLO INGLES.

As she made her way through the story, I felt such pride that my well-cultured four year old could pick up another language and then rattle off some words.  I smiled.  Until the last sentence.

You see, I took multiple years of Spanish growing up, and although I haven't studied it in ages, I remember un poco.  See what I did there?

Anyway, sometimes when my kids are whining and throwing tantrums and just being horrible humans, I switch languages on them.  And that is my catch phrase.

So Little E, in his southern drawl, told this lady he does not speak English.

Can I get an oy vey?




Thursday, September 4, 2014

Mrs. Yoy: Toy Ninja

The toy situation at my house was out of control.

We were long overdue for a toy purge.

This can be a very precarious process.  

Do I let the boys help me pick out the things they want to give away?  We all KNOW how that ends.  With zero toys being removed from the giant toy sh*thole that mocks me as I relax on my buttery leather couch.  

With the start of school I was finally given the time to sneakily go in there and remove things that the Yoys haven't touched in months.

I said good-bye to mega blocks, duplo blocks, one too many Chick-Fil-A toys, and a menacing Wreck-It Ralph doll.  I also earmarked some Geo Trax trains to be driven up to my brother's house when my parents roll through in a few weeks.

I was feeling cleansed.  Organized.  I dumped the toys into trash bags and labeled them for their final destinations.  I moved the black bags into my trunk.  Guilt crept into my thoughts.  But I shut that down fast.  It's not like I was dumping a dead body.  Just some old wooden puzzles.

For FOUR weeks I didn't hear a peep about any missing toys.  Victory was mine. And it was glorious.

Until Tuesday.

MOM, WHERE ARE MY MEGA BLOCKS?

GULP.

Do I play dumb?
Do I lie?
Do I drop the toy giveaway bomb on them?

In the end, I told them I gave them to Cousin Yoy as they had moved on to the big boy Legos.

Tears ensued, but I was able to distract him with the new Oriental Trading catalog. 

Like a boss.

Not our actual playroom, but makes my skin crawl all the same.  

Little E: Out of Balance

Little E has worn the same shoes since he began walking: size XW New Balance sneakers.  We may switch up the color but it is always the same shoe.  It's the only shoe I can find that will close over Little E's Fred Flintstone feet.

Currently he is rocking a gray pair.  I bought them right before school started, so they are still in pretty good shape.

Last week, I got a call from one of Little E's teachers.  Anytime I get a call from school I expect the worst.

At some point during the day, Little E had ended up with another student's gray New Balances.  His teacher requested I send them back the next day.

I checked his shoes as soon as the bus dropped him off.  Sure enough they were a size smaller and were just W, not XW.  I pictured Cinderella and laughed at the visual of Little E jamming his foot into the wrong shoe.

I thought it and my mom and Mr. Yoy both asked it.

HOW DID HE NOT REALIZE HE WAS WEARING THE WRONG SHOES IN THE WRONG SIZE?

He just didn't.

The day before he hopped off the bus with his shoes on the wrong feet and was able to run full speed up the hill to our house.

That's my boy!

Fits like a glove.

The gold standard in fat feet footwear.