Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Yoysers: Blood Brothers

Mr. Yoy is traveling for work.  This left me with a WIDE OPEN SATURDAY.

My plan was to kill two hours at the YMCA (that's the maximum time that the Yoys can spend in the child care area per day), grab some lunch, and head over to Aunt Yoy's to commiserate about our traveling husbands.

My first victory of the day was getting Big E to agree to go to the Y.  Usually it takes a miracle.  Today it was the promise of one dollar.

We unloaded at the Y.  This included a giant history book and an Oriental Trading catalog (which is the equivalent of Catnip for kids).

YOU DO KNOW THEY HAVE TOYS TO PLAY WITH HERE?

But no one wanted to listen to me.  As usual.

I held onto Big E's hand while he gripped his 400 page learning book.  Little E held onto Big E's elbow and his Oriental Trading catalog.  We formed a chain precariously making our way into the building.

Except Big E tripped and went down hard.  He basically belly flopped onto the asphalt.  Little E tripped on Big E and partially fell on him.  The sound of the clumsy twins hitting the deck will be forever ingrained in my mind.

I wish screaming could best describe what came next, but it just can't. Howls. They echoed off the valley walls of the YMCA parking lot for all to hear.

Four skinned knees.  One skinned knee is the equivalent of quadruple bypass surgery to the Yoys.  This was knee-ageddon.

Big E yelled at Little E for falling on him.

Little E yelled at Big E for tripping him.

All I needed was one more E, and I'd have myself a real life version of The Three Stooges.

I received a sympathy look from a mom managing to get her three kids, including one in a baby carrier, into the Y without the carnage that was happening at my feet.

I wanted to cry.  I wanted to laugh.  It was absurd.

A single, young man quickly approached.  I faintly smiled at him.

He completely avoided eye contact.  If I could read minds, his said:

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR YOUR LAME MOM PROBLEMS.

I pulled myself together, peeled my kids off the road, and dragged two kids screaming for band aids into the Y.  I dropped the blood brothers off at daycare and was running out my feelings within five minutes.

And that folks, is how it's done.


This looks like my children, pancaked to the asphalt.


Monday, April 20, 2015

Big E: His Cheating Heart

This afternoon Big E came home with zero homework.  Which was FINE BY ME.

We decided to play a "friendly" game of monopoly.  Big E loves the hell out of some Monopoly.  He will wake up in the middle of the night and play a game by himself.  He sets up two players and plays himself.

MOM, YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE I LIKE TO PLAY IN MONOPOLY!

He's buttering me up and I like it. Also, I think I'm the only one gullible enough to play with him.  I have yet to beat Big E at Monopoly.  He has a strategy and he consistently applies it to crush my soul.

YOU KEEP ME FROM CHEATING.  WITHOUT YOU MOM, MY BODY JUST SAYS CHEAT, CHEAT, CHEAT.

I swallow hard.  I think my child just admitted that when he sets up his solo insomnia Monopoly games, he cheats.  Who cheats when they are playing themselves?

I'm raising a morally bankrupt human, and he has already decided his fate at the ripe old age of six. Big E is the next crooked banker who in 2065 will clean out the rich and famous of Palm Beach and Manhattan a la Bernie Madoff.

Two take-aways from today's conversation.

1) If Big E asks to invest your money in a fund with a guaranteed ROR of 50% per year, I'd strap on my Nikes and run.

2) If you ignore my advice and still invest with him, I know nothing.  Now please step out of my $10 million condo.  I've got some shopping to do.


AND FORGOT ABOUT EVEN SUGGESTING THAT HE IS CHEATING.  POUT CITY.



Thursday, April 16, 2015

Little E: Stung!

The boys got off to school without any major catastrophes.

I was trying to fold a laundry pile equivalent to the size of Mt. Everest.

My phone rang.  I was expecting the tree guy at 8AM to take a look at something for me, maybe he was delayed.

I ran to my phone.  It was Little E's teacher.  My heart did a flip flop.

PLEASE TELL ME HE DIDN'T FALL OFF THE PLAYGROUND EQUIPMENT AND BREAK HIS FACE.

PLEASE TELL ME HE DIDN'T HAVE RAGING DIARRHEA ALL OVER THE CAFETERIA.

PLEASE JUST BE CALLING TO TELL ME WHAT A SWEET BOY I WAS RAISING AND HOW HAPPY SHE WAS TO SEE HIS SMILING FACE EACH MORNING.

It was none of the above.

Somehow, a wasp had found his way into Little E's classroom. I am not talking about Buckhead Betty with her pearls and Mercedes, I'm talking about a bug with a stinger.

And that wasp took aim right at Little E's neck.


My poor, sweet boy was stung.  And he was hysterical.  They had tried to calm him down, but he was inconsolable.  I told them I'd be right over to retrieve him.

As I navigated the Atlanta morning traffic, I made a mental list of places Little E would never go again:
1) School
2) Outside
3) Buckhead

By the time I arrived at school, Big E had calmed down enough to map out a wasp eradication plan.

His teacher relayed Little E's plan.  All wasps, their families, and friends must be relocated to the other continents.  Ms. H was in charge of getting them to South America.  Little E would be in charge of Israel, Egypt, and Florida.  My guess would be he watched way too much of the Ten Commandments while visiting my parents last week.  Ms. L graciously took the oceans even though she is admittedly not a big swimmer.

Little E was in a sorry state.  His cries ramped up and he clung to me as we walked out of school.

I've calmed him down now and his neck looks much better, thank goodness.

I guess we can cross wasps off the list of things he may be allergic to.


Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Little E: The Ultimate In Sabotage

Last Saturday I spent the morning with Mr. Yoy and our out-of-town visitors. We hit up General Muir for a delicious breakfast and then went to the spa for some relaxation.  If I had to rate my morning, I'd give it a 10/10.

Mr. Yoy picked me up from the spa and we headed home.  I was relaxed but also teenage boy hungry.   As soon as we arrived home, I began throwing together my lunch for instant inhalation.

Little E wandered upstairs with his brother and they began playing on the computer.  Mr. Yoy crawled into bed for a lazy Saturday nap.

I sat at our kitchen island and ate everything in reach.

MOM!  MOM!  THE TOILET ISN'T GOING DOWN!

Little E yelled for my help from upstairs. I was not about to break up the food fest happening, so I told Little E to leave it and I'd be up when I finished my lunch.

MMMMM.  CARROTS AND HUMMUS. MMMMM. SMART POP POPCORN. MMMMM. DRY ROASTED NUTS.

I wouldn't call this is a traditional lunch, but it was hitting all my highlights.

Then I heard it.  Water running.  After nine years, I can pinpoint every water sound my house makes. This is how I knew I had burst a pipe in the kitchen last winter.  And this is how I knew something very wrong was happening in my house.  This was not a regular toilet flushing, or a shower, or the washing machine.

I bolted upstairs as I shouted out not good for you words.

Water.  Covering the Yoysers' bathroom floor.  I screamed in panic for Mr. Yoy who was napping.  I grabbed every towel we had and covered the bathroom floor. And most importantly, I turned off the water.  This was NOT my first time at the rodeo.

Then I ran downstairs.

More water.  Dripping out of our dining room chandelier.  More bad for you words.

I called my realtor.  I called my mom.  I lost my mind.

I had just spent the better part of a month keeping my house in pristine condition.  You could eat off our kitchen floors and just to prove that point, we did.

And now I had water damage.  Holes were going to be cut into my ceiling.  I was so upset and frustrated, I cried.  I couldn't really be mad at Little E, but a small part of me was.  He did flush the toilet a second time after I asked him to leave it.

He apologized with his sweet, sad little face and I slowly recovered.

We had a water reparations company come out and for most of the week, we had industrial blowers and dehumidifiers running.  It was like living on the runway of Hartsfield Jackson.  I could barely hear my own thoughts.  Mr. Yoy and I yelled at each other like 80 year olds.

We refused to show the house.  We didn't want people to see our lovely home in its current state.  But there were plenty of people who wanted to see it.  We finally allowed two showings on Saturday, after our realtor explained the situation to them.

And then the unimaginable happened, one person looked past our disaster and put a great offer in on our home.  And we accepted.  And it was a Passover miracle.

May I suggest surround sound in the dining room?  The holes have already been cut out for you.  Or maybe sky lights?