Tuesday, November 22, 2016

The North (But Then Things Went South Fast) Face

Happy Thanksgiving, guys! In observance of Thanksgiving, Cobb County graciously gave me my offspring for an entire week. What is this about? I'm pretty sure when I was growing up, we had like two days off. MAX.

But not here in the land of wonky school schedules. It's me and them for an uncountable number of days straight.

Coinciding with their week off, the weather quickly turned from a typical Maine summer day into a Siberian Christmas.

I took this opportunity to order my first North Face coat.  I had tried it on back in August when Mr. Yoy and I had visited Boston. Although I'm all about an impulse purchase, I decided to hold out until it was legitimately cold.

My coat arrived yesterday. I ripped open the package and immediately modeled it for my kids. They were less than impressed.

It was basically like wearing a blanket, which was my goal, but it made me look like a giant box with twigs coming out the bottom. Spongebob. Spongebob wearing a gray coat.

Regrettably, I decided today was the day I'd run by The North Face store in Buckhead to try on a size smaller to see which fit better. And the Yoys were coming, too.

They immediately protested. They refused to get dressed, but I wasn't scared. Sure, wear your pajamas around town. Look like a hot mess. I'm forty now and too old to care. Little E went jacket-less to really hammer home his look.

I knew my time at The North Face would be very limited. I wanted to stay and wrap myself in all of their glorious jackets, vests, and hats. But the Yoys made sure everyone knew they were there. They harassed mannequins, slammed themselves into walls, and ran laps.

WHAT PART OF STAND RIGHT BY MOMMY IMPLIED YOU WERE TO ACT LIKE YOU WERE IN A UFC DEATH MATCH?

The sales woman was beyond gracious and immediately engaged the boys, which helped tremendously.  I apologized profusely, leaned over, and whispered bone-chilling threats into my beloveds' little cold ears.

In the end, I exchanged my coat for a different style. The small was about seven slices of Publix birthday cake too tight, which was a bummer.  The new coat was 30% off, which was not.

Stay warm and Happy Thanksgiving from the Yoys!





Tuesday, October 25, 2016

The Call (DUN, DUN, DUN!)

Your phone rings. You fish it out of the bottom of your purse.

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL shows up on the caller ID.

There are two panicked thoughts that run through your head:

1) MY KID IS SICK/INJURED.

I have received this call a few times. The last time, Little E fainted at school due to a combination of a cold and medicine that I had given him. I also have an adverse reaction to cold meds, and I didn't even think that my children could have it, too. That was one was on me and was scary as hell. The nurse had to call an ambulance.

2) MY KID IS IN SUPER BIG TIME TROUBLE.

I have also received this call. A few times from Little E's pre-school (I know, I know, he's perfect. How could this happen?) And one time regarding Big E and a private parts contest in the cafeteria during lunch. But for the most part, my kids are well behaved at school and save their satanic tendencies for when they come home. It's impossible to be well behaved ALL DAY.

Because we all know this never happens!

Today, I was picking up some last minute items for Little E's science fair project.

A mother walked by me on her cell phone.

SO THEY WERE DOING MATH ON THE COMPUTER AND HIS GROUP HAD DONE AN INTERNET SEARCH FOR GIRLS IN BIKINIS?

I looked over at her. She began to blush. I get it. I've been there.

YES, I UNDERSTAND. WELL THANKS FOR CALLING ME TO LET ME KNOW OF THE SITUATION. I'LL TALK TO HIM WHEN HE GETS HOME TODAY.

I wanted to walk over to her and give her a hug.  I get it. Once you have a child, there is another person walking around representing you. And sometimes, they do a crappy job. You want to shout:

I'M A GOOD PERSON AND I DON'T APPROVE OF THIS BEHAVIOR! I'M TRYING MY HARDEST TO RAISE A GOOD PERSON AND IT IS SO CHALLENGING!

I smiled at her as I walked by. I should have given her a Mrs. Yoy blog card with the website. Because, I know her pain. Big time.


Monday, October 24, 2016

Little E: What the F?

The annual Toys R Us toy catalog arrived in the mail today.

This is a monumental day for the Yoys. It is the day that they go page by page, circling toys that they want me to buy them for Chanukah, that I'll probably never ever buy them for Chanukah.

But it takes up a good hour of their time, so I'm all for it.  Even if it means crushing their consumer dreams.

Little E was circling away when he came upon this:


He was reading aloud all of the details of this S'more Maker. All I could hear was "THIS THING WILL MAKE THE BIGGEST MARSHMALLOW MESS EVER AND DO NOT ALLOW IT INTO YOUR HOME."

Little E was struggling with one of the words.

MOM, WHAT DOES THIS SPELL: F-U-C-K-E-R-S.

WHAT??

I shot up from my chair and walked over to him and this pornographic catalog.

FLICKERS. AAAAAAHHHHHHHH, it spells flickers. As in a flame.

I stifled a laugh and handed it back over to Little E.

No chance in hell, my friend.

Friday, October 21, 2016

The Yoys: Picture Perfect

It's family picture eve. This is a pretty big holiday around here.  Brainstorming sessions, wardrobe, etc. We take our yearly holiday card very seriously and the family picture is crucial.

Fake Fight Scene, Anyone?

I've worked hard this week to hold my crazy in check.

I didn't cut or file their fingernails, although I knew I ran the risk of Little E slashing up his face.

I let them wrestle out back with their friends.

I sent them to school not rolled up in bubble wrap.

Previous family pictures include Mr. Yoy and a peeling forehead.  He didn't think he needed to apply sunscreen during a mid-day out door sporting event. In those pictures, he's wearing a baseball hat. Another year, Little E had such bad baby acne I debated using concealer on his chubby, little face.

In recent years, we've really pulled it together. I got cocky. I thought I had tomorrow's shoot in the bag.

Until Big E broke out in hives after dinner last night.  They covered his face, arms, and torso. Note, this is Big E, not Little E, the king of hives. Little E pops a chest full of hives just by looking at a fragrant dryer sheet. That kid has the most sensitive skin. Big E has beautiful, olive-toned skin (Thanks, Grandma V!) He never has a blemish. Nothing. My how the tables have turned.

By morning, the hives had mostly subsided with the exception of his face. Of course. After school they were still there, so I gave him a dose of zyrtec and willed them to fade into obscurity.

Not to be outdone by his skin, Big E's teeth decided to make themselves known.  I've previously documented Big E's upper teeth issues. The orthodontist and I have been waiting for this one particular tooth to come out.

And I guess that process started tonight.

WARNING GRAPHIC PHOTO



It won't fall out. It just bleeds and bleeds and Big E won't let me touch it. He said it doesn't hurt, which is great. But in the meantime, it looks like he ate someone for dinner.

I asked him to wiggle it with his tongue in the hopes it came out before bedtime. He fell asleep instead.

I'm hoping in the morning that he hasn't eaten that tooth and the blood bath has subsided.

If not, we are going to need some serious photoshopping magic. Or fake teeth and some foundation.





Thursday, October 20, 2016

Mrs. Yoy: Losing My Wand

I don't know about your house, but we are in serious Halloween countdown mode.

T minus eleven days.

Eleven days until my kids can don their chosen costumes and gorge on candy and wine. Oh, wait. That last part is all me.

I'd tucked the Party City bag full of their costumes and props away, so nothing was destroyed and/or lost during the ramp up to Halloween.

Until last night, when the Yoys went digging in the hall closet.

Big E immediately opened his packet of violations. I think this is why he chose to be a SWAT Officer. Just so he could issue tickets and be all-around bossy.

Then I got this.






What is this you are wondering?  Well, it's a $200 violation (which I maintain is pretty pricey for my first offense) for purchasing Little E a Hufflepuff robe for Halloween.  You see, in my constant state of rushing around like a mad woman trying to check all the items off of my neverending to-do list, I purchased Little E the Harry Potter robe from the wrong house. He wanted to be Harry Potter, himself, who wears a Griffindor robe.

If you've never read Harry Potter, I'm sure you are thinking...NO BIG DEAL.  But we are the Yoysers.  Big deals around here include who washes their hands first before dinner and who gets to pick out the Shabbat candles on Friday night. From a box full of the same exact damn candles.

IT'S A BOX FULL OF 72 WHITE CANDLES. JUST GRAB TWO FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY!

I guess I should thank Big E for noticing my error. I probably wouldn't have ever seen it. But look, there it was. Little child models mockingly wearing their Hufflepuff robes. Damn you, Hufflepuff and your gold scarves.


In my mind, I had already formulated a game plan. Being a parent is like living in crisis mode, I'm always waiting for the next catastrophe to be thrown my way. I would get up in the morning, run to Party City and pray to the Halloween gods that they still had a size small Griffindor robe available. I knew that my chances were slim, but I sustained myself on Coke Zero and hope. That's all I got.

And if they didn't have a robe, I'd just stick with Hufflepuff. Little E probably wouldn't notice, anyway. Half the time, he's completely unaware of where he is. It's kind of an awesome way to roll through life.

But just as I was having this thought and giving Big E the death stare so that he wouldn't say anything, Little E grabbed his robe and pointed at the word Hufflepuff.

MOM, THIS IS THE WRONG ROBE!  YOU BOUGHT HUFFLEPUFF!

Damn, damn, double damn. Why did he have to learn to read?!

Before he could get hysterical, I told him I'd go first thing in the morning, to exchange it. And that I did.

The Harry Potter section of Party City was very sad and barren. I cursed myself internally for a minute, took a deep breath, and whipped out my iPhone.

Please, please, please. Amazon, if you can hear my prayers, please have a size S Griffindor robe.

And they did!

So if you saw me fist pumping in Party City this morning. Sorry, I'm not sorry. I'm a mom. And I'm killing it.






Tuesday, October 18, 2016

The Yoys: Mistaken Identity

Another week, another bullsh*t school scheduling move by Cobb County.

This week we have early dismissal every day so that the parent/teacher conferences can happen in the afternoon.

I'm not sure I need a parent teacher conference. I can already summarize it for you below:

Your kid is intelligent, but lazy as hell and has a bad habit of (picking nose/sucking thumb). You can circle the bad habit depending on if this is Big or Little E. It's like choose your own bad ending.

So now I've got seven long a** hours from when they energetically bounce off the bus and when I attempt to put them to bed.

Almost every night at dinner, I give Big E a half of a melatonin to get him to fall asleep. No melatonin means an 11PM bedtime, which makes for very painful 6AM mornings.

Last night, as I prepared dinner, I was chatting on the phone with Mr. Yoy, who has been in California since Friday, but it feels like he's been away since 1998.

Big E eats off a blue plate and Little E eats off a red plate. It's super Type-A, but it keeps them from fighting over mind numbing subjects like how many string beans are on the plate.

They both get vitamins, which I doled out properly. One for me as well, because I'm jonseing so badly for candy that even a vitamin in the shape of a gummy bear gets me pumped up..

I cut the melatonin up and put it on Big E's plate. At least I thought I did.

ONE HOUR LATER:


Right in the middle of reading Harry Potter, I looked down on the floor and saw Little E down for the count. And he was out. Snores and all. I had to dead lift him off the ground, with my bad back and it was like lifting a wet noodle.

Big E, on the other hand, folded laundry, built legos, did learning books, and watched some HGTV with me.

THAT HOUSE IS VERY MODERN, MOMMY. I DON'T LIKE IT. (Sounds like Mr. Yoy to me)

At around 10PM it dawned on me.

DID  YOU TAKE A MELATONIN AT DINNER?

At first he said yes, but then he admitted that he hadn't.

SH*T! I DRUGGED THE WRONG YOYSER!

Around 11PM, Big E finally dozed off next to me.

Tonight, I will pay better attention.



Thursday, September 1, 2016

Just STOP it.

We are finishing up our fifth week of school. We are mostly in the groove.

Mornings are always sketchy as hell because, while I am a morning person (rainbows, singing, smiling), my kids are not. Especially, Little E who I have to wake up every single morning. Left alone, he would sleep until eight, just like Mr. Yoy.

If I could get them to bed at seven, mornings would be better, but no matter how hard I try, the 7PM bedtime is merely a myth here at the Yoys. Like seeing Mr. Yoy during daylight hours or good East Cobb Sushi.

The bus comes around 7:30AM. I try to have the boys out of the house by 7:20. A 7:30 pickup might not sound so bad to some of the other local moms, but the kids are late to school every day. This means Little E doesn't have time to do his morning work, which means additional work is sent home at night. It isn't ideal. But I'm not upset enough to complain, as our bus pick up time at the beginning of last year was 6:56. Yes, that time starts with the number six. And even Little Miss Morning Sunshine can't drag her a** out of bed before 6:30.

This morning we received the frantic BUS!!! text from one of my neighbors as I pleaded with Little E to put down his unfinished breakfast and head out the door. For the record, he refused and turtle walked to the bus stop while eating a bowl of soggy cheerios, milk dribbling down his chin onto his shirt the entire way.

So when this came home with the Yoys this afternoon, I knew we were doomed:


We just lost thirty AM minutes. This is the equivalent to several hours in afternoon time. It immediately put me in a bad mood and I called Mr. Yoy to vent.

And he laughed like a woman in the throws of hysteria. (Sympathy may not be his strong suit.) I sent murderous vibes through the telephone and noted that while he remained snug in bed EVERY MORNING while I feverishly got these kids ready for school, we would make sure to be extra loud going forward.



Wednesday, August 31, 2016

A Time To Sweat

Hot on the heels of my Prada blog, I present to you another first world problem.

Last night our air conditioning unit went on strike. We have one unit with three different zones. Zones one and three kept right on plugging, which sounds great, but zone two is responsible for the area we sleep in.

WE'LL ALL BE DEAD BY MIDNIGHT. - Big E's Morbid Prediction

In summary: we burst into flames as we lay restless in our beds, dreaming of popsicles, Alaska, and the Costco freezer room.

Luckily for us, today we had scheduled a work day with our builder to come by and fix some things. We just added HVAC to the list.

In preparation for the visit with the HVAC guy, I had to turn off the entire unit. His time window was between 1-6 and this gave me plenty of time to begin perspiring. Although we are knocking on September's door, Atlanta's 90 degree days have been merciless.

I told our builder rep that I had to run to the bus stop around three, but I was hoping the guy would be to the house before then. There is only so much my deoderant and a spray of Febreeze can mask.

Unfortunately, the HVAC guy showed up right as the bus dropped off the Yoys. Which meant we would all be together.

The first hour after my kids get home from school is my least favorite.

I'M THIRSTY!

I'M HUNGRY!

I HAVE A BALL OF POOP IN MY PANTS FROM EARLIER!

I HATE HOMEWORK!

MY TOOTH JUST FELL OUT IN MY APPLE!

The HVAC guy goes to work and I settle Little E down enough to tackle his homework.

We are all glistening like a scene from A Time To Kill except I don't look like Ashley Judd and HVAC guy sure as sh*t doesn't look like Matthew McConaughey.

Little E has to turn this picture of Italy into a picture that tells a story. You could turn it in any direction and add anything onto it. A woman in knee-high Stuart Weitzman boots playing soccer? Perhaps. A tree holding a bee hive? Possibly.


The heat must have melted Little E's brain because his strategy was to turn this into a map of the world. I gently tried to explain to him that his teacher was looking for something a little more out of the box. I have to use kid gloves with Little E and homework because it can go so wrong so fast.

And Big E took care of that for me. He picked up this Lego boat Little E had worked on yesterday, held it in front of Little E's face and dropped it onto the floor. Upon impact, it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces I would step on later.

Little E lost his mind.

The shrieking, oy, the shrieking. This homework will never get done. I tried to talk him down from his Lego ledge. But the heat was definitely affecting my parenting skills.

I pleaded with Big E to put it back together, but he couldn't remember what it looked like, allegedly.

More shrieking.

The HVAC came downstairs to give me the news.  At this point, he was just a blurry figure standing in my kitchen as my eyebrows had long lost the battle with my sweat.

More shrieking (mostly from me).

HVAC claimed my unit had too much construction debris built up and that he had cleaned it. Everything was back up and running. And he bolted before I could truly confirm this thing was working.

I spent the next three hours staring at the thermostat and willing it to cool down.

Mr. Yoy said he's not coming home until it cools down to 75 degrees. We are still not there.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Devil Throws Away Prada

Friday, Mr. Yoy and I ventured up to Boston to see Kenny Chesney, Miranda Lambert, Sam Hunt, and Old Dominion play at Gillette Stadium.

I was beyond excited as I've been waiting to see my boyfriend, Sam Hunt, perform live for months and months.

After a frustrating Uber ride out to the Stadium (and we thought Atlanta traffic was bad), we hopped out of the car and began to weave our way through Patriot's Place (basically an outdoor mall).

As we wandered around looking for the Will Call window, a security officer approached us with clear plastic bags and offered us one.

YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO BRING YOUR PURSE IN, MA'AM. YOU'LL HAVE TO LEAVE IT IN YOUR CAR.

And then the memories flooded back...FALCONS GAME. COLD AS HELL. WALKING BACK TO CAR BECAUSE PURSE DIDN'T FIT NFL REQUIREMENTS OF BEING CLEAR OR THE SIZE OF A SUPER-PLUS TAMPON.

I began to panic, as we had no car. And I had a Prada, my go-to, nylon, cross body bag that is basically melded to my body.

BUT WE TOOK AN UBER!

Time stood still. Blood pumped through my ears. In slow-mo, with spit forming around the corners of his mouth, the security guard said to me:

YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO THROW IT OUT, THEN, MA'AM. (But in a crazy Boston accent)

I 'bout fainted. I could hear a chorus of famous Italian designers losing their minds over this blasphemous statement.

Donatella was not hearing this.

Mr. Yoy led me away and immediately started brainstorming. This is why I keep him around. He is:


Our first shot through security, we origami folded dear Prada up and shoved it way down into the bottom of the plastic bag. On top went my wallet, Wet Ones, four different types of lip gloss (it's SAM HUNT, YO), and Advil.

The guard took his pokey stick and went through my clear plastic bag. He asked me to open my wallet. I complied. For a moment, I thought we had this. Then he found Prada.

WHAT'S THIS? POKE! POKE! POKE! A BAG? A PURSE? YOU'LL HAVE TO THROW IT OUT!

We walked away in defeat. I could feel my neck getting all red and splotchy. My heart pounded. I will get arrested trying to get my purse into this flipping concert.

We walked into the stadium shop to formulate our next plan. I made Mr. Yoy call his law partner to see if we could go in through the VIP entrance, where you can basically bring in an uzi on your shoulder and ain't nobody going to say anything. No answer.

In my clear plastic bag, I had a fresh pack of the Wet Ones Big. I like to thoroughly wipe down the airplane area I am sitting in. I know I look insane doing it, but rhinovirus don't care.

WHAT IF WE EMPTY OUT ALL THE WET ONE WIPES AND I FOLD PRADA UP AND SHOVE IT IN THE CASE AND THEN COVER WITH ONE WET WIPE?

At this point, it's all we had. Mr. Yoy went into the men's bathroom where he could get some privacy, and worked his magic.

I stood outside the bathroom, sweating and watching like the sketchiest human ever. A policeman carrying a major gun walked in.

SH*T, MY FAMILY IS GOING TO GET BLOWN APART BECAUSE OF THIS HANDBAG.

Mr. Yoy walked out of the bathroom with a big, sh*t eating grin on his face. We shoved the Wet Ones/Prada down to the bottom of our clear plastic bag. Then went the rest of my stuff and finally my wallet.



We found a new entrance and walked up. I was so nervous. The guard looked into the bag briefly and gave me the all clear.

I felt like belting out notes a la The Little Mermaid.

I was going to be able to keep my Prada bag and see Sam Hunt.

With a drink in hand, we made it backstage, where I retold our story to Mr. Yoy's partner and his wife. They listened and watched in horror as I unfolded Prada from the Wet Ones sleeve. They took me over to the VIP entrance and got me one of these:


A Purse Tag

And then I knew that Prada (and the Yoys) were finally safe.



Thursday, August 18, 2016

The Yoys: Footloose

Back in 2013, I purchased two stuffed owls from the dollar bins at Target. The boys' new school mascot was an owl and this was a perfect way to introduce them to it.

Initally, as with all toys (and the plot to Toy Story), the owls were fan favorites. Until something newer and softer and shinier came along.

The owls were relegated to the stuffed animal shelf, where fun goes to die.

During the move, only one owl was unpacked. It was moved to the top of a book shelf with Mickey and Clifford where it lived until today.

What happened today you ask?

Little E rediscovered owl. They had a lovely afternoon together playing and cuddling and rekindling their relationship.

Approximately 52 seconds before I took the boys upstairs to start bedtime, this happened:

Hootie went and lost his damn foot!

My scheduled serene bedtime was replaced with a fury that matched the storms swirling outside.

IS THAT RAIN OR LITTLE E'S TEARS?

In my panic, I told Little E I would SEW the owl's foot back on tomorrow. Actually, I said I'd staple it (under my breath), but Little E hears all.

IT WON'T BE CUDDLY ANYMORE IF YOU STAPLE IT!

So I agreed to sew it back on.

Please, take the next 60 seconds to laugh your head off.

First, I need to thread a needle. Do I even have a needle to thread? I'm pretty much blind as a bat, so this only ends one way:

 
Then there is the thread. This whole process has two steps too many.

But Little E's sadness is real and deep and at this point, I'll do anything to comfort him.

So this is the end of tonight's random bed-time disaster story?

Um, I wish. 

Big E begins to frantically search for his owl that he hasn't given a thought to in ~700 days.  And he can't find it. Because I think I may have donated it to goodwill in one of my zombie cleaning binges. But honestly, I can't really recall...

Big E starts crying for his owl.

MOMMY, CAN YOU FIND MY OWL?

I MISS MY OWL!

IT REMINDS ME OF THE GOOD TIMES I HAD AT MY LAST SCHOOL!

So now I feel like the world's worst mom on so many levels.  In thirty seconds, Big E has highlighted that I threw away his owl and took him out of his school that he loved.

I gave Big E a hug and excused myself to the bathroom where I could laugh/cry in peace, because this whole scene was just way too much for me to process this late in the day. 

AMBITIOUS TO DO LIST FOR TOMORROW:

1) SEW FOOT ON OWL
2) FRANTICALLY RIP HOUSE APART FOR SECOND OWL
3) SEW WHOLE NEW OWL TO REPLACE ONE I GAVE AWAY

Good Night!




Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Big E, Little Tooth

Last week we hit up the dentist for the Yoy's cleanings.

Big E got an x-ray done to see how things were progressing in his mouth. He's lost a bunch of teeth, but currently there are two giant chiclets spread way apart up top that are screaming ORTHODONTIST! NOW, PLEASE!

I am expecting that my kids' teeth have a date with destiny. And by destiny, I mean long, drawn out years shuttling them to and from the orthodontist every four weeks. I was a braces wearer from 2nd-8th grade. By the grace of g-d, I didn't have to enter high school with metal train tracks across my face.

Everything is fixed now, but my teeth were so gnarly that my doctor used me as a case study for a class he taught at a nearby university.

Dr. H looked at Big E's x-rays and instead of the "looks good, see you in six months," I got the tooth BOMB dropped on me.

1) Big E's upper left lateral tooth hasn't broken through yet, but it will be coming in completely sideways.

2) Big E's upper right lateral tooth hasn't broken through yet either, but is is a miniature tooth and most likely won't be functional.

WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL? HOW WAS I SUPPOSE TO PROCESS THIS, WHEN ALL I COULD ENVISION WAS THIS:


AND THIS:


Dr. H maintained it was all fixable, which I was thrilled to hear, we would just be forgoing vacations, cars, and possibly food for the next five-seven years.

The boys and I loaded up in the Avalon, that I will now drive until 2035, and called Mr. Yoy to convey the bad tooth news.

OH, I HAVE THE SAME THING...UP TOP.  I HAD THEM BONDED AND YOU CAN'T EVEN TELL.

Um, what? How was this not disclosed to me during our mandated pre-marriage counseling? I married a lawyer, he KNOWS the rules. We had to hash out the number of kids we wanted and if I would continue working or peace-out on the accounting world once the kids arrived.

Why wasn't there an OTHER FREAKY GENETICS COMMENT section?!

He could have owned up to the tiny teeth and I would have come clean about all the tongue webbing on my mom's side of the family (that Little E was born with.)

I'm currently taking recommendations on Orthodontists in the East Cobb/North Atlanta area. It's got to be a good one, because this is going to be one doozy of a case.

Little E: Back To School Blues

Back to school has come and gone.

In a show of solidarity with all the other moms, who silently suffered through summer, I threw an enormous wine and school bus party and invited all my friends to decompress from what they had just survived.  We hung around all day drinking and watching 80s movies and eating raw cookie dough out of the Costco-sized tub.

The best five pounds I've ever earned.

Wait. That was all just a DREAM? DANG!

In real life, I tried my best to get the Yoys adjusted to their new teachers and schedules and such. That included eliminating bed time that had slowly crept up to 10PM...11PM... Who cares, I'm going to sleep.

Big E rolled right into second grade like he owned the place. His transition was seamless.

Little E rolled right into a wall. As he lay crying on the floor because I asked him to write his name on the top of his half page of homework.

WHY DO I HAVE TO WRITE MY NAME ON EVERYTHING? I KNOW WHAT MY NAME IS!

WHY IS MY NAME SO LONG? WHY CAN'T I JUST WRITE "E"?

WHY DO I HAVE TO WRITE SO MUCH? WHY CAN'T I GO BACK TO KINDERGARTEN?

I exhaled and tried to breathe out my frustration. 

How can one of my children be working on this, for fun:


And the other one, be too tired to bother capitalizing or punctuating sentences? All of Little E's stories should be narrated by Tim Tebow as there are no commas, periods, or pauses taken of any kind. (That is for my Gator friends out there, and you know what I'm talking about if you've ever heard "The Speech".)

Gratuitous Tim Tebow Picture

I know sibling comparison is one of the ten deadly sins of parenting, but my kids are only a year apart in school, and their overall attitude towards learning is so polarized, it's startling. 

We've only had a few nights of homework thus far, but I've already seen the sneak preview of the next nine months. You might just find me right there next to Little E on the floor. Crying my eyes out, too.




Wednesday, July 20, 2016

The Yoys: It's A Hard Knock Life

I have a monster confession to make.

For the most part, I still help my kids get dressed in the morning. Ditto for bath/shower time and about everything else in their lives.

It's not that I don't want them to be competent humans.  I have nightmares of Little E calling me up from college to have me swing by his dorm and adjust the velcro on his XW New Balances. That's right, because I never taught him how to tie his shoes.

Here's my problem: I'm Type A. Like bad. And I want things done quick and I want them done right and I am always running short on time.

And that is how I find myself with an almost 6 year old and a 7 year old who still "need" help. They are capable of doing it, but they know I will do it for them.

But I've recently seen the light, folks. Big E turns eight this fall. Eight is old. I remember being eight. It was 1984. I was old enough to buy this record:

Wait, what.......mom and dad?

So I was probably old enough to dress myself and clean my armpits.

When I stumbled upon these guys at Target this week, I knew it was divine intervention.


Chore charts for $3. I was sold. But basically, I'll buy anything from those front bins in Target. (Can I get an AMEN?)

They have basic operating functions on the magnets such as MAKE BED and BRUSH TEETH. They also have magnets you can customize.

Here are some potential custom chore magnets I've been working on.

USING TISSUES INSTEAD OF FINGERS

WIPING OWN TUSSY

SLEEPING WITHOUT MELATONIN

PICKING TOWELS OFF FLOOR

NO EXCESSIVE OR POINTLESS TANTRUMS

If the Yoys move all of their chores from the left column over to the right column during the day, they receive a dazzling sum of 50 cents.

Little E bought into the chore chart immediately.

Big E fake cried. I popped in Annie and let them watch the Hard Knock Life scene.

THIS IS NOT WHAT I'M ASKING YOU TO DO. JUST MAKE YOUR DAMN BED AND PUT YOUR DIRTY CLOTHES IN A HAMPER. ANY HAMPER.

Big E tried to negotiate the daily allowance amount.  But my nickname is fifty cent, like the rap artist.  Fifty cents for baby teeth, fifty cents for chores, hell, it'll be fifty cents for your dang bar mitzvah if you keep up this kvetching!

It's been about a week, and I've seen some dramatic improvements.  Each night, I remind the boys that they must be dressed in the morning for camp before they go downstairs. AND they do it.

They've also been bathing on their own. I'm unsure how clean they actually are, but babysteps.

So thank you, $3 chore chart. Thank you!




Saturday, June 18, 2016

Ride Share: It's a Thing

On my way home from work this morning, my neighbor informed me that another neighbor was having a birthday party for their child and had rented a train and ponies.

I really couldn't visualize what this would look like until I pulled up to my home.



RED ALERT! RED ALERT! RED ALERT!

I called Mr. Yoy, who along with Uncle Yoy, had just left breakfast with Big and Little E.

DON'T COME HOME! DELAY YOUR TRIP! DRIVE AROUND 285 A FEW HUNDRED TIMES!

I informed him of the current situation.


There was a 0% chance my kids didn't end face down in our neighbor's birthday cake after hijacking a pony ride and the red train engine.

Thank goodness they were running over to Home Depot to pick up leather cleaner.  This would buy me some time.

I went upstairs to make the beds and fold the endless piles of pool laundry.

As I finished with Big E's bed, I heard the garage door open.  I looked out the front window to see Mr. Yoy pulling into the driveway. Just as the train cruised by our house.

I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation.

I popped open Big E's window and yelled down to Mr. Yoy.

PERFECT TIMING, DADDY!

I could hear the boys flipping out.

MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! TRAIN! PONIES! I WANT TO RIDE! EVERYTHING!

It was like bringing a recovering alcoholic to a bar.

MOMMY! CAN I HAVE A PONY FOR MY BIRTHDAY PARTY?

Considering Little E has never had a birthday party (with the exception of his first), I didn't want his expectations to be too lofty.

UM. MAYBE A PONY CAKE?

The party has ended and we have escaped without the cops being called on my kids.

Winning.


Friday, June 17, 2016

I went Medieval. The Yoys did not.

The last day of their three weeks at HM camp was coming to a close.  After a rocky start, the boys pledged their allegiance to this camp.  They wanted to go back for another session, not in the cards, but I promised they could go again in 2017.  I was beyond relieved.  I took a gamble with this $$$$$, all-day for three weeks, camp. I gambled and I won (this time). Check back with me in a few weeks when I return from Vegas.

Today was Medieval themed day. They asked the campers to dress as kings, queens, knights, or even dragons. The Yoys loosely interpreted this to mean Halloween in June and pulled out their all time favorite costumes, the cops.  They didn't give a second thought to their wiener costumes, which I love.

I lobbied hard for them to wear their paper crowns from Medieval Times and be done with it.

Black polyester pants (but sort of like capris because they have grown since 2014) and black polyester long-sleeved tops. With velcro ties. And black hats. This was what they wanted to wear to camp today, in the sweltering heat of the waning days of Atlanta's spring.

I explained that they would be profusely sweating and possibly get overheated.

But Mrs. Yoy cannot compete with a whistle and hand cuffs.

I rolled my eyes as they climbed into the patrol car (my Avalon).

We made a quick stop at the drive thru dry cleaners where the elderly gentleman pretended the Yoys were arresting him. HANDS UP!

The boys thought this was HILARIOUS, I wished people would stop encouraging their madness.

At drop-off, Little E conjured up his meanest face and promptly arrested all of the Queens and Kings and Knights working carpool.  They were arrested for following directions.

My phone rang a few hours ago. It was the camp nurse. Little E was in the infirmary complaining of symptoms consistent with overheating. She put him on the phone so I could graciously explain to little man that 1) mommy was right  2) he should change into his spare set of shorts and muscle tee, and 3) if he was feeling better in a couple of minutes, he should rejoin his group.

I don't mean to sound insensitive, but poly doesn't breathe. Everyone should know that, and now he does.







Friday, June 10, 2016

Shout It Out!

At camp carpool pick up the other day, a counselor stopped to talk to me about Little E.

UH-OH.  A short list of hot topics popped into my brain.

1) INCESSANT THUMB SUCKING (STILL)

2) COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR USING A TOILET ON A REGULAR BASIS (STILL)

3) LAZINESS THAT HASN'T BEEN SEEN ON SUCH A LARGE SCALE SINCE GARFIELD


But it was none of these.  She surprised me with a new one.

LITTLE E WAS VERY UPSET TODAY WHEN WE PLAYED A GAME AND HE GOT MUD ON HIS SHIRT AND ARMS.

My external dialogue was all very understanding and sympathetic.  I turned around in the car to tell Little E that it was fine if he messed up his camp clothes as they were just that, camp clothes, and that any dirt on his arms could be washed off with a good bubble bath. I nodded knowingly at the teenager counselor.  Yeah, I got this.

My internal dialogue was much different.

DAMN STRAIGHT! I'M SO TIRED OF DOING LAUNDRY. OF BUYING SHIRTS THAT GET WORN ONCE AND ARE STAINED WITH SOME MYSTERIOUS FOOD/FLUID/GOO THAT NEVER COMES OUT AND I HAVE TO THROW THEM OUT. (the one and dones, as I call them).

Even though I am mostly a SAHM, I'm quick to point out that if you rearrange those letters, you get SHAM, which basically summarizes my cooking and laundress skills.  

I can hard boil the sh*t out of some eggs and divide my laundry into lights, darks, and towels, but that is where the domesticated goddess magic ends.

So, I applaud you, Little E, for taking a stand for your mother against mud and popsicles and whatever else you get on your witty old navy t-shirt.




The House of (Foot) Horrors...Part 2

Yesterday, Big E came home from camp with ANOTHER foot splinter.

1) I'm not sure why he was walking around without shoes on, unless he was headed to the pool.

2) This kid must shuffle his feet like a penguin, instead of walking like a typical human being.

3) OR this kid must be attracted to roughed up wood.

AN UNSANDED WOOD DECK?  WHY, YES, I THINK I'LL TAKE MY SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND SHUFFLE BACK AND FORTH UNTIL I GET MY 5TH SPLINTER OF THE YEAR.

For the record, I've had less than five splinters in my life total and I'm old. If I extrapolate the rate in which Big E acquires splinters, he's on track to earn the foot splinter world record, if that's even a thing.

Of course, he wouldn't let the camp nurse anywhere near him.


She gave him numbing cream and a bandaid.  And now he expects that to be the gold standard of treatment around here.

The only numbing cream I keep in the house is Bailey's. And this kid ain't anywhere near the legal age.

So, it was left up to Mr. Yoy and I to extract this sucker while Big E slept.  Except he woke up and freaked out.

But we got it. And it wasn't pretty. And things returned back to normal.

This morning, instead of scooting around on the floor like a Rumba, he walked. He put his shoes and socks on without crying.

We pulled up to camp carpool and Big E exited.  AND STARTED HOPPING ON ONE FOOT LIKE THAT THING WAS STILL IN THERE.

The counselor indicated for me to roll down the window.

IS HIS FOOT OK?

I was furious. Big E was making me look like a fool.  Like the mom who would send her gimpy kid to camp because it was costing a small fortune and he'd be there unless he was dead.

I weakly smiled at the counselor.

HE'S A BIG FAKER.  HE'S BEEN WALKING ON THAT FOOT ALL MORNING.

I don't have time for his D-R-A-M-A.

And off I drove.

YOYSER SPLINTER ACTION PLAN AS TOLD VIA PICTURES:



(for me)

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The House of (Foot) Horrors

It's been a splintery start to the summer.  On the last day of school, both Yoys had splinters.  Thank the lord my neighbor, Dr. B. was able to tweeze one of them out of Little E while we were at the pool.

Big E is another story.  I've blogged about his legendary splinters in the past.  He refuses to let me anywhere near him.  I have to carry him to bed and then wait until he is passed out so that Mr. Yoy and I can sneak into his room like a pair of Navy Seals and yank it out while he is in dreamland.

Yesterday, we decided to kick things up a notch.

The boys were feverishly working on their new Lego set that Uncle D had bought them during his visit.  

The house was completely clean, the boys had showered and were in their jammies, seven loads of laundry were complete, and dinner was on the stove.

Monday, I was supermom.

Until I accidentally dropped the Dill spice bottle.  It was glass.  I scooped it off the counter.  PHEW. It didn't shatter into a thousand pieces.  I almost had to turn in my supermom card.

Big E's buddy knocked on the back door.  He leapt out of his chair to let him in and then he screamed out in pain.

GLASS!  I STEPPED ON GLASS!

I ran over and looked at his foot.  Yep.  There is was.  

Bigger and more damaging than a splinter.  Blood was dripping from his foot.  I ordered everyone to sit down in chairs until I was able to sweep. I examined the Dill.  A tiny corner piece of the glass container had broken off.

My quiet evening had just been destroyed. I was forced to turn in my supermom card.

Big E was howling.  I tried to get a good look at it.  The glass resembled the dorsal fin of a shark. I told him I'd have to pull the glass out and he freaked.  He was sweating. He swore he was going to vomit.

I called Mr. Yoy to see if he could talk him down.

Nope.

Big E made me swear that I wouldn't touch his foot until he was asleep. I agreed.

So he recovered pretty well and went back to Lego building.  I just had to carry him to the toilet and up the stairs to bed. Good thing he only weighs 45 pounds.

And under the cover of darkness, Mr. Yoy and I snuck into Big E's room to clean the wound and remove the glass, only to find that it had already fallen out.  

I'm dedicating today to finding this piece of glass before someone else steps on it.

MAYBE IT'LL BE LITTLE E'S TURN TO STEP ON GLASS TODAY. - BIG E

Um, what?





Thursday, June 2, 2016

WHOPPERS>SMARTIES

Tim McGraw said it best in his song, "Humble and Kind."

Out of all of the traits I want my kids to have it is most important to me that they are good people.  It is something I struggle with on a daily basis.

Little E has organically picked this up.  He shares with Big E, even though that is clearly a one-way street. He is sweet to his friends and he is ridiculously sweet to me.

MOMMY, YOU ARE SO PRETTY.

MOMMY, YOU SMELL SO GOOD.

MOMMY, YOU ARE REALLY TALL.

Big E has a ways to go.  Sometimes, he'll surprise me with excellent manners or his ability to make the new kid in class feel welcome.  But for the most part, he's the center of the universe.  And not just his, it is his assumption he is the center of EVERYONE'S universe.

The last week of school brought class awards.  I wasn't sure of the structure of these awards, but as it turns out, everyone received an award and they were candy-themed.

WHOPPER: THE CHILD WHO TOLD THE BEST STORIES.

SNICKERS: THE CHILD WHO TOLD THE BEST JOKES. 

SMARTIES: THE CHILD WHO EXCELLED IN THEIR STUDIES.

When I asked Big E if he thought he would be receiving an award, he confidently announced he would receive the award for the smartest kid.  

It sounds completely obnoxious, I know, but he said it with such confidence and sincerity that I wasn't sure how to respond.

When it came time to distribute the awards his teachers led into each award with a little background.

THIS STUDENT EXCELLED IN ALL AREAS OF THEIR STUDIES AND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH...

I blacked out because I looked down at Big E and he had raised his hand.  He was claiming his award before his name had even been announced.  I gently (or not so gently ripped his arm off) guided his arm back down.  I gave him the mommy evil eye which translates to CUT THAT SH*T OUT NOW.

BIG E!  COME AND CLAIM YOUR SMARTIES AWARD!

He had a huge smile on his face, but before he went up front he turned to me and loudly whispered:

I TOLD YOU!

Maybe it was the fact there were about 65 people in a room meant to hold 30, but I was SWEAT-ING. Why can't my son be humble?  How can I teach this to him?  I don't think I'm walking around telling everyone how smart I am? Am I? Smack me if I am.

I'm hoping this is something that comes with maturity.  I want him to be confident, I think that is an excellent trait to have and will serve him well when it comes time to dealing with peer pressure, but I also want him to kind. To be humble. Sigh.


He also pops his collar when he wears polo shirts.  Part of me cringes, but my secret 80s loving self ADORES IT.


Sunday, May 29, 2016

Atlanta Snowmageddon 2014: Still Wreaking Havoc

Yesterday we went to the Braves game.  It was a bobblehead game and Mr. Yoy has quite the collection of bobblehead dolls, including one of himself.

The plan was to arrive early, as only the first 20,000 fans in the door will receive a bobblehead.

Unfortunately, Mr. Yoy grossly underestimated the time it would take to drive there, park, and walk in with two little guys in tow.

The bobbleheads were gone.  Had been gone since 3PM. Current time was 3:50.

The Yoys were upset as Mr. Yoy had talked up these bobblehead dolls.  They had no idea what they were but they were disappointed with a capital D. But they recovered well and the CFA milkshakes seemed to assuage their feelings of sadness and deprivation.

But not Mr. Yoy.  He was devastated. He looked around at the families of 5, 6, 7 people all carrying around the bobblehead dolls.  He schemed up ways to get one.

WE COULD WAIT UNTIL EVERYONE IS REALLY DRUNK AND HOPE THEY LEAVE THEIR DOLL UNDERNEATH THEIR SEAT.

MAYBE THAT GUY OVER THERE WILL LEAVE HIS ON THE CONDIMENTS STAND.

And on, and on, and on.  I just hoped it didn't ruin his day.

We left in the 8th inning as the Braves were up big and the kids were cooked.

We walked to the car in bobblehead defeat.

I gave the man selling dollar store glow sticks on the side of the street the evil eye as he pointed out to my children that their mother had walked by him and not purchased a glow stick for them.

THAT'S RIGHT.  I DON'T LOVE MY CHILDREN.

We waited at the light with a crowd of fans watching for the go ahead from APD to cross.

EXCUSE ME, DID YOU GUYS GET BOBBLEHEAD DOLLS?

I turned around to face a couple in their 50s.

OUR DAUGHTER IS GROWN AND SHE WON'T BE INTERESTED IN THEM.  WE HAVE TWO.

I looked at Mr. Yoy.  His eyes were bugging out of his head, but he played it so cool.

I profusely thanked the woman as she handed the dolls to the boys.  They jumped up and down with delight.  Mr. Yoy included.

Once we had split off from them, Mr. Yoy began his handiwork on our kids in at attempt to coerce them to agree to share one doll so he could put the other one up in his office.

AND IT WORKED!  No wonder he can bill out at $500/hour.

So I wanted to publicly thank the couple who so graciously gave away their bobbleheads, so that my boys (all three of them) could go home happy.


Coveted Bobblehead Doll


The Story Behind the Doll

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Big E: No Cuts

I keep the boys' hair short.  They took not one, but two, horrible school pictures in the fall.  Even with retakes, no one bothered to run a comb through their hair.

I had had it.

I buzzed both of them and haven't looked back.  There is no hair brushing and their hair always looks good.  The only downside is the frequency I have to drag them to get their hair cut.  Luckily, my kids are super nerds, and the draw of the library right next door, is enough to motivate them.

It's been about a month and they are both due.  I asked Big E if he wanted to get his haircut.

MOM. I WANT COOL BOY HAIR. YOU KNOW, IT FALLS ACROSS YOUR HEAD LIKE THIS.

I took a deep breath and quickly walked out of the room so I could panic.

I'm pretty sure Big E just asked me for Georgia Hair.  My child. Thick with Florida roots wants Georgia Hair.

What is this Georgia Hair, you may ask?

THIS

Some call it the Southern Swoop.  I call it Georgia Hair.  Mostly because I'd never seen anything like it until I moved to Atlanta in 1999.  Yes, you have the Coca-Cola Headquarters and CNN, but do you have barber shops here?

I have admittedly mocked this style.  There was none of this in Florida.  Mostly because it is too hot to wear a petticoat on your forehead.

And now my first born was expressing himself to me in a way that he has never shown any interest.  Do I agree to let him grow his hair out?  Do I shave it off in his sleep?

I'm still undecided.  My plan is to take them after school today. I'll be there cheering on the clippers with a fistful of PEZ.



Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Stockholm Syndrome

Little E's homework assignment this week included writing an opinion piece stating his opinion of a topic and the reasoning to support it.

Little E was having a little bit of writer's block, which I totally understand.

I suggested writing about why red is the greatest color ever (even though we all know that isn't true).

Big E, who was sitting next to Little E, suggested he write about how Big E was the greatest brother ever.

I shook my head no. Because even though this is an opinion piece, this statement is blatantly false.

Like all younger siblings, Little E loves his big brother, so he enthusiastically agreed to write his opinion piece about how awesome Big E. (MANY EYE ROLLS)



Little E is still mastering handwriting, so let me transcribe his opinion piece.

Big E is the best brother because:

1) He protects me.

Tonight in the bathtub, I witnessed Big E b*tch slap Little E across the face.  He then claimed it was an accident.  I guess Big E was protecting Little E from some sort of 1860s womanly hysteria.

2) He plays with me.

This includes Little E digging around for hours and hours in search of misplaced Lego pieces so Big E can finish his Lego City Swamp Boat.

3) He shares with me.

Um...the only thing Big E shares with you, my Sweet Little E, is your muscle-y legs and perfectly round buttocks.  As far as sharing toys, I've seen WWE matches tamer than the two of you deciding who gets the first roll in the Monopoly game.  Or the last Dunkin' Donuts Munchkin (not even the good flavor).

4) He helps me.

Taking help from the dangerously-close-to-eight-year-old who is "cool with velcro forever" because he's too lazy to learn to tie his shoes?  You don't need that kind of help, my friend.

I watched in fascination as Big E fed Little E all of these wonderful tag lines regarding himself and I tried to figure out if Little E genuinely believed them or if he was playing us all.

Why do your homework when you can have someone else basically write it for you?

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Leggo My (Easter) Eggo

Happy Easter, folks!

This year brought the Yoys their first ever Easter Egg Hunt.  I gave them a pep talk beforehand.  Yes, we are Jewish. Yes, you can still hunt for eggs and eat delicious peeps.  Yes, you can wear bow-ties and pastels and no one will be the wiser.  We lit the Shabbat candles and headed out the door.

And the boys had such a great time.


Until the end.  When it was brought to my attention that Big E had taken another little boy's basket of eggs, snuck out of sight, and emptied its contents right into his basket.

I was angry with him.  I was embarrassed that he committed the greatest sin on the Easter Egg Hunt circuit during our first time to the rodeo.  We would be labeled as the egg-stealing Yoysers and banned from all future egg hunts in some super secret Easter book.

Scene of the Crime

At home, Mr. Yoy and I sat Big E down and spoke to him about it.  He vehemently denied any participation in the theft.  He blamed a set of younger twins. Big E does this weird thing with his mouth when he is lying to me and I hope to the heavens that he NEVER outgrows this.  I knew he was lying.  I was just waiting for him to cave.  After about ten minutes of being cross examined by Mr. Yoy, Big E finally fessed up.

BUT I JUST LOVE CANDY!

We talked about why stealing is wrong. The following day, he wrote an apology note to his friend and delivered it with a bunch of the candy he had pilfered.

I'm hopeful that he learned a lesson.

I'm hopeful that we get invited back next year.

I'm hopeful that the Peeps are 50% off when I hit up Publix tomorrow.






Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Mrs. Yoy: Mama Bear

Yesterday afternoon found us at track practice.  This trip, the drama was centered around the playground, not the woods, thank goodness.

Big E was busy running his little booty off.

Little E was blissfully playing on the playground.

MOM! THAT GIRL SAID BAD THINGS TO ME!  SHE SAID SHE WAS GOING TO KICK ME IN THE HEAD!

Little E ran up to me and pointed to a girl a little older than him (from now on referred to as Mean Girl).  His bottom lip quivered.

I took at deep breath. What creature of Satan would pick on Little E?

If it were Big E, I wouldn't even bat an eyelash.  He probably did something to provoke it.  But Little E? Aw, hell no.  That kid sh*ts rainbows.  His morning breath smells of Cinnabon. He's perfect. 


In my calmest voice, I told Little E that if she said anything else nasty to him, that he should look her in the eyes and tell her in a stern voice:

YOU CAN'T SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT.

What I really wanted  Little E to tell her was that his mom was crazy and not afraid to cut a b*tch and she better move her mean self along. But I played it cool.

He seemed on board with the plan and ran back to play.

Less than a minute later, I heard a high pitched scream come from the playground.  It was Little E.  Mean Girl did say something else to him and he let her have it.  Not in the stern voice I recommended, it was more like an opera solo.

It shocked me and I asked him to lower his voice.  But I'm not going to lie, I was so proud of him. Little E got right up in Mean Girl's face and told her what was up. Hang gestures and all.

After that, I moved closer to the playground to monitor what was going on. Her mother was texting herself into oblivion and had no idea that her daughter was being a turd. I made eye contact with Mean Girl and without speaking, I told her to leave my sweet baby alone.  Or else.








Thursday, March 17, 2016

Peg Leg and Plot Holes

Yesterday afternoon, Little E decided he wanted to sit out front on one of our landscape boulders and tell ghost stories.

I was assigned to go first. It's been about 25 years since I last told a scary story, with the exception of the one where the guy stole all of this season's Gucci bags from Saks, but I dug deep and pulled out a classic.

In the late 80s and early 90s, I attended a sleepaway camp in NC, Camp Pinewood.  I have so many fond memories that I will not bore you with.

Back in the 1960s, there was a terrible plane crash which resulted in the death of everyone on board. Rumor had it, you could still find wreckage on the camp grounds if you wanted to snoop around. I was cool with just hearing the story that evolved around the crash, I didn't need a visual.

Out of this crash, came the story of Peg Leg.  A ghost who lost his leg in the crash and had a Peg Leg (original, I know) that he dragged all around Pinewood creating mischief and scaring the sh*t out of pimply preteens.

So I start walking like I had a Peg Leg (which is not far off because I think I have a broken ankle) using my spookiest voice, but Little E was completely unfazed.

WHAT IS HIS LEG MADE OF?

wood

IS IT SMOOTH OR ROUGH?

smooth

DOES HE SCRATCH UP YOUR FLOORS?

he better f*cking not

WHY IS HE MAD?

because the campers ate all of the grilled cheese and tomato soup served at lunch

This kid asks way too many questions.  He basically highlighted all of the plot holes in my favorite camp story and made it the unscariest ghost story ever.  Thanks for ruining my childhood, pal.





Wednesday, March 16, 2016

The Library Book We Won't Check Out. PERIOD.

The Yoys are big fans of the library.

1) It's free (except for my property tax bill)

2) There is an unlimited amount of nuclear energy books

3) It's free (again)

This week's trip saw a land grab of all things trains (Little E) and nuclear power and ghosts (Big E).

I bring a giant canvas bag and once that thing gets filled up, we go.

Little E grabbed a white book with a giant red circle on the front.

MOMMY, CAN I GET THIS ONE?

I opened the book and began reading all about pre-teen girls and the onset of their periods.  There was at least 60 detailed pages.

I immediately shut the book.

LITTLE E, THIS IS NOT A GOOD BOOK FOR YOU.  IT'S FOR GIRLS.

I didn't mean this in a princess way.  I meant that in a this will not be useful to you until you are way older and need to learn how to avoid your PMS-ing girlfriend.

THEN YOU CAN CHECK IT OUT, MOMMY.

At 39, I'm a stone's throw away from menopause. If there is something I don't yet know about my period, I'm happy to head into retirement in ignorant bliss.

I told Little E to reshelve the book.  This was not acceptable.  He wanted this period book. Now. He was beginning to make a scene, and I did not want this to get us booted from the 'brary.

So I did what any good mother would do.  I took the book and fake put it in the canvas bag and then put it back.

A library book favorite for Little E and what he probably thought he was checking out.  It looked very similar to the period book.