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.



Are We Out Of The Woods?

Big E began his career as a world class sprinter this week.  He has practice three days a week.  Two of the practices are held at an elementary school that does not allow the team access to its bathrooms.

We were told this at Sunday's practice.

MAKE SURE YOU USE THE BATHROOM BEFORE YOU COME TO PRACTICE.

As the coach's words hung in the air, a single drip of sweat rolled down my back.  I knew in my heart of hearts that this would definitely be a problem.

My kids are 238/238 for having to poop at parks, playgrounds, trails etc with no bathroom access.

I have used leaves, receipts, and hand sanitizing wipes to clean up their bathroom trips.  I understand that they are young and don't have the bowel control that adults have, but I feel like they almost do this on purpose.  Like it's cool to sh*t in the woods. It's not. I can assure you.

Five minutes into practice, I saw Little E doing the potty dance in front of the playground he was enjoying.  My heart leapt.  Maybe, oh maybe one of the doors to the school was unlocked.

Nope.

The only place to go was a five foot tree buffer between school property and a neighborhood.  I briefly thought about knocking on some random person's door.  But I didn't think Little E would make it.

Instead we entered an area that can best be described as bramble.  Think Rapunzel. It was like these low lying plants came armed to the fight with sharp little knives.  And my sandled ankles and feet were public enemy #1.  And it was also on a hill.  And I have a sprained ankle.

But Little E didn't go once. Or twice. We made three separate trips into the woods.  My ankle screamed in pain. And looked like this.


On one of our trips, we exited the woods and one of the runners asked me excitedly if this was another trail to run on.

NO. IT'S THE TRAIL OF TEARS. MOVE ALONG CHAMP.