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.