Vom Bomb

For those of you who are squeamish and don't like in depth conversations about cat vomit, I suggest you stop reading here and instead use your time to look at people.com and comment on how ugly people's clothes are.

For the rest of you, I have a nasty story for you...

This morning at 5:17 (on our clock - which is actually 23 minutes fast) I woke up to the sounds of Glug, Glug, Glug, Hack, Bleech.  I sat straight up and squinted toward the sound.  My nighttime contact-less eyes told me it was either a raccoon or Fat Linda retching right at the threshold of our room.  It couldn't be Lorenzo, because he was still sleeping on my head like a Russian hat.  I had a passing thought that I should leap out of bed and toss Fat Linda the Vomiter into the plastic-floored bathroom, but since the expulsion had already occurred, I didn't really move.  I told myself I would wait five minutes before I got up to clean the mess, just to be sure she was done.  I would just rest my eyes while I was waiting.

Moments later, my alarm rang signifying 6:00 am.  Oops.  Nothing like aged puke.  It took a while for me to gather my will and strength to clean up Fat Linda's gift.  But as I approached the scene, I felt a growing sense of horror.  Something wasn't right.

First, she left a series of nasty puke logs, which are gross enough, but then I saw the wall.  Splatters of chunk were all over.  Alarmed, I called over to Sleeping Mark, "Fat Linda projectile vomited all over the wall!  Should we take her to the vet!?"
"Nope."

Here is a picture of both.  They are far enough away to give you the idea of what I saw without the nauseating detail.  The wall picture is less impressive in this form, you might have to click on it to enlarge the detail.

I cursed Fat Linda under my breath as I scrubbed up the mess.  The close contact allowed me to make some observations.  All the years of watching CSI gave me some seriously powerful skills.  The puke marks on the wall were not consistent with an explosion.  Instead they were castoff marks (directional splats).  There was extra puke distributed around the carpet here and there too.

My informed conclusion was this:  Fat Linda spewed all over the floor and then forgot about it.  Not long later, she walked right through it and got it on her paws.  Like most felines, she didn't enjoy the feeling of a coated paw and she did the cat-foot-flick, thus splattering the wall with directional splat puke marks.

The whole situation accomplished several things:  caused me to lose valuable morning time that should have been used to make myself look less ugly, revitalized the flat vs. eggshell wall paint battle that has been waging for 8 months, and completely reinforced the idea that Fat Linda has serious mental limitations.  Who walks through their own puke and then flings it all over the wall!?

And who takes pictures of it and writes paragraphs of complete nonsense describing it?

Who wins the dumb war?  Fat Linda or Lily?  It might be a draw.

The Name Game

I have mentioned in the past that my kids are a bit of an oddity.  I am so glad.  I can certainly support eccentricity.  I hope they wear it well as they age.  

Sixty percent of what Marina says is in Spanish.  When she accidentally drops something she yells out, "Ay, Ay, Ay!"  It's wonderful.  

And then there's Eli.  Recently, he has started making drawings and gifts addressed specifically to us.  But instead of writing Mom and Dad on it, like most five-year-olds would, he writes our proper names.  We are not the kind of parents that insist our children call us by our first names so walking outside to see these pictures drawn on the concrete was a bit of a surprise.  

It's actually a brilliant move, by the way.  In school and church, there are dozens of projects labeled "To Mom and Dad," though not as many addressed to "Mark Clinton" out there.   

In case you need a translation:  

   

"I Love Lily"

"I Love Mark Clinton"

Privacy Disclosure

Something I've learned to accept as a parent is that privacy is a distant dream that has no place in my everyday life.  I never even think about closing the bathroom door, it's just going to burst open anyway (I have to make a concerted effort not to unbutton my pants before I close the stall at work - you're welcome, coworkers).  If I'm changing my clothes, there is a good chance there will be a little child standing next to me trying on my shoes.  I actually don't mind that my personal time and bodily functions are common property; it's more like being aware of a hard fact (an example of a hard fact:  Fat Linda has a feeble mind).

I was wondering the other day if there was a moment where I said, "That's it!  I give up on my privacy!"  Then I realized I knew exactly when that was.  The life-changing major privacy breech happened when I was in labor with my first child.  After a whole lifetime of living by the "keep your privates private" rule, suddenly I was in a room for hours being poked and prodded and put on display for a live studio audience.  After hours of labor, I didn't care anymore.

Immediately following I was nursing... enough said.

Now that my kids are out of the baby stage, they come and go as they please whether I'm in the bathroom or the shower or sunbathing nude (just kidding - this is over the line, plus I can't risk the paparazzi photos popping up on the web).

Two days ago, there was an excellent illustration of how a typical day in my life progresses.  I had been standing in the shower for thirty seconds when the shower curtain was suddenly pulled open.  A two-year-old stood on the other side.  She said, "You washin' your hair, Mommy?"  Yes, Marina.  She repeated this action every 45 seconds for the remainder of my shower.  In between the questioning, she informed me that she had "snots" and required my nose wiping skills.  I had to find a suitable wiping device from my precarious shower position.  Back I went to my washing.  Then the curtain pulled back open and Marina told me she had to pee.  Since there was no stool in the bathroom, I had to reach out, pull down her pants, lift her onto the toilet, and release a fountain of water from my arms onto the floor.  Immediately following, I had to stretch out and pull some toilet paper for her (which isn't an easy task with soaking wet hands).

At this point I was starting to lose my patience.  I told her to go back downstairs.  The rebellious child knew my powers were limited while I stood naked under a stream of water so she ignored my request.  I decided to ignore her right back (yes, maturity is one of my strengths).  A few minutes passed before I realized it was too quiet in the bathroom.  I peeked out and saw Marina taking my discarded underwear off the floor and putting them on over her pants.  This might be funny if my underwear didn't look like clown pants on her.  Humbled, I said, "Hey!  Take those off."  She said, "Ok, Mommy."  What an obedient little child.

I hurried to rinse the conditioner out of my hair and turned off the water.  Opening the curtain, I discovered Marina walking around the bathroom with her pants off, wearing my underwear in place of her own.  She wore them in the traditional way, only she decided to solve the size problem by putting her arms through the leg holes too and wearing them like giant suspenders - or like a wrestling singlet.

Sigh.  While I wonder what it would be like to change my clothes without being interrupted, I was just thinking that there will be a day not too far in the future where my house will be quiet and clean and I will be wishing our kids would come home and destroy our privacy.   Maybe I will go to my mom's house right now and throw open the bathroom door, just in case she is wishing this right now, too.