Stalling for Time

Many years ago, when Eli was just a young lad, this blog was filled with stories from his bathroom adventures.  Since then, he has matured and acquired a bit of tact.  He no longer talks about the carrots in his poop while we are in the Target stalls (remember this one?), nor does he make groaning, straining  sounds while in mixed bathroom company.  I'd say we've moved on.

But I'm happy to announce that Marina is just cycling into that stage.  What I have to present to you today is none other than a bathroom story starring my youngest little stinker.

I don't know if it is a characteristic of all kids or just mine but they seem to pick the most inconvenient times to do their "serious" bathroom business.   Yesterday after work we had an open house at the kids' school where we could meet their teachers and see their classrooms.  Moments after we walked into Eli's classroom, Marina started holding her tummy and showing the signs of eminent bowel activity.  Unfortunately, we were already in mid conversation with Eli's teacher.  I excused myself to take the little lady to the bathroom.  [On a side note, she must think we are a family plagued with intestinal woes.  Last week when I was at the school by chance during the day, Mark and I came upon Eli's class all lined up outside the bathrooms.  It seemed everyone had been in and out except Eli who was taking his sweet time.]

After a minute in the stall, it was clear we were going to be there for some duration.  Marina was insistent that she had to go to the bathroom but wanted first to have a conversation about the color of the stalls, the discomfort of the toilet seat under her, the price of corn futures, etc.  Since I heard a visitor enter the bathroom, I was trying to use my extra patient voice.  There was a metallic clanging of a cane that accompanied her walk.  She stepped into the deluxe stall right next to us.  Marina suddenly paused all conversation.  There was a tense moment of silence before the visitor released a shameless storm right next to us.  Marina's eyes got huge.  I knew her mind.  I had to stop her so I cupped my hand over her mouth.  Of course my little motor-mouth was not pleased.  I used hand signs to indicate she was to be silent; all the while the noise vibrations were stirring the air.  When I finally released her, Marina said, "Did you heeear that??" (just like Buddy the Elf at dinner).  The look of death I gave her caused her to respectfully lower her voice; just not low enough.  Marina kept whispering, "Fart.  Fart," in her 3-year-old-attempting-to-be-quiet voice.  I wonder if the woman next door thought we were taunting her.  Luckily she was too busy to pick a fight with us.

We gave up attempts to "make it happen" in the bathroom and ran for the doors.  I didn't want to have awkward bathroom conversation with the neighbor ("So... what'd you have for dinner?")

Marina did as well as can be expected, I suppose.  Sometimes the temptation is just too much.  As an adult, I sometimes struggle to stifle my immature laughter when proclamations ring out in a quiet bathroom, particularly at work.  I like to think of myself as forever young - like Peter Pan or Mel Gibson from that one crappy movie.

In somewhat unrelated news... remember when Eli used to pinch "booties" when he was three?  Well, Marina has a habit of her own (honestly, I don't know where it came from).  She will randomly back up to someone and fake fart all over them.  She has even done it twice to the cats this week.  Lorenzo seemed less than amused.  Fat Linda was too busy being dumb to notice.

Should I put an end to this?  I think not.  I'm all about wringing all the funny out of these kids as I can.  Plus if she keeps this up, I won't have to worry about anyone wanting to date her.  Win-Win.  

A Sunday Rescue Mission

I have a Lily-scale that measures my level of psychosis.  Zero would be my normal, pleasant, even-keel  self.  I run at a three while I am in food preparation mode (this can be observed about 5pm every night).  Herding children before school can occasionally shoot me to a five.  Then there are those isolated incidents that run me immediately red.  The highest level on the Lily-scale would be an arbitrary 14.  Fourteen means I'm about to break my foot off in someone's royal A (see "Coming To America" for the source of this quote).  

Mark has been out of town this weekend, so I have been playing the single parent role for a few days.  I've actually been managing pretty well, if you don't count the shocking mess in my house.  I started another load of laundry before we left the house for church (on time!) and patted myself on the back.  After our weekly Sam's visit, I carried a sleeping Marina from the car into the house, passing through the laundry room.  That's when I saw something that sent sparks flying from my ears.  The spin cycle on the washing machine jostled my in-progress puzzle until parts of it fell off the back, into the lint-filled depths below.  Since I was carrying Marina, I could only let out an inward scream, which broke blood vessels in my nose.  

If you are not someone who enjoys a good 1000 piece puzzle, you may not fully grasp the enormity of this situation.  

Since I had a trunk filled with perishable Sam's Club items, I had to put off the puzzle dilemma and attend to the demands of Sunday life.  Putting away groceries on a Sunday is no small task.  I have to  regularly throw away all the aging food from the week to make room for the mammoth size cheeses, egg cartons of 98 eggs, and 20 cans of tuna.    

Finally it was time to start the puzzle rescue operation.  I changed into my gymnast clothing and went to work.  Since I had a feeling this would be blog-worthy, I grabbed my camera and captured the situation.  I also thought this would come in handy if I died in the process; Mark could use the documentation for my life insurance policy.  Eli joined my party and asked if he could take pictures too.  He snapped some award-winning shots of my unflattering "leggins".

The scene that caused my brain to incinerate.  

Here is what I had to work with.  After searching for a point of entry and wringing my hands, I finally pulled out the machine on the left for a few inches of maneuver room.

My observations from above.  Notice the tiny puzzle pieces screaming for help.  There were several more hidden under that exhaust tube.  Also found: a pair of socks that have been missing since winter.  

The excavating tool.  

Kitchen pincers and a dislocated shoulder worked together to remove the socks.

Thank you Eli for capturing this.  I inadvertently turned the machine on with my wild flailings.  

Attempting another position while shoving my head arms down.  I needed to rescue my rescue tool.  Pardon the "leggins"... they are part of my Sunday uniform and I needed unrestricted movement.

Notice the wardrobe change.  This was a second rescue mission.  After I reconstructed my puzzle end-pieces, I realized there was still one or two missing.  I had to go back in.  We never leave a man (or puzzle piece) behind.     

 

This is where my head got caught behind the machine and fell off. 

This is about the time my allergies started acting up from the dust wonderland. 

Victory.  Notice the many hazardous chemicals above my head.  This heightened the tension.  Watch out for falling starch and the puke bucket, Lily!

Look at the scrapes I get myself in when Mark leaves me to my own devices for several days.  I'm actually surprised I didn't manage to get trapped back there.  Fat Linda would eat parts of my legs and I would be powerless to stop her.

Now if I get to the end of my puzzle and find there are missing pieces... I pity the butt that is standing closest to me.  

Rain of Terror

Warning:  this is yet another blog about puke.  Kelly, if you are reading, you might want to turn back now.

As I've discussed at great length in the past, I'm not a big fan of puke.  I don't want someone throwing up in the car near me, on a plane I'm riding or when I'm standing down-wind of them.  I start sweating if I think there is any possibility of one of these scenarios.  For this reason, you will never find my kids running around after a meal at a birthday party or social event.  If they try, I run after them (risking my own digestive woes) and yell, "HEEEY!  Do you want to puke or what?"  Yes, I realize I might be a tad (or possibly more) neurotic, but my kid isn't going to be the one to lose it in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese.

Unfortunately, not every parent takes this same precaution.  Allow me to relate to you a very gruesome tale of horrifying proportions.

Yesterday we were at Eli's school picnic where there was a deadly combination of hot dogs and a playground.  Kids were shoving hot dogs in their mouths then sprinting full speed for the monkey bars.  I felt the stir of unease within (or maybe it was the hot dog knocking).  Eli kept trying to stuff his mouth so he could run off.  I kept a firm grip on his arm.  Yes, I know, boo to the crazy mom.

After an acceptable amount of time, I finally let him go, but strongly reminded him that I better not see him moving faster than a power walk.  I followed Marina to the playground where kids were running, screaming and acting like savages.  A very short time after, I saw two staff members wearing latex gloves, approaching the area with buckets of liquid and a spray bottle.  I knew where this was going.

Some hot dog-filled child had climbed up to the top of a platform and vomited all over.  Here the most unbelievable part:  it went partially down the slide and the rest was all over the platform (what luck!).  There was no way to clear the area, so the staff members had to clean around the kids that were jumping around and pushing each other (and still trying to go down the slide!).  As I stood by and watched (horrified!), they poured the buckets full of sudsy liquid down the puke slide.  More than one kid passed by and tried to run up waterfall of puke/cleaner.  The staff member had to gruffly tell them to beat it.  In order to cleanse the platform, they dumped their buckets on the mess.  The problem with a playground platform is there are giant holes in the plastic.  The bigger problem with this playground was the group of kids huddled under the 8-foot platform sitting in a circle.  They were blissfully unaware of the gallons of puke-water that was raining down on their heads.  Everywhere I turned, kids were running and screaming, not in disgust, like I was, but in joyful innocence; completely unmarred by the stomach contents splashing on their arms.  I was hyperventilating.

I bellowed for my kids to come to me and huddle in the far corner of the wood chips.  The clean-up crew used the spray bottle to sanitize the slide and platform, then left the scene.  Within seconds, kids were flying down the slippery slide, wetting their bottoms in the process.  I forbid my kids to approach the vom-splatted wood chips or go near the germs for the rest of the night.  Eli was very displeased.  What's a little puke among friends?

This story goes into my files as a cautionary tale.  It feels a little bit like an Arrested Development line, "That's why never run on the playground after eating hot dogs!" (Remember the "That's why you always leave a note!" quote?)

I just finished dinner, maybe I should go out for a quick jog.

Picture This, If You Will

I apologize for the recent overkill on random picture blogs.  I can't seem to stop myself.  I've been pretending to be a photo-journalist instead of a wanna-be blogger.

Here we go:  a running Lily narration.  These pictures are completely unrelated.

I rarely can let a week go by without sharing a picture of one of my cats.  I am the Cat Lady, but instead of wearing knitted cat sweaters, I wear regular sweaters with cat hair all over them.  Instead of adoring my cats, I constantly plot against them.

Here is Fat Linda.  She can't be bothered to ever sit on the floor like a normal animal.  She lies on top of the coffee table, on my laundry, or on a discarded sock.  And then there is her favorite:  backpacks. Perhaps this is her way of participating in the Back To School fever.  Or maybe she's just feeble-minded.

Remember Giant Dora from my last post?  Marina brought her into my room while I slept so I woke up to her oblong head staring down on me.  Well, last night as I watched TV, the ceiling fan brought Dora closer and closer to me until she was obstructing my view.  I punched her in the head.

The other day, I was helping my mom clean up after she fed my family (Thanks, Mom!) when I discovered this wax paper in her drawer.  I asked her how old it was.  She told me they just bought it.  I told her that was impossible.  Take a look at the box below.  She and her husband seemed rather offended that I would call into question the age of their stock (I might add that it is not uncommon to find peanut butter in their pantry that expired in 2006).  

This microwave looks highly impressive.  Must be the newest thing out.

We had a slight "issue" in our basement this weekend.  I'll create a blog dedicated to this subject soon - when I have enough distance to find it funny.  Suffice it to say that we had uninvited water take over our land.  While we were running the Shop-Vac and taking gallons and gallons of water out of our nearly new carpet, our kids were going crazy.  They were running in circles and screaming.  Just when I thought I was going to start wringing them out, Marina came downstairs with this.  She was joining in the clean-up effort.

I'm always very entertained by the things that Eli brings home from school.  I wonder what his teachers think.  Maybe he is fairly normal... but just maybe he is far superior to all the other 6-year-olds in the world.  

He brought home his self-portrait.  Apparently that was the day he was shooting lasers from his eyes.  Must have been something I fed him for dinner...

I found this when I was checking his homework for tonight.  His worksheet tells him to, "Find something at home that has the shape of a square.  Draw a picture of what you found."  He must have been in his dad's office while he completed this.  His answer, "Ethernet Port".  Excellent.

You may be hoping the camera on my phone breaks soon.  These blogs are the equivalent of making you look at a slideshow from my recent vacation.  That's what you get for wasting your time reading junk on the internet when you should be making your kids dinner... wait, that's actually me, right now.  Dog-Darn it (as Eli says).