Peeves and rants

I feel crabby, and I want to feel validated by writing it down. I was going to post this somewhere private, but I don't want to be private - I want to write what I want, and this is my blog.

Why does my 4-year-old daughter refuse to learn to spit or blow her nose? NO ONE ELSE IN THE WORLD doesn't know how to spit. No one else's mommy has to scrape vomit off their tongue with a washcloth because they can't or won't spit it out. Oh, I am frustrated with that.

I hate it when people give lengthy responses to emails they obviously have not read, expostulating on things they didn't bother to read completely.

I hate it when people reply to all on responses that really only apply to one person.

I hate having my solicited opinion denounced. Like, someone asks, "What do you think of this?" I respond, "It's not my first choice, and here are legitimate reasons A, B, and C, and proof I know what I'm talking about." Response: "Why are you being so negative? This will be great! Let's all be so excited about it!" Well, look. If you don't want my feedback, don't ask for it, but don't tell me I'm wrong. I'm not wrong. It's so frustrating when you want to respond, "Look, you bozo, you obviously didn't understand, and how dare you try to discount my legitimate feedback with your blind, forced assertions?" To avoid sounding like a troll, I have to be silent and just wait for experience to prove my point, and that's frustrating.

I hate having big, itchy mosquito bites on my legs. Seriously, it hasn't rained all summer. The mosquitoes should have all been fried up.

I hate it when Damon gets constipated. How can someone on an all-liquid diet be constipated? For heaven's sake, just poop it out and stop being so crabby!

(I guess I'm not one to talk there. About the crabby part, not the other.)

We're going on vacation tomorrow. None too soon, obviously.

Poor sickies

Consolation for getting up at 5:00 am to comfort and clean up two sad, pukey, poopy little girls

=

Sleeping in until 9:30 with one on my chest and the other snuggled up next to me.

There might theoretically be something sweeter and snugglier than sleeping with a baby on your chest. But I'm not sure what it is.

Wah.

Today I feel like running away with the circus.

1000 Words

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I love Olivia's shirt:


And she is, again, very cute.


Carmen pooped through two of her St. Patty's day outfits by the time I started taking pictures. She also threw up on mine.

And here's a special St. Patrick's Day message from Olivia, featuring my first, untrained efforts on Adobe Premier:


Have a pinchless day! (We love you, Brook!)

Poop

I just don't know what else to call this entry. I had to make a new label too, which I guess is fine, because it will probably come in handy.

Last night I was making my visual aids for Primary Singing Time (I'm the chorister - my dream calling), and down the hall I heard a door open and shut. My brother-in-law's family has been staying with us for the last month while they close on a house (this Tuesday!), so I figured it was just one of my nietos getting up to go to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, though, I heard three-year-old Tristan crying.

I went in to the bathroom and he was sitting there sobbing on the toilet. The tell-tale trail of diarrhea and soiled clothing told the rest of the story.

Now, Dan and Hyde had gone to the movies after putting their kids to bed. During the last month, this arrangement has worked well for us - we've traded off staying home while the other couple stays uneventfully with the sleeping kids. I guess my luck just finally ran out.

Now, having a 1-year-old daughter and a sister who is 13 years younger than me, I have plenty of experience taking care of poopy kids. The thing is, though, that I'm not used to boys - specifically, boy parts. And, um, I guess I'm still a little weird about them. That may seem odd, considering that I'm married and pregnant, but...well, boys and girls are different. And it's weird enough to have to clean poop off someone else's kid without that extra bit of awkwardness.

I told Tristan to wait there while I went down and got Steven. "Steven," I said, "Tristan pooped his pants...and he's a boy. And I'm not. I need help." "Oh," said my husband, "I just took out my contacts..." Meaning that at this point, he was pretty much blind. Sigh.

I went back upstairs, took a breath (outside the bathroom), and went to work. I got him cleaned up, rinsed out his clothes (gross), gave him a bath to make sure all crevices were poop-free, and got him in a towel. Then we went into his parents' room to look for clean clothes. Which were nowhere to be found. Every pair of superhero undies I presented were pronounced "Victor's." Finally, I went down to the laundry room where, luckily, I found a smaller pair of Spiderman underwear in the dryer, along with some pajama pants. Poop-free, tear-free, and clothed, Tristan went back to bed, and I went back to finish cleaning up the bathroom.

This story has no moral. Except that when life gives you a diarrheic three-year-old, clean up his poop.