karma, threenagers, and juice

A letter to my mother, if she could have read it 30 years ago.

Dear Mom,

Fear not, karma soooo has this under control.  I know right now you are looking at that precious child you birthed and thinking "dear gawd she is a demon" but I assure you, what goes around comes around.

You see, I am that demon ... er, I am your daughter.  I am all grown up now nearly 30 years later with a child the exact age as I was when you first really started debating "can I sell her?"

You didn't sell me, and I am grateful, but I doubt you could have if you tried.  While I was cute, I was apparently an absolute mutant of a child.

You have told me that I would scream or shriek when I threw a tantrum so badly you were just sure someone would overhear and call the police convinced I was in the process of being boiled to death.  Reality being what it is, I was merely pissed you had dared utter the word "no" to me.  But for all those times you shared those stories and I rolled my eyes convinced you were exaggerating, even after my first child was born for he failed to have meltdowns of that level, I assure you I am now eating a feast of crow.

The Beans is cute, but oh. My. Goodness.  Hereforward for the sake of clarity we will call him Dr. Banner or Hulk.

It all started with Captain America.  No joke, it really did.

He loves these juice bottles with heads of characters on them, and most of all he loves Captain America.

I was out of Dr. Pepper and decided to splurge before we picked Meatball up from school.  We were going to get me 44 ounces of my drug of choice and him an apple juice with Captain America's head on it.  The whole way into the gas station he babbled about getting his hero and how he hoped they had one.  Well they did, but they also had Muck.  He is a stupid truck from Bob the Builder, a show Beans has watched ONCE.  But he was CERTAIN he needed Muck.  Had to have him.

But Muck is smaller than the Cap I said.  I showed him.  He saw that it was smaller and NOT Captain America.  He heard me tell him that I think he should get the Cap'n.

Yes, he hears all of it and knew, he wanted Muck the scoopy truck.

So after about a minute of my "are you sure"ing him he convinced me.  We bought Muck and my beloved Dr. Pepper.  We walked outside, buckled him into the car seat and then I pealed the seal off the Muck apple juice that we had already been discussing for about 3 minutes at least.  I handed it to him with a smile, certain he got the ridiculously expensive juice of his dreams.

"No, Mommy, I need my Captain America."  said Dr. Banner, the still reasonable big-blue-eyed angel in my car.

"Sweetie, you picked the truck one, we didn't get Captain America."

Then he did this.

Figuratively of course.  Well mostly, it did kinda look like that but he was less green and muscley.

I closed my door and took one sip of my 44 ounces of heaven.  I hadn't had a Dr. Pepper in 2 days and that caffeine flew to the pleasure receptors of my brain promising that we could handle this melt down.  He's usually a reasonable kid.  We will have maybe 5 minutes of yelling and whining, then he will be fine.

Oh how wrong I was.

I start to pull out of the parking lot, and this is when the Hulk realized the shmit was getting serious.  He started kicking the back of my passenger seat with everything he had.  The seat organizer that hung over the back was a casualty that he flipped up and started pummeling.

Unfortunately, as a driver, the sight of something suddenly flying like that startled me.  So I jerked the wheel.  Did I mention that the cup holders of a 2001 Corolla are really not equipped to hold a dixie cup much less 44 ounces of peace and deliciousness?

So 44 ounces (minus ONE sip) of Dr. Pepper dumps down on my feet, all over the pedals and floor.  Any moment now Noah will come floating along in the deluge I tell you.

I turn around and pull back into the gas station as it is the easiest place to go.  Hulk is now really screaming "GO INSIDE.  I NEED CAPTAIN AMERICA APPLE JUICE!!!"

If I had been on fire and Captain America apple juice was the only means with which to douse the flames ... well, burn baby burn.

So I scoop the ice out of my car into the parking lot.  I use my discarded sweatshirt to absorb what I can.  All to the tune of:

"I NEED CAPTAIN AMERICA APPLE JUICE NOW!!!! MOMMY, GO GET IT!"

I try to calmly say no and reason with IT.  Nope.  I try the mom voice.  Nope.  I try the little-devil-that-was-my-last-$3-and-my-Dr.-Pepper-is-gone voice.  Still nope.

So I drive.  Realizing there is no way we can go to the grocery store with him like this I just decide to take the long way to Meatball's school to pick him up.  Maybe we will be there early, but hey the kid will likely fall asleep and I will have a quiet moment to crush some candy like a junkie needing some kind of fix since I am without caffeine now in the parking lot.

Yeah, I still was underestimating the sheer power of karma and the Hulk.

Over an hour later he was exhausted.  The Hulk fell asleep.  Thank goodness.  I privately swore to myself I'd kill anything that woke him -- see this is why we know where he gets his anger issues from.

Then he starts again.  In. His. Sleep.

Seriously, how is that even possible?!

I tried to soothe him.  I was even kind about it.  It was hard, but I did it.

He wakes up.

"NO YOU BE QUIET MOMMY!!!!!!'

Okay, kid.  Sheesh.  I say nothing.

"YOU NEED TO BE QUIET MOMMY!!!"

But I am being quiet!  I desperately point out.

"BE QUIET NOW MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Okay, he had me there, I had spoken.  So I stayed quiet.  But he kept screaming how I needed to be quiet NOW.  Then Meatball got in the car.

"MOMMY BE QUIET LIKE MEATBALL! BE QUIET NOW MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!"

Dude, seriously, I am not talking!!!!

He started to go hoarse.  Then he shrieked until he gagged.  Each time I asked what was wrong (before the command to be silent of course) I was told "I DON'T KNOW!!!"

He kicked one shoe off at some point in this ridiculous mess and when we got home and I pried him out of the car and set him down he screamed anew at me for that. We got inside ... well after Paul Bunyan ran after him when he tried to run down the street screaming "I NEED MY SPIDERMAN SHOE!!!!" then carried the kicking screaming mutant inside.  He continued for a little bit and I sat on the ground.

"NO SITTING ON THE GROUND MOMMY!!!!!!"

I am waiting.  I said.  I think you need a hug, I told him.

"I NO NEED HUG.  YOU NO HUG ME!!"

I made the best sympathetic grimace I could, sure my ears were bleeding and the neighbors -- who had to have seen the screaming child try to flea in desperation -- had to be assessing if it was 911 worthy yet.  I held out my arms and said "I think my Beansie needs a mama hug."

Then he ran at me and threw himself in my arms.  We sat quiet for about 5 minutes with him just hiccup breathing and me regaining my hearing.  

I learned a new term today, mom.  It is "threenager" and I am hoping that it is a short lived phase because he isn't even actually three yet!

So, mother of mine, rest assured that I will some day get every ounce of what I have given.  I too will have friends smile and say "oh surely he didn't scream for the whole hour" while my left eye twitches.  I too will want to snap and scream and go as crazy as you probably did.  But I too will hug that little a-hole and tell him how much I love him, making him know he is incredibly special and safe and loved in spite of the monster he is being.  Just like you did.

And I will pray that he will grow out of this, just like I did.  Only sooner, please.

With love, respect, and wine,

Me

Fate is all up in my bizness

Gargamel is even more evil than I thought!

My day was a miserable one, right from the part where I woke up nearly 45 minutes late onward.  It was just a mess of a day, so when I looked down at my phone and saw the name of my girly doctor's office on the caller ID when my appointment was only a couple hours away I knew they couldn't be calling to confirm.

Nope, Gargamel somehow, from the confines of my poor, poor uterus, managed to make the doctor sick and cut out early today.

Seriously.

Well, the doctor DID get sick, and DID have to go home early.  I chose, however realistically you may find it, to believe that Gargamel is somehow responsible for this.  Gargamel's new date of death is Thursday, fingers crossed!

But, let's try for something happy, just to spite the evil little piece of plastic!

Nine years ago I met my husband!  Yup, nine years ago today the Bunyan and I met, and it was a meeting that was entirely contrived by completely meddling pushy people who refused to listen to either of us when we swore we had no interest in meeting anyone of the opposite sex no matter how perfect they swore we were for each other.

It all started with blinking Guinness stickers stuck to my boobs.

So this may not be the version I tell my children ... but yeah, epic St. Patrick's day.  Given my super fabulous opinion of my birthday, I generally celebrate St. Pat's as my special day.  I milk the redheaded Irish thing for all it is worth.  So there I was at a local pub having a grand ol' time with some friends who had never had an "Irish Car Bomb" and wanted to try one.  Or four.  Whatever.  I happen to be an expert on slamming those bad boys, or was back in my prime anyway LOL  So most of the night is a bit blurry in my memory honestly, but I recall a friend trying to click her heals together "like a leprechaun" and she wound up falling quite spectacularly.  Oh and somehow I walked out of the pub with three pints of beer, all nice Guinness themed glasses which the bouncers happily let me leave with but the designated driver had the good sense to make me chug/spill before we headed home.

So the following day, I had to get up and ready because I had a painting to finish and my BFF was going to be coming to town.  She and her husband planned to spend Spring Break with me and Meatball (who had been getting spoiled by my parents while I leading the bar in Danny Boy).  At relatively the last minute they invited this friend of theirs, some dude who I had seen precisely one blurry picture of and admittedly thought had a super sexy voice because he was over at their house frequently when I was on the phone with BFF.  She and her husband were both insistent that we were like perfect for each other.  Both of us were entirely cool with being single having both had horrible luck with the opposite gender, but he figured he'd come because the weather here is infinitely better than the weather in the midwest.


So I try to get going, but I was still pretty unsteady from the night before.  By unsteady of course I mean I had drank so much that I was still drunk.  It was like 7 PM and I still was getting the spins if I moved too fast.  I was glad I hadn't had to go anywhere all day and I was thinking I was really too old to act so stupid when the door bell rang.  Dressed in my painting clothes -- old jeans and a t-shirt covered in paint -- with my hair in a pony tail and very little make up on, I hurried to the door.  Not what I would have chosen to wear had I known what was about to happen.  I was so excited to see my BFF, who was a few months preggo at the time, that I really wasn't thinking about the other guy until I opened the door.

Bam.

Seriously, I am not a super sappy person, but that was it.  We consider March 18th the start of our relationship, our anniversary because we honestly were both done from then in.  I knew, I spent the better part of a year telling myself I was crazy and needed to shut up with all this "love at first sight" crap I was thinking.  But it didn't matter.

Bunyan may drive me bonkers, and I am sure I do him too, but he is my soul mate and best friend.  There is no one I would or could walk this life with, and I am beyond grateful for the honor to even know him, much less be the one who steals the covers from him.  Every night.

So while it may not be an Irish Car Bomb, I still raise my drink in a toast to the man of my dreams, the guy who killed my 24 hour old buzz nine years ago, is an amazing father and a truly awesome person whom I love dearly. Ta mo chroi istgh ionat! 

Ode to Gargamel

I think I have mentioned before that I like to name things, not just my children.  My car is Betty.  My blender is Gandalf the Grey.  I have alternate names for my kids and husband here on the blog, and so on.

Well Gargamel is my IUD.  Gargamel is scheduled for eviction tomorrow.

Now before you start thinking OMG congrats on wanting to get knocked up!  I would like to tell you that this is emphatically not the plan.  The plan is to not be miserably sick and dying, not to be baking any buns in my oven.

See while I may have reason to hope that Vitamix may someday contact me so that I can tell the world about how fantastic their product is and how necessary it is for families with uber speeeshal dietary needs, I will never have any reason to hope that Mirena will ask me to advertise from them.

Cuz if they did it would go something like this:

Hi there *waves enthusiastically* would you like to have reoccurring pregnancy symptoms like phantom kicks, a ever expanding gut, and emotionally-hormonally-psycho-roller-coaster regularly?  Well have I got the little T-shaped piece of plastic from hell for you!

How about whiskers on your breasts?  Yup, you effing heard me right!  You will sporadically get one of these at total random and be like "WTF is that?!" and wonder if all those "it will put hair on your chest" BS things you heard are true, but nope.  You can smoke all the cigars you want while shooting whiskey and have totally fur-free boobs, but the IUD can give you a breast beard in no time!

How about fat?  Your gyno and all the literature you will find in our useless pamphlets and brochures will swear this Can. Not. Happen.  But between you and me, I guaran-freaking-tee 15 pounds minimum.  In the most awkward as hell places to boot not just evenly distributed everywhere!

Feeling sexy yet?  Oh, yeah, speaking of that, wanna know why we are sooooo effective as a method of birth control?  Well its cuz your sex drive is going to tank so damn hard you'd rather do the dishes after Thanksgiving than do the deed!

And how do you feel about your period?  I mean presumably you are trying to tamp Aunt Flo down a smidge, amIright?  Well many women may experience a dramatic decrease in frequency and severity of all menstrual symptoms ... but if you are really lucky you may be one of the women who have constant unexplained bleeding, heavy, horrible cramping, and a completely inconsistent cycle that makes you want to go insane!

Oh, and you might actually go insane too.  The emotional roller coaster we mentioned earlier could be totally punctuated with frigging panic attacks and cool shit like that!

-- end advertisement -- 

I think you may get the picture here, I am not going to be popping on here sharing my awesome new job opportunity with this particular company anytime soon, especially since that is the SHORT list of misery that Gargamel brought me.  Add to all that the crippling body pain, the weird autoimmune stuff that flared horribly, and the overall discomfort I have with some plastic thing being IN my uterus not rendering me from getting pregnant but merely rendering a pregnancy from not sticking ... blech.

If you are wondering why in the name of waffles I chose to get the IUD in the first place, I could post for another 45 minutes detailing my shatastic luck with any form of contraceptive.  Latex condoms could actually kill me, the pill tried to, the Ring was great until I became a psycho and then was allergic to it, the shots I am ineligible for because of family history and the patch is a no-go because I attract severe migraines without any help thank you.

So basically, the most Catholic part of my body is my uterus which wants nothing to do with contraception.  Clearly, I am just insanely lucky.

So the dilemma of what to do when you don't think now is a good time to get preggers while also not wanting to live celibately forever is best solved, for Bunyan and I anyway, by taking a more natural approach.  Natural Family Planing (NFP) or the Fertility Awareness Method (FAM) are both things we are learning more about while carefully proceeding without Gargamel's efforts to make me miserable.

I may blog about them some more as I go on, but may not.  I sincerely hope that the blog will not start with two pink lines, because if you know what you are doing you shouldn't get pregnant at all.

But then again, when have you ever known ME to know what I am doing?!

puke & paracord ... Happy Birthday

So it is my birthday.  I am not a particular fan of this day, and it has nothing to do with aging or anything like that.  Usually this day just is fated to go poorly for me.  From family deaths, to car accidents, to other really bad news, and even a case of pink eye *shudders* all bad things seem to find an epicenter in March 7h for me.

So generally I don't really do much ON my birthday.  In previous years I would say that more as "I don't celebrate my birthday" but then I realized that out of respect for me people where just pretending the day didn't happen at all, which made me even more sad which is stupid since they were doing precisely what I asked.

This year has been fairly typical of my birthday and the days surrounding it.  At present I have a close family member going through a pretty difficult court case (of which they are the victim), another family member getting biopsied, blah blah blah ...

On this day in history?  Hitler invaded the Rhineland, an event that ultimately launches World War II.  There are bombing and other horrible things, but I am not sure that statistically speaking they have a greater incidence on March 7th, its just that I take them personally.

If Armageddon is gonna happen ... well let's just say I would have all my affairs in order and a nice bug out bag packed 'round this time next year.  If it is this year, we are all screwed anyway.

So I was dreading today a bit, and I will tell you that I hardly want to jinx things by being all "today will be great!" or "today will be horrible!" but I do have to tell you that at least one bad/good thing happened already.

It is bad/good because it is both, but the end result is good.

See, I was awoken at about 4:32 AM to the sound of my dog rapidly licking his lips.  This is his equivalent to a child leaning in close and saying "Mommy, I feel like I am going to ... BLEEEEEHHHHHHH" and puking on you.  So I flew out of bed right as the retching started.

Remember how my dog is a paracord eating moron?  That was ages ago, right?  Yeppers it was!  He was sick for a few days, then fine.  We thought maybe he didn't eat it and we were mistaken?  Maybe he hid it somewhere?  He was totally normal acting for a few days.  Then boom, he had the pukes again and brought up about 2 inches of a thick paracord bracelet.

Again, a couple days of him needing to gag and puke ... only at night which means that someone needs to research the correlation between dogs and children having a fundamental need to disrupt your sleep.  But then, poof, he was fine.

He has been fine since, but his appetite has been less.  Given that he wasn't throwing up and I wasn't sure if maybe it was because he wasn't being too active I didn't worry.  After all, he was still eating and acting like himself.  He just wasn't as desperate to eat as he normally is.

Then this morning's puke episode gave my my first birthday present.  About four more inches of paracord bracelet.

I will spare you the details, y'all.  It.  Was.  Gross.  Like seriously, I have an ironclad stomach and I totally was doing the dry heave while cleaning that up.  It was in there for waaay too long.

So at least the whole bracelet has been accounted for and we can hope to move on without dog vomit invading MY sleep any longer.  Thank heavens for little miracles?  Happy birthday to me!

more on Tom and Vitamixes

Dear Tom,

This is in no way a Dear-John letter.  Say the word and I will pour your tea for life honey.  (Please note if you read this and you are my actual husband that I love you and will pour your tea too.)

Its just that previously I went on the record with the assertion that it was either you OR the Vitamix I have desperately wanted for about three years.  Well, I got the blender.  Words like "awesome!" or "in-freaking-credible!" don't even come close to describing it or the size of my guilt stricken panic attacks at the cash register.  I knew what it would cost, we have been planning for it for a long time because we knew that our families dietary needs were not the norm.  We knew we'd have to jump the gun on this one eventually, so we did.

In no way does it lessen my devotion to you, however.

I swear I could blend a brick down to pudding, and it is officially the only dang thing in my house that isn't me AND cleans up after itself.  I have had it for a few days now and used it at least three to four times each day and I get a little excited each time.

I remember when I read the whole Twilight saga (don't judge) that there was a part where Bella was bemoaning the pain she didn't even knew she felt when she wasn't in the presence of the sparkly dude who suddenly gave her talent-less-klutzy-ass value and meaning.  I remember the scene was with him coming to the door or something and she was like all relieved, that being in his presence alleviated something for her.  I also remember rolling my eyes a little here -- even though I know I feel infinitely happier in the presence of my husband, the whole needy desperate tone was just too much to not have to look at the inside/back of my skull for a moment.  I judged.

I no longer judge, because the Vitamix does this to me too now.  It is my sparkly, emo, vampire with fabulous hair and questionable hygiene.

Don't get me wrong, I am sure that you would be too if I ever had the pleasure of actually meeting you.

Did you know that ice can actually be creamy?  Like if you blend it fast enough... no, wait, even more "OMG" moment for me: do you know where powdered sugar comes from?

Not something I ever gave any thought too.  Back when my children and my genetics had not yet betrayed me and I could buy cake mixes and boxed brownies I would splurge and buy powdered sugar to make my thirty minutes and three ingredients concoctions look fancier and more home-made-ish.  I always marveled at how it was more expensive than normal sugar and assumed this was because it was like a special cane or something.  Like it had to be harvested on a full moon by elves riding unicorns or something.

Nope.  They just take regular ol' granulated sugar and blend the shat out of it.  Am I the only person who didn't know that?!

I tried to make mashed potatoes yesterday.  It was just soup when I was done, but I proudly presented my mistake to my family, whom thought it was the most delicious potato soup they'd ever had.  Seriously, as a family with a million dietary restrictions and *finger quotes here* issues *end finger quotes* I don't know how we could live without it anymore!

We named it.  I name all my appliances and other stuff too.  It is Gandalf the Grey.  Because it is actually grey ... and it can do magic.

Anyway, my beloved, it has been said by many poets and other smart people that love is infinite and stuff.  So, like, I take that to mean that while my love for you has not lessened my heart is capable of even more love and devotion now with Vitamix in the house.  I'm like the Grinch, y'all.  My heart grew three sizes the other day.

In closing I would like to reaffirm my love and devotion to your hotness, and point out that this is in no way one of those affiliate blogpost type things where I get a kickback or was paid to wax poetic about the awesome beauty that is my high powered blender.  However, if you are either Tom Hiddleston (call me!) or a representative of Vitamix interested in showering me with more Vita-love ... well either way, call me!

With love, respect and all that other stuff,

Me

P.S. I really hope all my gifs work!!

EosinoWTF is that and why do we have to deal with it?

Yes, I am turning this into a whinefest for myself.

So I have totally sucked with the posting thing, again, but its been a little insane here.  Like more than normalish at least.

I have repeatedly tried to not make this become an allergy-mom type blog.  For one thing, there are lots and lots of them out there, with many of them far more knowledgeable and reliable than I think I am!  But there is a big denial thing there too, I keep hoping that we will not have to deal with it eventually which is uber dumb.  But life has a funny way of teaching you lessons.  I kept hoping that the Beans would outgrow his allergies because he is so little, and I can always ignore mine (until, you know, I can't) but then the other kid goes and screws things up.

Meatball has been having a really hard time with a lot of things, one of which is oodles of stomach issues.  Lots of medical bills, doctors appointments, pints of blood and confusion later we have a diagnosis of Eosinophilic Esophagitis.  In other words -- allergic esophagus.

Yep, more freaking allergies.  Of the rare and only just barely being understood in the medical community variety.  Oh yay, so glad we can be cutting edge.  We are soooo bad ass.  *Facepalm!*

This variation of sibling rivalry is entirely unacceptable!  Stop trying to one-up your brother dammit!!!

So we are standing on the precipice of an elimination diet because MY kid couldn't just bloody well test for his allergens.  Nooooo, he has to be difficult and even more rare than an EoE diagnosis is to begin with and his allergens don't show up on either a scratch test OR in blood work.  So the end result is an elimination diet of all of the Top Eight -- egg, dairy, soy, wheat/gluten, tree nut, peanut, fish, and shellfish -- for an astounding 16 weeks.  At which point they will re-scope his esophagus and biopsy for eosinophils (white blood cells that can kiss my youknowwhat) and if he is clean we can introduce one of the top eight foods at a time.  He will likely never get back to gluten or dairy, but the first thing we will try when we get to reintro is soy.  Because soy is in effing everything.  Seriously.

Anyway, allergy crap and recipes will likely just be a bigger way of life here.  I was trying to keep it off of here because I figured no one wants to read it, but the fact is most of my blog posts that get repinned are my allergy related ones.  I know when I find something that I can relate to I am about as all over it as I would be Tom Hidddleston if he were int he same room as me.  Mmmmmmmm ... sorry, got distracted! What were we talking about?  Oh yeah.  That.

As a side note, did you know that NONE of the cookies peddled by little girls sporting patches are gluten free.  WTF?

The good news is, I have ever more reasons now to get the Vitamix I irrationally keep hoping my husband will buy me.  I mean, there is no logical reason to assume he will purchase a $400 blender, I do our freaking budget, man, and short of him turning ricks or selling a kidney I just don't see it happening.  But I girl can hope right?  It is medically necessary for both children that I have a kick ass blender gracing my kitchen, right?  I say so.  

It is either that OR Tom Hiddleston.  I won't settle for less.

Quick explanation of EoE if you are new to the term, which is entirely possible.  Keep in mind, I am no doctor and I am still very much learning!

EoE is an inflammatory condition thought to be caused by an allergic reaction.  The eosinophils, or white blood cells that line your esophagus go crazy with reproducing and cause all sorts of lovely symptoms that can range from miserable reflux, difficulty swallowing or lots of pain.  It is usually diagnosed via endoscopy (an EGD which is an insanely long word that is fun to say but I am unsure how to spell so I will stick with the abbreviation) and they spot lines or rings in your esophagus that basically constrict causing some of those lovely symptoms.  Happens to adults, and kids, more common in males and is treated with GERD medications like PPIs (proton pump inhibitors), steroids, and avoiding whatever it is you are allergic to.  Which is really easy, if you can figure out whatever it is you are freaking allergic to.