Yesterday afternoon, Cubby was quite unpleasantly demanding in his insistence that A. must take him out in the canoe. However, due to the hot sunshine and the multitudes of speedboats out on the lake, A. was not keen on the idea. He (somewhat) placated the little dictator by promising they would go out first thing this morning. And then, of course, they couldn't leave Charlie behind, because Charlie is Not Pleased when he is left behind during manly outings.
Hence, this morning was the first all-boys canoe adventure. Though I was all for the uninterrupted time to take a shower and start the laundry and all the other glamorous things I do when unencumbered by children, I was convinced one or both of the children would fall in the water or the canoe would tip or something. Not that this would be life-threatening, thanks to the relative warmth of the water and the life vests they of course wear, but still. I worried a little bit.
No need. Cubby is well-schooled in proper canoe behavior, and Charlie was so thrilled to be going he just sat there and took it all in. A wonderful time was had by all, and I had my shower. Beauty.
After breakfast, A. asked if we wanted to come to the woods with him while he cut up a big oak tree for firewood. The kids were all for it, so into the Subaru we piled and made our merry way to our neighbors' house to cut wood.
We don't have our own woodlot, but our very elderly neighbors a half mile down the road generously allow A. free use of any downed trees on their property. Since their property is about 200 acres, that's a lot of available trees.
Now, when I say "elderly," I mean real, real old. The male half of the couple is, we think, 96 years old. Maybe 97. When we drove past their house, he was walking around to the gully with a shotgun over one shoulder and a dead squirrel swinging from his other hand. I guess it was eating their birdseed, so he decided to eliminate it.
A. hopes to be just like this man should he make it to 97.
The oak tree A. was cutting had uprooted and fallen so that the trunk of the tree was about a foot off the ground, propped up by the roots. This meant that almost immediately upon cutting into it, the released pressure of the cut wood caused the tree to shift and pinch A.'s saw in the cut. To get it out, he had to jack the tree up with my car jack. I just thought that was kind of funny.
The children had a wonderful time leaping off of tree trunks and dumping saw dust all over their heads. Charming. At one point, Cubby wandered a little way into the trees and returned announcing he had touched poop. So I made his rinse his hands with the water from the water bottle while I explained that we don't touch poop and especially wild animal poop, because it can carry some nasty diseases.
My wisdom is extensive and varied, obviously.
Then I brushed off the kids as best I could and hauled them back to the car, the whole time listening to Cubby explaining to me how he was sure that Daddy had gotten my car stuck and exactly how we should go about getting it unstuck.
Needless to say, we were not stuck. We drove right out, came home, and put the children down for desperately needed naps. Canoeing and lumberjacking is obviously exhausting.
So that was this morning. Who knows what wild excitement the afternoon will bring? You just never do know around here.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Thursday, June 19, 2014
The Drama Continues
I know you're all out there pounding your computer screens (phone screens? what do the cool kids use these days?), shouting, "Did the Benadryl help Cubby sleep? Is Charlie following the same perilous path as his brother? How much Perry's Dark Chocolate ice cream does Kristin have on hand and will it be enough to get her through this wretched pestilence*? WE MUST KNOW."
Let's start with the bad news first, shall we? Charlie is indeed in full-on rash mode. He spent all of today either scratching his feet or guiding my hand to scratch his feet (motherhood is so glamorous). Including during his nap time, during which he did not actually nap. Instead I ended up just lying in his bed with him, rubbing his itchy feet so he would at least lie down and rest, if not actually sleep. He has it worse than Cubby. He has little blisters, the rash is more widespread, and he keeps complaining that his mouth hurts, no matter how innocuous the food he's eating.
But at least the Benadryl I gave him before bed tonight definitely knocked him right out, unlike his brother.
Which leads us nicely into . . .
Cubby's reaction to his first-ever dose of Benadryl was . . . amusing.
He took it at 6:50 last night and went to bed around 7:20. By 7:30, I was in the shower, which left A. the sole witness to the hilarity that followed.
At 7:32, Cubby appeared downstairs requesting bread and butter, which his indulgent father supplied before leading the miscreant back to bed.
At 7:40, Cubby cannonballed into the kitchen where A. had started the dishes, locked the door, "so Mommy won't catch me," and then announced happily, "Daddy, this medicine made me very lively!"
A. said it was like someone had given him speed. Cubby spent the next fifteen minutes "helping" with the dishes while ping-ponging around the kitchen. I came out of the shower sometime during this episode, but proceeded directly upstairs and so was unaware of any of this until A. came up to bed.
There was one more unauthorized escape around 8:15 p.m., and then nothing. When I went in to check on him at 9 p.m., he was so thoroughly knocked out that he didn't even wake up when I unraveled the twisted sheet from around his body and re-covered him.
So I suppose the lesson here is that if I ever want to give Cubby Benadryl again, I should make sure to do it two hours before I actually want him to sleep. And then throw him on a treadmill.
* The answer to that will always be, "Never enough."
Let's start with the bad news first, shall we? Charlie is indeed in full-on rash mode. He spent all of today either scratching his feet or guiding my hand to scratch his feet (motherhood is so glamorous). Including during his nap time, during which he did not actually nap. Instead I ended up just lying in his bed with him, rubbing his itchy feet so he would at least lie down and rest, if not actually sleep. He has it worse than Cubby. He has little blisters, the rash is more widespread, and he keeps complaining that his mouth hurts, no matter how innocuous the food he's eating.
But at least the Benadryl I gave him before bed tonight definitely knocked him right out, unlike his brother.
Which leads us nicely into . . .
Cubby's reaction to his first-ever dose of Benadryl was . . . amusing.
He took it at 6:50 last night and went to bed around 7:20. By 7:30, I was in the shower, which left A. the sole witness to the hilarity that followed.
At 7:32, Cubby appeared downstairs requesting bread and butter, which his indulgent father supplied before leading the miscreant back to bed.
At 7:40, Cubby cannonballed into the kitchen where A. had started the dishes, locked the door, "so Mommy won't catch me," and then announced happily, "Daddy, this medicine made me very lively!"
A. said it was like someone had given him speed. Cubby spent the next fifteen minutes "helping" with the dishes while ping-ponging around the kitchen. I came out of the shower sometime during this episode, but proceeded directly upstairs and so was unaware of any of this until A. came up to bed.
There was one more unauthorized escape around 8:15 p.m., and then nothing. When I went in to check on him at 9 p.m., he was so thoroughly knocked out that he didn't even wake up when I unraveled the twisted sheet from around his body and re-covered him.
So I suppose the lesson here is that if I ever want to give Cubby Benadryl again, I should make sure to do it two hours before I actually want him to sleep. And then throw him on a treadmill.
* The answer to that will always be, "Never enough."
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Hoof and Mouth for Humans
Okay, actually Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease is not related to the Hoof and Mouth Disease that animals get. So despite A.'s insistence on calling it Hoof and Mouth, that is not what Cubby has.
He does, however, have Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. If this is something you have never heard of, that is because you are lucky. And also haven't been around a lot of small children. It's a highly contagious but not dangerous virus that affects mostly kids younger than five. It starts with a low fever (anybody remember Monday's post?), and then kids usually get either sores in their mouths or a rash on their hands and feet. Most sites I looked at said the rash isn't itchy.
Cubby and his maddeningly itchy feet disagree.
I spent much of last night going into Cubby's room every couple of hours to find him crying that he was too itchy to sleep. I alternated between applying hydrocortisone cream, witch hazel, and some kind of anti-itch spray for kids the MiL bought a couple of years ago. Also blowing on his feet after applying the witch hazel, which seemed to help the most but is also not something I really wanted to do for any length of time at 3 a.m.
A. picked up some children's Benadryl today, which I called to check with the pediatrician about because it says right on the package to consult a doctor for children 4-5 years of age. He said have at it and gave me the dosage, so we'll try that tonight and cross our fingers that Cubby isn't one of the unlucky children who get hyperactive rather than sleepy when dosed with Benadryl.
Oh, and Charlie woke up from his nap today grumpy, sleepy, and feverish. Another (tiny) man down.
Who wants to make a guess about the next time I get a full night's sleep? Personally, I'm guessing sometime around next week. Place your bets now.
He does, however, have Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. If this is something you have never heard of, that is because you are lucky. And also haven't been around a lot of small children. It's a highly contagious but not dangerous virus that affects mostly kids younger than five. It starts with a low fever (anybody remember Monday's post?), and then kids usually get either sores in their mouths or a rash on their hands and feet. Most sites I looked at said the rash isn't itchy.
Cubby and his maddeningly itchy feet disagree.
I spent much of last night going into Cubby's room every couple of hours to find him crying that he was too itchy to sleep. I alternated between applying hydrocortisone cream, witch hazel, and some kind of anti-itch spray for kids the MiL bought a couple of years ago. Also blowing on his feet after applying the witch hazel, which seemed to help the most but is also not something I really wanted to do for any length of time at 3 a.m.
A. picked up some children's Benadryl today, which I called to check with the pediatrician about because it says right on the package to consult a doctor for children 4-5 years of age. He said have at it and gave me the dosage, so we'll try that tonight and cross our fingers that Cubby isn't one of the unlucky children who get hyperactive rather than sleepy when dosed with Benadryl.
Oh, and Charlie woke up from his nap today grumpy, sleepy, and feverish. Another (tiny) man down.
Who wants to make a guess about the next time I get a full night's sleep? Personally, I'm guessing sometime around next week. Place your bets now.
Monday, June 16, 2014
The State of the Offspring
In order of birth . . .
Cubby is done with preschool for the year and was so, so excited for a "Nature and Art" day camp he was supposed to do this week. They were going to build shelters! Forage for wild edibles! I got him his very own (disposable) camera! OH, THE JOY.
Then he spent last night intermittently crying because his stomach hurt and he couldn't sleep. He got up this morning thoroughly wretched, feverish, and definitely in no condition to build shelters or anything else. I'm hoping for a speedy recovery today so he can go to the camp tomorrow, or else my heart might just break from his disappointment.
Charlie is a right little pisser when his brother is sick. He senses his advantage and brutally capitalizes on the weakness, jumping on Cubby's head, running off with Cubby's tea, pulling the blanket off of Cubby's prone form. What he really hates, however, is when Cubby claims my lap. Hell hath no fury like Charlie denied his rightful lap spot. He's going to be a real peach when this new baby arrives, I can already see. And speaking of that . . .
Winston is the in-utero name bestowed upon this unfortunate child by A. I must assume it's in homage to Churchill, of whom A. is a fan. This, despite the fact that we don't know the sex and won't for another couple of months.
Anyway. Winston is due on December 20, which is . . . well, I won't pretend I'm thrilled about this. As one of the unfortunates with a birthday near Christmas (mine is two days after), I can attest to the suckage. We can only hope Winston comes ten days early like Cubby did. December 10 isn't so bad. I won't even contemplate being overdue by, say, five days. No.
And that brings you all up to date. Now if I may be excused, I have some gestating to do in the form of inhaling an unhealthy quantity of Fig Newtons. Peace out.
Cubby is done with preschool for the year and was so, so excited for a "Nature and Art" day camp he was supposed to do this week. They were going to build shelters! Forage for wild edibles! I got him his very own (disposable) camera! OH, THE JOY.
Then he spent last night intermittently crying because his stomach hurt and he couldn't sleep. He got up this morning thoroughly wretched, feverish, and definitely in no condition to build shelters or anything else. I'm hoping for a speedy recovery today so he can go to the camp tomorrow, or else my heart might just break from his disappointment.
Charlie is a right little pisser when his brother is sick. He senses his advantage and brutally capitalizes on the weakness, jumping on Cubby's head, running off with Cubby's tea, pulling the blanket off of Cubby's prone form. What he really hates, however, is when Cubby claims my lap. Hell hath no fury like Charlie denied his rightful lap spot. He's going to be a real peach when this new baby arrives, I can already see. And speaking of that . . .
Winston is the in-utero name bestowed upon this unfortunate child by A. I must assume it's in homage to Churchill, of whom A. is a fan. This, despite the fact that we don't know the sex and won't for another couple of months.
Anyway. Winston is due on December 20, which is . . . well, I won't pretend I'm thrilled about this. As one of the unfortunates with a birthday near Christmas (mine is two days after), I can attest to the suckage. We can only hope Winston comes ten days early like Cubby did. December 10 isn't so bad. I won't even contemplate being overdue by, say, five days. No.
And that brings you all up to date. Now if I may be excused, I have some gestating to do in the form of inhaling an unhealthy quantity of Fig Newtons. Peace out.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Feeling Poetic, Part 3
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
How To Discourage Houseguests
Not that I want to discourage houseguests. At least, not the houseguests I'm expecting on Thursday; my sister and my niece are coming for a few days and I'm very excited.
My niece is going to be sleeping in the parlor. Despite the fact that we have eight bedrooms. It's . . . complicated.
Anyway, she's going to be sleeping in the parlor. The parlor is not a room we use very much, and so it is not a room that I clean very much. Or, uh, at all. In fact, I can't remember the last time I actually cleaned in there. It doesn't get very dirty, since it doesn't get used, but still, I thought it would be good form to at least remove some of the cobwebs and vacuum in there before I turned it into a temporary bedroom for a family member.
So off I went with my vacuum and dust rag while Charlie busied himself elsewhere*. I industriously vacuumed away the multitudes of spider webs and spiders and moved on to the floor. In the course of my vacuuming, I had to move this big old umbrella stand we have under the window in the parlor. It's heavy ceramic, hollow with an open bottom and a hole in the top for the umbrellas and I think quite valuable--which is why it's in the parlor, where the children rarely go--and almost never gets moved. But because I was being virtuous and thorough, I picked it up and moved it aside to vacuum under it.
Which is when I found the very dead and dessicated mouse.
That's an extra-large and super-emphatic OH MY GOD SO GROSS.
I suppose it scurried up the side of the stand, then fell through the hole in the top and couldn't get back out. Obviously, this must have happened in the winter, when the temperature in the parlor is routinely below freezing and so the smell of a decaying rodent would be lessened.
Needless to say, I was very thorough in my cleaning of the room from then on and I am pleased to say that I didn't discover anything else too nasty.
I'm expecting my Excellent Housekeeping award any day now.
* And by "busied himself," I mean, "pulled my large container of Vaseline off the dresser and gouged out great greasy gobs of it while sitting on our bed." I suppose I should be grateful he only smeared it on his clothes and the sheets rather than on anything not washable, but I was finding gratitude to be somewhat difficult to summon in that moment.
My niece is going to be sleeping in the parlor. Despite the fact that we have eight bedrooms. It's . . . complicated.
Anyway, she's going to be sleeping in the parlor. The parlor is not a room we use very much, and so it is not a room that I clean very much. Or, uh, at all. In fact, I can't remember the last time I actually cleaned in there. It doesn't get very dirty, since it doesn't get used, but still, I thought it would be good form to at least remove some of the cobwebs and vacuum in there before I turned it into a temporary bedroom for a family member.
So off I went with my vacuum and dust rag while Charlie busied himself elsewhere*. I industriously vacuumed away the multitudes of spider webs and spiders and moved on to the floor. In the course of my vacuuming, I had to move this big old umbrella stand we have under the window in the parlor. It's heavy ceramic, hollow with an open bottom and a hole in the top for the umbrellas and I think quite valuable--which is why it's in the parlor, where the children rarely go--and almost never gets moved. But because I was being virtuous and thorough, I picked it up and moved it aside to vacuum under it.
Which is when I found the very dead and dessicated mouse.
That's an extra-large and super-emphatic OH MY GOD SO GROSS.
I suppose it scurried up the side of the stand, then fell through the hole in the top and couldn't get back out. Obviously, this must have happened in the winter, when the temperature in the parlor is routinely below freezing and so the smell of a decaying rodent would be lessened.
Needless to say, I was very thorough in my cleaning of the room from then on and I am pleased to say that I didn't discover anything else too nasty.
I'm expecting my Excellent Housekeeping award any day now.
* And by "busied himself," I mean, "pulled my large container of Vaseline off the dresser and gouged out great greasy gobs of it while sitting on our bed." I suppose I should be grateful he only smeared it on his clothes and the sheets rather than on anything not washable, but I was finding gratitude to be somewhat difficult to summon in that moment.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Fool's Gold
A. laid the first section of drainage pipe yesterday and started filling in the section of the trench closest to the house. Alleluia, praise the Lord, it's the beginning of the end of my long, muddy laundry nightmare.
In celebration of this occasion, let's take a look back at one of the first of many exciting trench adventures.
When A. first started digging the trench, lo these many muddy weeks ago, he found that the soil he was digging up contained flecks of pyrite, also known as fool's gold. So of course, he had to have Cubby pan for gold.
Lacking a proper gold prospector's pan, we instead used a very old cast iron crepe pan the MiL found in the cupboard.
The mother lode.
This was the preferred entertainment for a couple of days, until he discovered the joys of getting down into the trench himself and plastering himself in mud.
I kind of miss the gold panning days. Easier on the clothes.
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