A New/Old Childhood Soundtrack

When I was young, my mom used to put on two records (yes, the actual rad vinyl) when we were doing our required chores, I suppose to make it more fun: Michael Jackson's Thriller and the Footloose soundtrack.

Child of the 80s? Why, yes. Yes, I am.

The songs from those two records bring me right back to my childhood (and my chores). And now I am providing a soundtrack for my own children to take a trip down memory lane someday: Billy Idol's Greatest Hits.

Nope, totally not kidding. If I have learned one thing in my six years of parenting three children, it's that every child loves "Dancing with Myself*." All of mine do, anyway. Including Jack, who gets right up on his knees and waves his arms around when it comes on.

That CD stays in the stereo upstairs, so whenever we need a change of scene, we head upstairs to turn on their dance music and let them run around like maniacs in the upstairs hall. We don't usually get to "Flesh for Fantasy," which is obviously not something I want lyric-conscious Cubby to start asking me questions about, but the rest of it is ambiguous enough for little kids.

They can't resist the beat. And few things in life--well, in my life, anyway--are more amusing than watching small boys bust out their best dance moves to "Mony, Mony."

Of such things are childhood memories made.

* I just looked up the original video for this song to link to, and WOAH, BILLY. Never going to show that one to my children. Billy Idol was into creepy zombies 30 years before they were the big thing, apparently. 

Another Mothering Milestone

Today my two youngest children watched me throw up into a plastic bowl while I was sitting on the couch. This is one of those defining moments of parenthood, right? When your own needs--in this case, the need for no audience when emptying the contents of your stomach--is subsumed by the need to take care of small children.

And what did those small, precious children do when they witnessed my lowest moment? Did they express concern for my well-being? No. They laughed. And then Charlie helpfully observed, "Wow, that's a lot of throw up!" while Jack tried to grab the bowl.

I had been sick--in lesser though definitely not fun ways--all morning even before A. left for work, so he told me he had no appointments today and I could call him if I needed him. I briefly considered collapsing on the couch and just toughing it out until 5:30 p.m., but then I realized that sort of martyrdom is really unnecessary. Also stupid.

So I made the distress call and A. was home within 45 minutes. At which point I put Jack down for a nap and crawled into the bed, where I stayed for the next four hours.

It was miserable of course, but not really. And that is because I was not trying to change diapers or meet the bus or provide food or anything else when all I felt like doing was hiding.

The definition of stay-at-home-parent luxury: Being allowed to be sick in peace. Thank you, A. Gold star for you.

I'm better now. I've had some hot water with lemon and honey, and a little rice. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll be revved up and raring to go for another day of caregiving.

Or at least not vomiting, which is really all I ask.

The Snowsuit and the Sculpture

I've been feeling kind of bad lately that I haven't made much of an effort to get Jack outside. It's been cold and wet and he doesn't walk yet, and a crawling baby on cold, wet ground makes for a pretty miserable experience. But then yesterday it was cold enough that the ground was frozen and Charlie was already outside when Jack woke up from his nap, so . . .

It's the return of the baby snowsuit! Charlie's particular favorite, you may recall.

I crammed him into the snowsuit and found some tiny mittens for his tiny hands and off we went. All was well until the inevitable happened after about five seconds . . .

Ah yes. Well do I remember the Baby Mitten Battles. Wretched things.

Mittens never, ever stay on a baby's hands. They're off within seconds, and then the baby puts his bare hand on snow and the fun is over.

So that was that.

Also yesterday, Cubby came home with the momentous announcement that his Sculpture was ready to come home. The Sculpture (totally deserving of capitalization, as you will see in a moment), which he made at school weeks ago in art class, has been a subject of conversation for some time now. His Sculpture was the biggest. His Sculpture was acknowledged by his classmates to be the best. His Sculpture was too big for him to carry home and I would have to pick it up in the morning when I dropped him off at school.

I was expecting some collection of, like, pipe cleaners and construction paper. I was not expecting a foot-tall thing made of solid wood and painted in neon pink.

The toy elephant is for scale. Or maybe it's supposed to be the Taj Mahal? It's certainly large enough.

So now in addition to the reams of papers and paintings and worksheets and other priceless treasures my children haul home every day from school, I have to find an appropriately magnificent display spot for The Sculpture.

I think it will look lovely on the dresser in his room. Maybe even along with the elephant.

Just One Woman's Opinion

Cutting up winter squash is some kind of bullshit. Ow. And this time it was even butternut squash! That's supposed to be the easy kind!

Obviously a Hubbard would be the end of my frail little hands.

That's all. Carry on.

We Definitely Need More Pork

Yeah, that super New Year's Day dinner that was supposed to guarantee us health, wealth, and happiness? Should have eaten it earlier, because half the family was too sick to even sit at the table.

A. started failing early in the day, and by dinner time he was just sitting on the floor in front of the woodstove, hunched with a fever and trying to get warm. Cubby came to the table, sat there for a second, and then announced he wasn't feeling good and left to join A. on the floor. Charlie took about four bites of rice, gulped his milk, and raced off to bedevil the two ill family members.

Jack had been screaming for at least an hour by the time we sat down to eat--thanks to two more teeth trying to come through--and managed to sit for about five minutes at the table before he was wailing again.

So I ate my dinner in about twenty seconds and then went into the living room to let Jack and Charlie crawl and leap all over me on the floor. A good wrestling session always cheers them up.

Cubby appeared in the living room a few minutes later to tell me his stomach was really not feeling well. I asked him if he felt like he might throw up. No, he said. It doesn't feel like that, he said.

Uh huh. 

I sent him to the kitchen to ask the MiL for a bowl. Two minutes later he reappeared, the MiL following and holding the bowl that he had just gotten in his hand before vomiting up the entire contents of his stomach.

And about two minutes after that, A. shuffled through the living room with a bowl of his own and the wan announcement that only bed could save him.

By 6:45 p.m., every member of the household except for me and the MiL was in bed. 

We're really starting 2016 with a bang. And a vomit bowl.

Wealth and Happiness Underway

Happy New Year! I hope you all had a fabulous New Year's Eve, whatever that means to you. To me, it meant not a single spirituous libation and bed at 9 p.m.

I was tired. And I don't really care about New Year's Eve.

But! It is now New Year's Day! And you know what that means!

Well, probably you don't. Unless you're either southern or have been reading this site for more than a year.

In case you don't fall into either of those categories, however, lemme summarize: Pork for health, greens for wealth, and black-eyed peas for happiness, every New Year's Day.

It's one of my links to my family, wherever I am, and wherever they are. This year my parents are in Florida with my sister, celebrating my brother-in-law's retirement from the Navy, so they'll be sharing their New Year's Day dinner this year.

My brother and I--and our families--would have liked to have been there, too, but it wasn't to be this year. My brother, in fact, might be on the road right now (he's an airline pilot) and possibly won't have his New Year's Day dinner until after the actual day.

But I got mine going.

Kale for greens on the left, plus the diced onion and bell pepper ready to go in the roux, and roux for the black-eyed peas on the left. And a dirty stove, because that's what cooking looks like in my kitchen. The pork roast goes in later.

Happy New Year, my lovelies. I wish you all health, wealth, and happiness in the coming year, even if you're not making pork, greens, and black-eyed peas right now. I'll eat some on your behalf.

Cubby the Stoic

At about 2:30 this afternoon, Cubby started saying he didn't feel good, that his stomach hurt.

Oh, great. This sounds like the return of the vomit to me.

So I sat him in front of The Sword in the Stone with a big bowl and instructed him to puke in that should the urge strike.

He sat there for about an hour, whimpering occasionally, but not using the bowl.

Then the mechanic called to let us know that A.'s car was ready to be picked up, so I paused the movie and prepared to load all three children into the minivan to bring A. to the mechanic. I told Cubby to bring his bowl with him, just in case. As I was helping Charlie find his boots, I heard A. say, "Good work, Cubby. Just get it all in the bowl," and turned around to see Cubby throwing up very quietly and calmly into the bowl.

He stood there for a minute until he was all done, still not making a sound. I took him into the bathroom to rinse out his mouth and dump the contents of the bowl, and then he put his boots on, grabbed the bowl, and got in the car.

Still no crying, no hysteria, nothing.

On our way to the mechanic, that "Brave" song came on, the one with the refrain of, "I wanna see you be brave." Cubby piped up with this from the backseat, "This is my lucky day, to hear my favorite song when I'm so sick, so I can be brave."

Right, Cubby. Way to keep calm and carry on, little buckaroo. You're a brave one, for sure.