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A House Full of Sick Kids…What’s a Parent to Do?

September 20, 2013 //
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When a bunch of toddlers are put in a room together, I’m certain they will share a lot more than toys.  (By the way, this was #1 on my list of reasons not to send my child to school!) One of the more popular things that got passed around last Monday was the common cold.  On Wednesday, my poor boy was oozing pounds of phlegm and using every inch of his clothing and body as a Kleenex.  The snot eventually got the better of him, and Worm took it upon himself to use Smushie’s head to dry off his slimy hands.  Two more days passed and by Friday (last Friday, not today. If I could only post these things faster…) we had two whiny, miserable phlegm balls to deal with.  (Lucky for me, Steph was home for two full days to share in this ‘experience’.  It’s times like this when I LOVE weekends…)

During the early part of Saturday, the kids were ok.  Worm and Smush were a tad crabby, but not bad considering the stuffy, runny noses we wiped all day long.  That was the calm before the storm.  Because when the lights went out for bedtime, Steph and I got hit by a hurricane…and though she be but little, she was fierce!

Smushie had problems sleeping all night and wasn’t afraid to let us know.  She couldn’t breathe through her stuffy nose at all.  And she made the choice that her pacifier was more important than air.  I only assume that the survival instinct slapped the pacifier out of her mouth as she started to lose consciousness in her crib.  The periodic shrieking let us know she was thankfully alive and well.  (I didn’t know how else to help her!)  The cycle repeated itself until (the already extremely stubborn) Smushie got so fed up that she fell asleep sat up screaming until daybreak.

The Worm fared a little better than she.  He woke up a few times in the night, but mostly to move to a dry spot on his mattress.  He heard Smushie’s outbursts, but was able to drown it out with his music box tunes.  He got the good deal with about 5 hours sleep.  I captured 3 hours for myself, and Steph managed about an hour’s worth.

So on Saturday, we decided that if we were to suffer a second sleepless night, we would at least treat ourselves to a nice big dinner beforehand.  (I was hoping to eat so much turkey that the tryptophan would get me to sleep through an earthquake.)

Where could I get piles and piles of food to swallow in self-pity?  At the Viejas casino buffet, of course!  It was the best decision our tired brains had made all weekend long!  (I didn’t eat enough to put the casino restaurant out of business, but I think I made them nervous!)

Three things I learned from this experience of having two sick children simultaneously:

  1. When a child is sick, he/she will focus their attention towards getting all family members to suffer in sickness as well.  They will hack, cough, sneeze, and slime you until your immune system succumbs or they get healthy again.  They will put fingers/boogers/etc. into your mouths/ears/eyes until you are diseased also.
  2. If I can have our family do one really fun thing (even with little to no sleep) while the kids are sick, the situation doesn’t seem so miserable when I later reflect back on it.  Fussiness can’t be spelled without fun (or sins, for that matter)!
  3. Red Jell-o cures grumpiness, tiredness, and sickness!
Cheesy Smiles on a Couple of Cheesy Guys!

Cheesy Smiles on a Couple of Cheesy Guys!

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Anatomically, Kids are Different Than Parents

August 14, 2013 //
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I found out the hard way.

It started off as a cool, summer morning.  The sun, not quite out from under the clouds, let us savor the mellow air for the early part of the day.

On days like this, we try to get to the park (or anywhere outdoors) as early as I can get the kids dressed and out of the house.  Today, we took a trip to Balboa Park.  We spend a lot of time here, not only because of its close proximity to our home, but for the pretty backdrop when I bring along my camera.

And I used that camera today to capture a moment that I’ll never forget.  (And I’ll make sure Worm never forgets either…)

At Balboa Park, I can loosen the leash on the Worm.  He’s allowed to explore all of the little nooks and crannies of the park, within reason.  And the fine print should have stated that the reasoning should come from my brain, and not his.

Around 10am, I was standing by the stone dragon (locals will know what I mean) trying to get little Smushie to fall asleep.  She struggles to nap when we’re out and about and this time was no different.  (Maybe she doesn’t want to miss a chance sighting of her idol, the Gerber baby?)  I stood over her stroller, bottle in hand (wishing it was a bottle of rum for me), trying to squeeze the last ounce of milk into her plump, kissable belly.  She wasn’t interested and showed her disapproval of my act by spitting up on herself.  Worm, less than 20 feet away, was bouncing up and down on the edge of the curb.  “He looks safe for a few seconds.” I tell myself and then focus on pulling a wet wipe out of the diaper bag to clean Smush off.  One second over a few, I hear Worm screaming for me and not in the sweet “Honeydaddy!” way he normally does.  I look up and he’s got his head stuck in a metal handrail.

Some of you parents know the baby booby trap I speak of…the style of handrails with the vertical bars that beckon for children to stick an arm, a leg, or more enticingly, a head, through.  Today, the handrail captured a Worm head.

Shit.  This sucks.  Sissy won’t stop screaming and now Worm is screaming from being trapped.  I didn’t panic.  There was no need to…yet.  I looked over at him and figured I could squeeze his head out the way it went in.  Easy peasy.  So, I cleaned up Smush and walked her stroller over to get a closer look.

Wow, it’s really stuck in there.  My stress levels hit 2.  (1 = normal levels with kids.  10 = someone shoot me, please!)  How the hell did he manage to squeeze his head between those damn bars?  I blame his mother for his persistence and for causing my poor baby boy to relentlessly ram his head into a fence until it finally stuck.  (Because even though she was at work, it’s indirectly her fault.)

“How the hell could he fit his head in between these rails?  Did his head swell or something?  Shit!  We’re going to be on the 5 o’clock news.”

I gave a good pull and I was only able to mash his ears against the rails.  He screamed, so I stopped pulling.

“I bet his hair acted like lubrication for him to squeeze his head in.  I wish he had hair on his neck to make it easier to pull him back out!  God, why doesn’t he have hair on his neck!  That’s his mother’s fault too!”

Both of my kids are crying and I’m starting to draw a crowd.  Stress levels hit 3.

I had an idea.  I reached into my diaper bag and pulled out some sunscreen.  I rubbed it on Worm’s neck and ears to make sure he wouldn’t get sunburned.  I then pulled out a tip bucket, placed it at his feet and said “Whoso pulleth out this head of this rail and metal is rightwise king, born of England.  One dollar to try!” and I kicked the bucket out towards the people.

Ok, the real idea.  I rubbed some sunscreen on Worm’s neck and ears to see if I could pull his head out gently.  And of course it didn’t work.  His head seemed much too large.  It must have swollen up.  Maybe I should try turning his head around.

“Now if I could remember what he did when he was born, I could probably reenact that maneuver and free him!”

Lucky for me, two women showed up to give me a hand.  The wrong type of hand.  They were waiting to clap for me had I succeeded in my unusual magic trick.  I started to get irritated with them for just staring at us, but I heard them speaking French.  Foreigners.  I kicked myself for not actually putting a tip jar out.  We could have made a lot of money from tourists today, had we come more prepared.

10 minutes in, some girl came up and asked us if we needed her to get some help.  I couldn’t leave either of the kids alone there, so I said yes.  She ran into one of the museums to get someone to come out and assist us.

By this time, a guy came up to see if he could pull the bars apart just far enough to get the Worm’s head through.  I thought it would be a good idea and I grabbed one iron bar and pulled.  “No way in hell that bar is moving.  I think we will have to cut it.” I told him.

The crowd had grown and Worm’s uncontrollable crying was pulling them in.  Before my stress levels hit a 4, I had another idea.

“What about trying to get his body through the bars instead of his head?”

And that’s when I figured out that that was precisely the way Worm got between the bars in the first place.  My stress levels instantly downgraded to a 1.  It just wasn’t obvious to me at first.  Sometimes you have to look at a puzzle from a different angle before the solution becomes clear.

If the woman who ran to get help and the man who actually came up and offered his help can read this:

Worm and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts!  Thank you so much for caring enough to lend a hand!

On the walk back to the car, Worm and I hugged, kissed, and laughed about how it was a good thing that his head so much bigger than his body, and more importantly, that his body was so much smaller than his head!

Worm, I Get the Odd Feeling That About 35 Years ago, I Was in the Same Predicament...

Worm, I Get the Odd Feeling That About 35 Years ago, I Was in the Same Predicament…

Gavin – 26; Honeydaddy – 16 (I’m embarrassed that it took me 10 minutes to solve this riddle!  It was a good test of my mental strength, Wormie…and I failed.  Glad I didn’t resort to cutting off your ears to get your head out!  That would have been hard to explain to mom!)

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Is a Dumbbell Smarter Than a 2 Year Old?

July 25, 2013 //
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Given the deterioration of the human race (due to television, I presume), the question above seems very plausible.  We watch way too much Kim and Kanye and too little Bill Nye, the Science Guy.

I guess this isn’t so much about Worm being smarter than a piece of iron than it is about the problem solving skills of his old man.  Occasionally, I’ve got to check to make sure my neurotransmitters are still firing (as my own dad used to say).  And I’m happy to report that there is still some brain activity!

Humans are problem solvers by nature.  It’s what got us to invent things like the SnuggieTM (the robe worn backwards), the Instant Arm Lift (clear duct tape for securing flabby arms in place), and The Backup (a gun rack that attaches to your mattress to shoot intruders quickly without you getting out of bed).  See what watching too much television nets you?

Our problem is that Worm is two years old.  He’s starting to put his eyes (and subsequently, hands) on everything.  And our two-year old is discovering problems that I just don’t see.  For example, when it’s hot as Hades inside the house, I open the front and back doors to let air circulate through.  Worm, thinking there could be a possible security breach, takes it upon himself to close all the doors and secure the perimeter.  We’re safe from the outside world…but left to bake our brains as the inside temps climb.  So, I turn on the ceiling fan to, you know, blow some air around the living room and maybe cool off a bit.  Worm is concerned that the fan may overheat on such a hot day and gleefully turns it off.  (Does Worm work for the city gas and electric company?)

In these situations, I could either chase him around until I overheat and faint, or I could lay on the couch and try to stay cool by nary lifting a finger.  I chose the latter.  And the latter worked for quite some time until one day it got to 93 degrees inside (yes, inside) the house and my brain cooked up an idea.  Literally.

Worm = 28lbs.  Dumbbells = 35lb.  The strength to weight ratio of a toddler is less than that of an adult.  I can lift my own bodyweight, but I’m pretty certain that Worm can’t yet lift his.  Hmm.  What if I blocked the doors open with the dumbbells?  Fresh breezes, cool air, and I won’t have to stick my head in the freezer to stay alive.  I gave it a shot and Worm proved my theory correct.

door_stop

Pull Up Your Pants Worm! Crack Kills!

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I Admire Your Creativity Here, Worm…

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Worm, I Think Some of “The Crazies” Live in Our House…

This was so funny to me.  Even as I was dripping in sweat and dizzy from heat exhaustion, I managed to snap a few pics.  Worm’s face in the third pic is priceless.

Gavin – 25; Honeydaddy – 16 (I’m hot, baby!  But not as hot as I was earlier.  Wormie, one day you’ll be able to throw that dumbbell at my head, but until then, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!)

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Who Taught You How To Bend The Truth?

June 10, 2013 //
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I’ve still got my eyes, and my wit hasn’t dimmed.  Yet.  So, I’m not sure what type of shenanigans Worm was trying to pull on me, but it didn’t work this time.  (And I assure you, Worm, that it won’t work until I’ve lost all my marbles.  I’m as sharp as a Ginsu knife.)

In our never-ending battle of man versus food, I was ‘convincing’ the boy to eat his lunch by way of the pause button on the remote control.  (If you’ve just tuned in, catch up here.)

“Worm, eat.”

“Watch show!”

I press pause and he rips off a bit of apple and gulps it down to get the TV moving again.  Curious George reanimates.

A minute goes by.

“Worm.  Eat!”

“No.”

I press pause again.  Worm springs to life and takes a sliver of apple and looks at me as if unsure of what to do with it.  I nod.  He takes a bite.  I unpause the TV.  (I do this about 100 times a day.  No joke.  I’ve had to modify Worm’s meal schedule because of this huge time suck.  And since I don’t want to get repetitive stress syndrome in my thumb, I now only feed Worm once a day.)

Another minute passes.

“WORM!  EAT!”

He looks at me and puts the last piece of apple in his mouth.  I unpause the show and he resumes watching the tube (that’s what we called it back when it really was a tube), chews a few times and then stealthily slips the apple out of his mouth and back onto his tray.  He then puts his palm over it like he’s performing a magic trick.  Voila!  The disappearing apple trick.  (Or the “I eat, but I don’t gain any weight” anorexia trick.)

Of course I see what’s going on.  How can I not see?  I’ve had 2 years to grow eyes in the back of my head and learn Worm’s every subtle hand gesture.  I’ve studied him like a chef studies fresh produce at the market…(I don’t know, it sounded good in my head.)

“Worm, did you eat that apple?”

“Mmm hmm!” and he gives me the classic bubble cheeked fake chewing face.  (The look was as fake as a Guccci handbag.)

Normally, I would give the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe Worm didn’t understand what I was saying.  He is only 2.  But what showed me that Worm knew exactly what I said and was really trying to pull the wooly mammoth over my eyes was that when I glanced over at the hand concealing the apple, the mini-Houdini couldn’t help but giggle and squirm.

It was Worm’s first lie.  He was testing me.  And after all of that, I had three options to remedy the situation:

  1. Rap Worm’s knuckles ten times with the edge of a ruler to show him that lying to anyone other than the government, is inappropriate.
  2. Tell him about all of the starving children in the world that DON’T have an apple to eat, and get Worm to cry uncontrollably about the crimes of humanity and why humans cannot support one another as easily as they destroy one another.
  3. Lift up his hand.  Show him the apple.  Then explain to him that real magicians, like David Copperfield (the second famous one, not the first) can make apples disappear by swallowing them.  But, only after he has chewed the apple a recommended 25 times first.

The readers voted for #1, but since the votes were tallied in Florida, #3 was the winner.  Worm, it’s your lucky day punk!

Hey dude...

What apple?

Gavin – 25; Honeydaddy – 14 (Watch me make your college tuition disappear, Worm!)

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Guess Who Got Bitten The Other Day?

May 27, 2013 //
1

We’ve got two dogs.  We’ve had them for so long that they are starting to smell a tad musty.  Now we have two kids, one that scurries around like a headless chicken and the other with the mobility of a turtle on its back.  With our small house, it was only a matter of time before any two of these particles would collide.  And they did.

Let me first say that we have gone to dog and baby class to learn about how to deal with kids and animals living together.  But, we never took a class on how to deal with kids and kids together.

I left the two dogs in the front room and the two kids in the living room with the idea that I could quickly go drink a few beers wash up a few dishes in the sink.  Not 10 seconds later, I heard a baby scream and I dropped the kitchen sponge to peek over the counter.  I saw Smush screaming at the top of her lungs and Worm standing 3 feet away with his eyes glued to the TV like nothing happened.

I walked over to them both and ask the question “What happened?” as if either one could answer me.

Worm replied “Watch George show.”  (Translation:  Can’t you see? I’m watching the Curious George show.)  Three words that made perfect sense to him, but didn’t answer my question.  I rephrased it.

“Worm, why is sissy crying?”  (Translation:  What did YOU do to your sister?)

He responds with the sign language for cry and points to Smush.  (Translation:  Sissy is crying and I plead the 5th.)

Believing that the accused could drag my interrogation out over the better part of an hour, I took matters into my own hands and scooped up the Smushster from her tummy time mat.

With the instincts of a polished detective (I’ve seen Columbo.), I started taking off her clothes to see if there were any marks or indications that an altercation had ensued.  I found bite marks!  I snapped off some pictures and sent them to dental forensics for further examination.

Even before the evidence had come back matching Worm to the crime, the prime suspect (solely because there was no one else in the room at the time of incident) was confessing (and not the slightest bit remorseful, I might add.)

I’d like to blame the biting on Worm, but I think it’s my fault.  I ‘play bite’ Smush on her belly all the time.  Worm probably saw me do it time and again and imagined that her belly was made of steel.  So he did it too.  After she started wailing, he didn’t think that his biting and her crying were related.

To fit the crime to the punishment, the suspect was booked on involuntary man-eating and sentenced to two hours without George show.

Forensic Report of "The First Bite" (because there will probably be more biting after this one...)

Forensic Report of “The First Bite” (because this won’t be the only time…)

Gavin – 25; Honeydaddy – 13 (Stupid me for teaching Worm how to bite people for fun…)

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It’s Hell Week For Smushie

April 24, 2013 //
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The other night, I was watching a show on military men going through something called “Hell Week”.  These guys were voluntarily being pushed to their physical limits just for the opportunity to try out for the special armed forces, the Green Berets.  (NOTE:  A Green Beret is a legendary forest-lurking, swamp-eating, shadow warrior.)  (ANOTHER NOTE:  A Green Beret in a dark alley would have me running in the exact opposite direction than if the dark alley presented me with a Raspberry Beret.)  If you’re looking for a non-stereotypical depiction of a green beret and what skills they possess, check out the movie First Blood.  After seeing that flick, I could easily pick one out of a crowd of people…as long as they were wearing the signature headband and bloody tank top.

I don’t know what it was.  Maybe fatigue set in.  Or maybe a dram of rum permeated my intestinal wall and ignited a few scattered brain impulses. I had an idea.

What if I could make encourage Smushie to participate in a form of “Hell Week” for babies?  Kind of like a rite of passage from newborn-ness to baby-ness.  If she passes the rigorous physical examination, she’ll get to wear the coveted camouflage baby headband which signals to onlookers that this here is a bona fide Green Beretby.  (Beret + Baby = Beretby.  Still with me? Ok.)  Also upon successful completion of the training, Smush will be given the opportunity to carry her very own AK-47, that will signify to all that the government can’t take away a baby’s rights to bear arms, which is in the constitution.  (There’s nothing like the liberal mind interpretation of the English language.)

The idea is pure genius, as most of my ideas are.  I would be gauging her physical abilities, as well as strengthening her for the exertions of daily life (i.e. sitting up, standing, walking, etc.).  I mean Smush isn’t anywhere near being pushed to her physical limits right now.  She practically lays around all day eating, sleeping, and burping.  Not that I compare my children, but Worm was sitting upright and juggling bowling pins at 3 months of age.  (Ok, slight exaggeration.)  He set the bar and I we have to clear it.  There’s nothing like a little sibling rivalry to coax the best out of us.  (But, it’s ok for my two children to compare themselves to one another.)

Smush’s training program is pretty simple.  7 days of physical (also mental and emotional) endurance.  Since I’m a nice guy, I won’t wake her up at 4am to start training.  She’s allowed to wake up when the sun rises.  Next, she will do:

  • Tummy time until she falls asleep on the pillow or vomits
  • Assisted sit ups until her body fatigues or her arms give out
  • Eat until she falls asleep
  • Upon waking, repeat tummy time and assisted sit ups.  Eat.  Sleep.  Repeat.

Training ends at 7pm every night for Smush to wind down and relax.  In the evening, she’s allowed to chat online with her pals, play cards, or watch TV.  Alcohol and smoking are strictly prohibited during Baby Hell Week.  Visits from family are kept to a minimum to reduce the unnecessary distractions.

…I have to let the cat out of the bag.  Her Hell Week started on Monday.  (I couldn’t wait for the sergeant to approve, if you know what I mean.) And on that day, she did extremely well.  It was fruitful and Smush showed incredible strength and endurance.  She looked strong, capable, and determined.

But on Tuesday, I don’t know what happened.  She slept until 10am.  Woke up to exercise once and then proceeded to drink twice the amount of milk that she had ever previously ingested in one sitting…and napped for the rest of the day.  (She’s already being defiant!  I don’t know whether to pat her on the back or on the bottom.)  The competitive fire was no longer in her belly.  (Doused by the milk, I reckon.)

I think Smushie’s taking me for a fool.  I swear I saw her peeking out at me from the slit in her eyelids.  The rules don’t allow me to wake her from sleep and I think she’s found this little loophole.  If Wednesday is anything like today, I will be forced to put my foot down and cut out the day naps.  Hell Week will go on!

Smushie! If You're Smiling, You're Not Working Hard Enough!

Smushie! If You’re Smiling, You’re Not Working Hard Enough!

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It’s Alive! It’s Alive!

March 16, 2013 //
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Someone pressed the power on button.  Smushie has been activated.  (Why don’t kids come with a power down button?  Or even a pause button?  Like for when I need to take an afternoon nap?)

About a week ago, Smush came alive.  Up until then she was just a reservoir tank with a sensor that beeped when empty, full, or about to burst from either end.  Also during that time, I tested her for any outward indications of brain activity and got no response.  (The test?  We sat her in front of a few of the best ‘Scrubs‘ episodes known to mankind and there was nary a chuckle, not even a snort.)  As cliché as it sounds, one morning Smush woke up and everything had changed.  The world became apparent and her body started responding to more than just food and a couple of jabs with a stick.

Now Smushie is watching and laughing at my fathering skills (which I mistakenly thought had improved), slapping me in the face, head-butting my collarbones, spitting up on my shirts, and peeing on my hands.  It’s all good.  Sort of.

She doesn’t seem to treat her mother the same way.  In her mother’s arms, she snuggles in perfectly.  She smiles.  She coos.  She lovingly babbles at mommy, with twinkling eyes and all.  When Smush is with Steph, her poops are no longer stinky.  And pee never overruns the boundaries of her tiny diaper.  Their bond is a magical one.  The two of them have filled the space between each other with so much love that they pushed daddy right out of the picture!

It’s no secret that I’m useless to my newborn.  I don’t make milk for her.  I can’t provide warmth.  (I barely have enough warmth to provide myself.)  And nowhere on my body do I have a soft, cushy space for Smushie to bury her head into.  (Though, maybe in a pinch, my butt cheeks could work…)  Yes, I feel a little inadequate as a parent right now and Smushie knows it.  To her, I’m not much more than a walking baby wipe.  One day, I aspire to be more.  But during this time, I am not the best support personnel for baby.  Her mother is.  So there is really nothing for me to do other than drink beer and go hammer stuff in the garage patiently wait by Steph’s side and rub her feet/back/neck until I am called to help.

Until that day comes when I am needed to be the prince in Smushie’s fairytale play, or I must fill the empty seat at the imaginary tea party, I will use my t-shirts to absorb all of the fluids that exit her little body and try not to gag.

Smushie, Can't You Just Make a Normal Face?

Smushie, Can’t You Just Make a Normal Face?

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