Why OH Why

Early last week, I had a bad headache, earache and an uncomfortable patch on my scalp. Then on Wednesday, I woke up with some bright red blotches on my forehead. Now, because I am a medically trained doctor who did my residency in “Bitch Knows Everything,” I chalked it up to the following:

Headache = Listening to constant kid cries/not enough wine/my period/too much wine/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Earache= Listening to constant kid cries/swimmer’s ear/build-up of earwax or some shit/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Scalp= Sunburnt scalp/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

Red Blotchy Skin = eczema/brain tumor per Dr. WebMD

I decided to go to my dermatologist because I figured she could pump me up with some creams and a pep talk about how pretty I’d be again, but instead she sat down, sighed and said: “You have shingles.”

Shingles.

By that evening, shit got real and it’s been mostly downhill since then. I thought shingles was just adult chickenpox, but apparently it’s much more awful than that. Mainly because you get chickenpox in kindergarten (or used to anyway? They have a vaccine for it now so go science!) when no one gives a true crap about what you look like. When you have shingles, you’re a fully-functioning adult that still has to be seen in public by other fully-functioning and judgmental adults. It’s just awful.

My red blotches quickly evolved into a deep, painful rash that looked and felt like someone had poured acid on my face. Supposedly the virus sits on a set of nerves so I keep having incredibly painful spasms on the right side of my face that painkillers are very slow in actually killing.

Shingles usually lasts from 2-4 weeks which is great because I was wondering what kind of impression I could make on my co-workers that I haven’t seen in a year when I return to work next week and bam, why not oozing blisters and hardened scabs? People are going to be scramming to make sure their desk is right next to mine.

I think it’s starting to look a little better, but that’s like saying Freddy Krueger’s face looks a little better after a facial—not that good at all.

Now because my meds are finally starting to work, I must end this here, go to bed to watch “Scandal” and think about my head buried in a pile of snow to deter the real feeling of it being burned to a crisp.

OH and since I didn’t want this to be a picture-less post, but I also didn’t want to include a picture of my own face (those are reserved for my VERY lucky family and friends when I ask them over text to critique whether the rash has progressed), I thought I’d include this picture:
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There, now every time you see an adorable kitten or puppy, you’ll think of my shingles. Isn’t that great?!

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Sounds A Mom Hears When She’s Just Trying to Pee

One of the quickest things you learn when you become a mom is that all privacy is gone. If you’re breastfeeding, you probably showed your boobs to 64% of the citizens in your town. If you need to take a shower, there’s probably a toddler in the shower with you or a baby staring outside the shower door watching you (I usually have both! #blessed) and if you desperately need to pee? Well forget about discretion and modesty because you peeing is equivalent to Elsa making a damn three-story ice palace with just her hands and her inner animosityit’s fascinating so expect an audience.

8b43346a4f730e0710494599d5c432c8Because I had two kids who used my bladder as a punching bag, I have to pee a lot and with that comes certain risks. It means that the children will be unsupervised and even though it could be for as little as 30 seconds, any mother knows that 30 seconds is enough time for a toddler to somehow assemble and detonate a bomb. So with that being said, I’ve written down the various sounds that I hear when trying to quickly escape into the bathroom without the kids.

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Splashing: the mobile baby is playing in the dog’s water bowl which is great because it’s full of food debris from an animal that has his teeth brushed as often as I go to the gynecologist.

Screaming: the toddler is attacking the baby because of that one time four months ago that he accidentally mistook her giraffe blanket as his doggie blanket—what a fool! He must pay. With mom out of the room, the madwoman-toddler’s opportunity for revenge is in full effect. As mom rushes out of the bathroom to save the baby, the screams lessen and the toddler proudly announces that the baby “likes” when she pins him down against his will.

Whispers/Silence: They’re scheming and this should cause great panic. They could be looking up gang memberships, planting booby traps along the stairwell, hiding knives for a future assault or planning to enter me into a nursing home against my will at age 30.

Computer Keyboard: The toddler is trying to discretely load Netflix, but seeing as how she can’t read, write or operate a computer, she is somehow electronically sending my bank information to Botswana and deleting my entire folder of files from freshman year of college.

Door Opening: Dear God, they’re going outside. Do I stop them? I think I’ve given them enough skills to survive in the wild. Wait. The baby doesn’t know how to climb down the stairs and I know his sister won’t help him (see “grudge” above). I’m pretty sure Child Protective Services will come if they’re outside unattended for too long and I really don’t need social workers up my ass when I still have 11 episodes left of “Scandal” to watch.

There are of course other questionable sounds (like the dreaded “crackle” of a chip bag), but these are the most common in our house. With my second baby, I’ve become a little more laid back in regards to stopping these noises. Part of me now knows that they will be fine while I’m in bathroom and the other part of me just really wants to analyze the “Who Wore It Better” pictorial in my OK Magazine without an audience or interruption.

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Bieber vs. Kris Jenner is like Satan vs. Satan

A mom can dream can’t she?

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From the Mouth of my Babe…

Like most toddlers, Caroline is naturally hilarious. Toddlers are like pint-size comediennes that speak a language you aren’t fluent in. You’ll listen because they’re passionate about what they’re saying and you’ll laugh because you have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. Also humorous are the intermittent curse words that you know they don’t truly understand the meaning of, but you’re at least proud they used them in the right context.

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With that being said, I’ve collected a few “Caroline Gems” over the past week or that I’d like to share…

“I want the baseball ladies to come to our house and DON’T say ‘I don’t know what that means.’”

Well then Caroline, I literally have no other response to that because what does that mean? Do you want the chicks from “A League of their Own” to stop over? Do you mean the wives of baseball players? And what are we going to do with them when they do get to our house? You don’t have enough coordination to independently wipe your own ass, let alone catch a baseball.

“You have big boobs and I have little boobs. Daddy doesn’t have boobs- he has balls.”

At least she’s on the track to pass Anatomy class.

Pointing to the toilet bowl after she went potty:

“Look at my crap.”

“What did you say?”

“I mean diarrhea”

Nothing is more ladylike than a little princess describing her bathroom ordeals and using words like “crap.” I’m not going to say that she learned that word from me, but I’m also pretty sure she learned that word from me.

“I got a fever from frogs jumping on me.”

Spoken like someone who would have been best friends with Britney Spears circa 2007. You seriously need to have that checked out by a doctor.

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Singing: “I am who I am! I don’t need a man!”

My little feminist! But who is going to kill the spiders, Caroline? Or fix the toilet when it’s backed up from all of your “crap?” Men are handy for certain things.

“We don’t even know what we know.

That is some Level 5 Stephen Hawking shit. Like, what does that even mean? It’s so deep that I can’t even begin to decipher it. Are we all living lies? Are we all dumb? Why don’t we know anything? Pour some scotch and lets discuss the deeper philosophical meanings of life, please.

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~~~~~

Until next time on “Caroline is Full of Crazy and Says the Craziest Shit”…

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Boys and Their Toys

We went to Toys R Us last weekend because I married a 12 year old boy disguised as a 34 year old man that occasionally wears a tie, dress slacks, works full-time in an office, but collects Legos. This man-child of mine collects all sorts of Legos that he assures me will be valuable one day and when something new is released, he insists that we go hunt it down at toy stores and call it a “family outing.”

Anyway, Ryan was after something this weekend so while he and Caroline walked the Lego aisles, Oliver and I walked around aimlessly. Because I am a great mother, I believe in bribing and distracting my children so I can do anything in peace. For example, in the grocery store I give them cookies so they aren’t knocking down hummus displays. In this particular instance, I found a random toy car that was barely three inches big, but shiny and red so I gave it to Oliver to hold while I perused the clearance racks for Cinderella nightgowns (for Caroline, not for myself unfortunately). He loved the dumb little car and was moving it between his hands and smiling. Judging by its size and cheap appearance, I assumed it was $1-$2. However, midway through the store I saw that it was $3.99! Who am I, Bill Gates?! Oprah? No one can afford $4 toy cars unless they’re actually real cars and can take my ass to work. I told Oliver not to get too attached because that was being left behind at the cash register. He didn’t say anything because remember—he’s 11 months old and doesn’t understand threats.

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Not the car in question, but it’s the best the internet could do.

Now as most parents know that use bribery or distractions, sometimes that shit blows up in your face. I was fully expecting to have to pry the car out of Oliver’s baby hands like Mommy Dearest making her kids give up their Christmas gifts to charity. I figured he’d cry at his new favorite car being put back on the shelf by his awful, disrespectful, cold mother and then I’d feel like an awful, disrespectful, cold mother that would come home and drown her sorrows in wine. This is everyday life, folks.

But anyway…as we were making our way up to the register, Oliver did me a parental solid. He got rid of the car himself. While I was looking at how FRIGHTENING Monster High dolls were (seriously, who plays with dolls that look like this? Shit gives me nightmares), I turned around and he was carless and not crying.

He got rid of the car by himself and I didn’t have to be the bad guy!

I paid for our clearance Cinderella nightgown (once again, I wish these were made in a woman’s size 4) and headed out the door. While I was in the outside cart vestibule unbuckling Oliver, I looked down and saw the car.

Apparently, he dropped the car and it fell from the basket of the cart to the bottom rack making it completely undetectable. It then fell off the bottom rack, on to the ground outside of the store when we went over the ramp.

I looked at the $4 pint sized car and thought about what to do. I could leave it there for some other unsuspecting child to take, I could take it back in the store and tattletale on my kleptomaniac infant or I could scoop up the car, hightail it out of there and hope no one was watching me on surveillance.

So I did what any good, financially-challenged parent would do that wants to be a strong role model for their child- I picked up the car and got the hell out of there.

Yup, at nearly 11 months old Oliver is a criminal and I could probably be charged with aiding and abetting a crime to assist my infant in stealing a cheaply-made toy car.
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We are a family of outlaws.

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Life is a Zoo

On Friday, my weekend kicked off with a boatload of stress. Between work and personal stuff, I was ready for some adult beverages. Because the woman that runs this household (me) can’t properly remember to buy things when she’s out (unless it’s boxed brownie mix—I always remember to buy that), I forced Ryan to stop at the liquor store on the way home. To my happiness and surprise, he brought home wine…in a box. But not like shitty white zinfandel (eh, we’ve all been there and drank it. No shame, no shame), but some high quality pinot. Popped a straw in that bad boy and before I knew it, the casual sipping translated into me polishing off half the juice wine box. I realized Oliver was unattended in his playroom with his trucks, Caroline and Ryan were outside grilling and I was in the kitchen by myself dancing to Outkast and burning dinner.

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At least I didn’t feel stressed anymore, right?

Potatoes were burnt as hell though.

Saturday we went to the zoo because I’m in a tizzy to fit in all summer activities. I figured Caroline would be infatuated with all of the animals, but you know how she spent our trip to the zoo?

Complaining about the smell.

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I tried to explain to her that everyone poops and big animals have big poops, which means they have big smells, but Caroline literally plugged her nose 80% of the time. It was like touring the zoo with Queen Elizabeth. Next time, I’ll just bring some Yankee Candle Sage and Citrus air freshner and spray it in a quarter mile radius of Caroline. OR, I could just spray it directly on the elephant’s ass before her arrival. I wonder if animal-ass access is part of the zoo yearly membership perks.

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She also spent a good chunk of the time eating animal crackers, which in retrospect seems kind of rude. Like, she was staring at a confined rhino and then biting into a rhino shaped cracker—something about that seems wrong, right?

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She did love the zoo’s playground, which is awesome because it’s not like the town has playgrounds all over that are close and free to attend and it’s not like I don’t take her to these playgrounds on a regular basis. Instead of caring about penguin conservation efforts or the Olive Baboon literally drawing a picture in the dirt with his hands, she was all “OHMYGOD A SLIDE!!”

Kids.

Oliver on the other hand loved it. To my surprise, he noticed all of the animals, big and small, and smiled and jumped in excitement. If he weren’t free, I would have paid his admission.

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When we left, I asked Caroline what her favorite animal was that she saw and her response was the zebra.

Zebras are awesome, Caroline. But our zoo doesn’t have zebras.

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She was referring to a fake zebra carcass that is in the lion’s den. The zookeepers put treats in this zebra printed box thing so that the lions think they are “eating” a zebra. I don’t know, something about natural instincts and the wild.

But that was Caroline’s favorite animal. Not the tiger. Not the hyena. Not the pretty pink flamingo. Not the elephant. Not the real lions that were being forced to eat meat out of an artificial corpse.

A fake zebra carcass—that was my daughter’s favorite “animal” at the zoo.

Kids.

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I Went Camping.

As those close to me know (because I texted them relentlessly with “SOS” and “911” messages), I went camping this weekend. If you don’t know me personally, let me say that camping has never been on my list of shit to do before I die. I mean, I spent six years in college to get a degree to help ensure that I’d get a good job and never be homeless. So why the hell would I want to pretend like I’m poor and homeless. I genuinely appreciate walls and roofs and electricity and every freaking thing that makes living in 2015 great.

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But anyway, Ryan and I signed up for a two-night stay at a kid-oriented campsite with our friends and their kids. I can’t say that we were truly “roughing” it because we were a three-minute walk from a splash pad, heated pool and several playgrounds. BUT, I still had to use a communal bathroom and conserve my phone’s battery so there were hardships in all of this.

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Going into this, I had no experience camping and was overwhelmed by how much actual work it is just preparing for it. You literally need to pack every mother-effing thing you own. The forest doesn’t have forks—pack ‘em. Tampons don’t grow on trees so better bring an economy-sized box just in case. Paper towels, five changes of clothes to adjust for weather fluctuations, sheets for the air mattress, saltshakers, EVERY POSSESSION YOU OWN MUST BE PACKED.

Because the 36 hours I spent in nature was overwhelming and a minute-by-minute recap would make you run for your medicine cabinet to drown the pain in NyQuil, I thought I’d outline the highlights and some key lessons I learned about camping.

Flip flops are not appropriate camping shoes

I really should have packed a pair of sneakers, but when there’s room in your duffle bag for your Pillow Pet or your sneakers—you know what decision you need to make.

Setting-up/Packing-up takes a shit ton of time/work

What’s great about going to a hotel is that you walk through the door, make sure there aren’t any leftover stray hairs in the shower drain and…

That’s it.

Camping? You need to set up your tent, put down your tarps, blow up the air mattress, make the bed, get out the charcoal, test the portable grill, get the campfire ready, unpack the necessities that are inevitably buried deep in your car.

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I was exhausted after setting-up because holding a baby and repeatedly saying “oh my God, I can’t believe we’re sleeping here” 300 times while Ryan actually did the work can make a girl sleepy.

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Babies hate tents

I looked forward all day to the nighttime with Ryan and our friends. I figured the kids would pass out from pure exhaustion and the adults would sit around the fire and have a few beers.

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Oliver finally fell asleep in his pack-and-play, which we miraculously fitted into our tent. But because wind is the bitch of nature, the gusts kept smacking up against the tent and woke him up.

What do you do with a screaming infant in the middle of the woods? I’ve never craved a Xanax so badly in my life. If Oliver had the ability to curse, he would have made a sailor blush in how angry he was at us for making him sleep in a tent. I’m sorry, homey.

Nature has a curfew

The best part of this entire trip was when all of the kids were asleep (for all of 30 minutes) and us adults were downing beers like our parents were about to come home. Because all of us fancy ourselves to be comediennes, we were laughing when a man shouted from his RV: “IT’S ELEVEN O’CLOCK” in a tone that resembled a disturbed drill sergeant that wanted to bash all of our heads together.

Apparently, there were “quiet hours” on the campsite beginning at 11pm and it happened to be 11:18 when a joke was made that we laughed at. How the hell are you supposed to be quiet when you’re living among the wild? It’s not like I can retire for the evening to my study for a nightcap, I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN WOODS.

Shit only got more awkward when 15 minutes later, the angry camper came out of his RV, sat in a chair STARING at us in the dark. It was like something out of a horror movie. He planted himself on the edge of his designated campsite to give us a stare down. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this guy loves the 2nd Amendment and was really suppressing his inner rage. He just sat there and stared at us while we pretended that we didn’t notice him. I should have made him really uncomfortable by talking loudly about episiotomies or the first time I got my period, but I just thought of that. Damn. Maybe next year if he’s not in prison for homicide.

It will rain

Mainly around 3am when you think you’ve got everything under control enough to sleep.

Driver seats should not be slept in

Oliver finally slept, but in his car seat…in the car. Seeing as how it would appear slightly negligent to have left him in there unattended, I decided to sleep in the car with him. Mr. Sleep Apnea back there kept snoring, not breathing, remembering to breath, waking up and hitting himself, crying because he hit himself and then falling back asleep. I feel so damn bad for his future wife. Good luck with that!

I slept for a total of 45 minutes the entire night and spent the night ensuring the scary RV man didn’t slaughter my family in the tent, read my car’s manual and Googled “how to get soft feet” (don’t ask).

There’s no good coffee

Ryan and I had to make coffee by boiling hot water in a pan. It was like we were living in 1987 or something. Also, nowhere on the Starbucks menu do those hipster bitches have “bugs” as a coffee flavor.

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Kids will get dirty

#SwampAss does exist.

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Despite sounding like a whiny city slicker, I must say that the experience was pretty fun. By this time next year, I hope to do it again, but instead of a campsite maybe it’s one of those places with a lobby, a doorman, a king size bed, room service, a TV and one of those fridges with the mini bottles of liquor stacked in it. Anyone know what these places are called and can you give instructions to Ryan on how to book one for 2016? Thanks in advance.

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Five Signs You’re Totally, Kind of Doing Motherhood Right

You’re Willing to get a Speeding Ticket to Avoid Being Late to Story Time

Due to a last-minute diaper explosion and the realization that you’re wearing two different colored shoes, you are unsurprisingly running late to the only standing date you have as a parent: library story time.

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You will gladly take a $200 fine and obtain three points on your license if it means getting to the library on time to read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” for the 389th damn time. If you’re late, you have to sit next to the mom whose child is the smelly hitter or by the grandma that doesn’t ask permission to touch your baby’s face.

You Start Running

No one actually likes running, but the act of literally running away from your screaming children is incredibly satisfying. Thirty minutes of uninterrupted “you” time?! Go and run all the damn miles!

Then someone reminds you that you own a jogging stroller because “you can take the baby with you while you run! Isn’t that great?!”

Go straight to hell, person. Don’t even pass “go.”

Caffeine Addiction

At this point, your body is made up of 50% water, 10% peanut butter cups and 40% coffee. You have a constant eye twitch and your intestines are definitely rotting, but you have SO MUCH ENERGY. You can teach your daughter how to do cartwheels! Play tag with your son! Organize play dates! Make a vegan-friendly, gluten-free, organic dinner! Show your Pinterest toddler craft board who is boss!

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Without coffee? IT’S NAPTIME FOR EVERYONE and when the kids get up from their nap, it’s quiet time until it’s time for bed. Mommy was up late last night catching up on “Scandal.”

Fierce Jealousy of the Put-Together Moms

You hate seeing mothers in public that have their hair done, wearing fashionable skinny jeans and with a face full of perfectly applied make-up. These women are complete showboating assholes to you. Most days, you’re lucky if you can reapply your off-brand dry shampoo before taking your children to Target.

The Countdown to Dad Getting Home

Your daughter refuses to nap and the baby just ate a dead ant off the floor—you need back up. You need someone to not judge your stress level and to pass the parenting baton off to. Your husband is the one person that knows how challenging parenthood can be. He’s your rock and some days, you just need him to hurry home to give you a hug.

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But most importantly, you need him to come home so you can pee.

Alone.

With the door shut.
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Things that Make this Mom Go “Huh?”: Vol. 1

This stroller ad has been all over the mom-net and every time I see it, I’m so thankful that a company has finally tapped into how real moms look when we exercise.

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Sure, we like to stand behind the cliché of yoga pants and mom jeans, but the truth is that we are all covering washboard abs, zero body fat and thoroughly enjoy jogging with our babies while wearing a bikini. Not only do most moms with infants have enough confidence in their bodies to show it off by the family pool, but why stop there? Pregnancy transforms your body to model-like measurements and we all need to be like this very obviously real mother and exercise in a two-piece swimsuit. Run all over the damn town wearing this.

Because THIS is reality, guys!

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Also in an effort to make me feel like less of a woman, is this video of a mom delivering her own baby in the passenger seat of the car while her husband is all calm like he’s driving Miss Daisy to her hair appointment.

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The husband freaks me the freak out in this video because he appears to be driving at a snail’s pace and isn’t remotely afraid that his wife’s vagina is about to burst open all over his car’s interior. Ryan barely let me have contractions in his car out of fear that my loud yelling would somehow harm his car’s resale value. But this bro, even after the baby is born, just keeps on driving like he’s going to Home Depot for a new drill bit. No rush, no rush! Just um, turn up the a/c and unwrap the umbilical cord around your still-attached-to-your-placenta-baby’s neck.

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We’ve all been a bit under-the-weather here so when an article popped up on my Pinterest about how to keep sick kids entertained without screen time, I was definitely intrigued. Caroline came down with a nasty fever last week that has turned into a lingering cold for the rest of us. I figured this list may have some ideas that would allow Caroline to rest and for us not to watch one more damn episode of “Curious George.”

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I was wrong because people that clearly don’t have kids made up this list or they have kids and really don’t like them.

5 Screen Free Sick Day Activities

  • Sudoku Puzzles. I found this great site that has a huge list of free printable Sudoku puzzles. They are sorted by difficulty and even come with the solutions. (Although I never print that page… I don’t want to the kids to know about it. )
  • Secret Codes. I love this fun idea of secret code math equations from No Time for Flash Cards. It involves spies and math, both of which are HUGE at our house. Modify the problems to fit the math skills your little one is currently working on.
  • DIY Geoboard. Geoboards are a wonderful quiet time activity. An Everyday Story has created a fun DIY Geoboard that is not only easy to make (and store) but also adds another level of creativity that regular geoboards don’t have.
  • Sponge Blocks. Building with anything is a great sick day activity. I especially like the idea of building with DIY sponge blocks because it’s something new and exciting. These blocks also add to the quiet and softness needs of a sick kiddo. (This idea is from Inner Child Fun.)
  • Make a Comic. Sick days (especially the sick days where the kids are almost better) are the perfect days to start a project. Sweet Hot Mess has printable blank comic strip sheets. They are so fun and just beg to be filled with an exciting story. Print a few extras and join in!

Huh? Who, in their right mind as a parent, is like “honey, I know you just threw up your PB&J, but maybe you want to build a bungalow or a craftsmen style house with these awesome sponge blocks?” Who wants to do that? And who the hell wants to do secret math codes when they’re healthy, let alone when they’re sick? Have these people never taken cough medicine? I can barely tie my shoelaces and remember my middle name after a swig of Robitussin and you want my medicated child to solve a damn Sodoku?

But seriously, thank god for geoboards. That’s actually a good idea.

Just kidding. That’s awful because it involves pins, rubber bands and corkboard and that spells “absolutely boring” to me. If I gave that to Caroline, she’d pin my still-conscious head to the corkboard and flick the rubber bands at me until I bled and apologized for giving her such a feeble activity to do while she was sick.

Come to think of it, maybe screen time when you’re sick isn’t so bad after all…

Queue up another episode of “Curious George!”

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Don’t Look Down

Tonight was Caroline’s gymnastic class which greatly insinuates that she is the one doing the physical activity, but in reality it’s the parents demonstrating the gymnastics moves and chasing the children when they bolt towards the exit. It shouldn’t surprise you how out of shape I am, but even I’m embarrassed when I’m sweating in a “parent and tot” gymnastics class.

Anyway, tonight the instructor was going over a few key poses for the kids to replicate on their mats. Most of the kids must have had a pint full of sugar because they were unfocused and hyper (SHOCKING for that age group, I know) so I was doing my best “super enthusiastic, look at me!” mom impersonation trying to get Caroline to practice her positions.

Look at Mommy doing a pike pose, Caroline!

Let’s do table pose like this! 

Can you do an arch like Mommy?

I was basically the Kerri Strug of the class without the Olympic pressure and broken foot.

 

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I was going out of my way to demonstrate the moves to capture the attention of Caroline and her friends. I figured if the parents and I could make it look interesting then the kids would stop picking their noses and copy us.

Then the instructor said, “let’s try doing a saddle pose” which is a pretty fundamental move for gymnastics. You essentially sit on your butt, separate your legs and smile like the gold medal is already yours. Like this girl:

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Watch THIS, you class of uninvolved parents that aren’t doing the moves themselves! I’ll do a straddle pose!

And I did.

It was a damn good straddle pose- a perfect 10.

Then I looked down.

There it was: an unmistakably large and noticeable hole in the crotch area of my $7 Target leggings.

A hole that I didn’t know was there, but was unknowingly flashing to a class of toddlers and their parents while trying to showoff my enthusiasm.

Some days when I feel like I have my shit together, I realize at 6pm that I’ve been walking around all day with my underwear exposed.

Next week, I will be wearing this to class:

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——

And yes, I realize this is the second post in a row about underwear. I don’t understand my life, either.

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The Toddler Walk of Shame

Caroline loves the bathroom at the library. It’s a private bathroom where the toilet, mirror, sink, soap dispensers and paper towels are all extremely low to the ground. I think she finds it fun that she can be independent in there and doesn’t need assistance or a step stool. I could withhold water from her for weeks and without fail, three minutes into the library trip she’d have to pee.

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Today we went and were enjoying the company of another three-year-old little girl when Caroline proudly declared that she needed to go to the bathroom. I figured we’d be quick so I didn’t bother to put Oliver back in his stroller and risk him screaming. I just grabbed my purse and her hand and headed to the bathroom.

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When we got into the bathroom, I realized that Oliver’s foot was haphazardly stuck in the opening of my purse. While trying to awkwardly detangle his limbs, I saw Caroline proudly hop on to the toilet by herself.

And then, I noticed her lean her head over…

Oh my God, she’s trying to see where the pee comes from.

Before I could formulate a plan or even digest what I was seeing, she began peeing…all overher underwearthe toilether shoesand the floor.

Because she was in such a rush to independently use the bathroom, she didn’t pull her clothes down very far resulting in them being soaked.

I pulled her over on to the chair to examine the damage and it was then she realized what had just occurred. This is the girl that cries for a napkin when a crumb gets stuck to her face. This is the girl that volunteers for a bath after eating a cupcake. This is not the girl that is okay with having a spot of water on her pants, let alone urine.

So naturally and expectedly, she freaked the f^$# out.

The library has two rules: return your damn books on time and always shut the hell up.

I owed $8.00 in fines and Caroline was screaming about bodily fluids so we were giant library rule-breaking outlaws.

The only strategy I could come up with was to leave her underwear off, put her pants back on and hightail it out of there to the car where I had a change of clothes for her. I suppose the library actually has three rules: wear pants.

As I’m trying to convince Miss Panicking Neat Freak that we’re going right to the car and that pants are required in public places, clean ones or not, Oliver is trying to wrestle out of my arms to crawl on the floor.

So here I am: one baby who wants to crawl on the floor of a public restroom and contract Ebola and Polio and the other baby who is screaming because she finally found out where pee come from and she wasn’t happy about her anatomy.

Motherhood. It’s beautiful.

I finally managed to emerge from the bathroom with minimal sweat pouring down my face and Caroline’s screams down to soft whimpers. We were so close to the exit when Caroline suddenly remembered that she wasn’t wearing her underwear, but at the same time, can’t remember why despite it just happening.

Her response? And the only response of a toddler: scream.

So she screams.

“Mommy! Where are my underwear?! Do you have my underwear?! MY UNDERWEAR AREN’T ONNNNNNNN!”

 Librarians don’t like conversations above a whisper and I imagine they definitely don’t like when patrons scream like dementia patients about their lost undergarments.

That’s the thing about motherhood though. Just when you think you have it all together, there you are sticking your daughter’s urine soaked underwear in your Kate Spade handbag. That’s what I get for trying to pretend that I have an ounce of class.

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