Next week, I will be subjected to one of the more challenging tests of good parenting, namely, traveling. Maybe I am nuts, but I have convinced my husband to attempt a trip to my parent's house with the kids. The whole ordeal should take about 24 hours in total.
I must be nuts.
3:00 AM: -The Challenge Begins
We'll manage to cram the suitcases, two strollers, the kids and finally ourselves into the car in a zombie-like state before heading to our friend's house, who will drive us the rest of the way to the airport. That's a three-hour trip in itself, but we're going to give ourselves an extra hour to get there, taking into account one of the three possible worst case scenarios:
1) a traffic jam caused by jack-knifed truck on the highway
2) a traffic jam caused by UFO sighting on the highway
3) the car breaking down, being abducted by aliens and then a traffic jam caused by a jack-knifed truck on the highway
7:30 AM - The Next Hurdle
So once we reach the airport and get checked in, we will have another three hours to kill. I will most likely want to kill myself by the time those three hours are over - I can only imagine how exhausted we will be by that time, and how utterly hyper and blitzed our kids will be. They will have been sleeping all the way in the car and will be pushed around like little monarchs in their buggies - they will be a couple of little Energizer bunnies, essentially. Mia will leap into 'I want! I want!' mode as soon as we enter the duty-free area, and Bram will be trying to mount everybody's luggage trolleys. And this will be just the beginning.
10:15 AM - What Have I Gotten Myself Into?
Once we are on the airplane, the trial really begins, and by that time, I will already be running on half a tank of gas, so to speak. My husband will be running on fumes. It's a ten-hour flight, no stop-overs, no escape. I am seriously considering having the flight attendant make an announcement on my behalf before we take off, just to give the other passengers a heads-up on the inevitability of the situation. I was thinking something along the lines of:
'Ladies and gentlemen, the young child who will most likely be humping your leg at some point during the flight is Bram, whose parents are sitting in seats 14 J and K. Any complaints or discomfort may be communicated to them directly. If you do not wish any contact with this child, we suggest you take another flight. Thank you.'
7:30 PM CET / 11:30 AM - Who's Idea Was This Anyway?
So assuming we survive the flight without anyone suing us for unwanted sexual intimidation by Bram, we should arrive in Seattle where my parents will be waiting for us. (If they don't happen to encounter one of the aforementioned worst case scenarios, that is.) So next to being utterly spent, I will get all emotional since I haven't seen them in almost a year, so I will cry. And then, my mom will cry. And my dad and my husband will roll their eyes at each other and laugh at those silly gals they married. And then the kids will start complaining that they have to pee or that they fell over or something, and then it's off to the next step in our adventure - the ferry.
2:30 PM - Make It Stop!
My parents live on an island in the Pacific Northwest. It's a gorgeous island where my husband and I believe we should emigrate to. We can only get there by ferry, which means you have to be there on time, or they just won't let you on. Obviously, if you're not physically there, they can't let you on. It's common sense, really. Anyway, it takes another three hours to get from the airport to the ferry terminal. I plan to pretend to be awake during the ride, listening to my mom tell me about stuff she told me last week on Skype, but I will actually be sound asleep. If the kids aren't sleeping, I'll pretend they are.
When we get to the ferry terminal, the kids will probably have another burst of energy since they will be rested and refreshed after their long nap in their comfy carseats. I will be suffering from self-inflicted whiplash from all that head-nodding I was doing in the car. I will have no time to think about that though, since I will be on alert-mom-mode, making sure the kids don't hurl themselves off the ferry dock onto the jagged rocks below, for example.
5:00 PM - Is It Much Farther, Papa Smurf?!
Once on the ferry, I will continue to simulate being in a conscious state as the big, heavy boat hums its way through the Puget Sound. It'll be yet another perfect opportunity to run after Bram some more, to make sure he doesn't hurl himself into the sea. I will also most likely get to convince Mia that she really won't fall into the toilet if she has to go pee-pee. Whether or not I try to eat a bowl of clam chowder or go straight for a liter of beer at this point is really all down to speculation.
6:30 PM - Alls Well That Ends in a Puddle...
It's a guess, but I by this time, we should be walking through the front door of my parents' house by now. Make that: stumbling through the door and falling onto the carpet in a puddle of mindless dribble. After that, it's a matter of forcing ourselves to stay awake for a few more hours while our soft, warm, inviting bed beckons us. And when we finally do get to sink into a deep, well-deserved state of REM, it'll be seconds before the kids and their European bio-rhythms are wide awake and read to roll...
It'll be worth it. It'll all be worth it. It will.
I must be nuts.
Showing posts with label pee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pee. Show all posts
May 26, 2010
May 22, 2010
I'm A Goofy Goober, Yeah.
Spongebob Squarepants. You either love him, or you hate him. Personally, I love him, not only because of his childlike mannerism or naiveté, or even the fact that we both have a split between our teeth, but because I can relate to him on a deeper level. You see, I too, like Spongebob Sqaurepants, am a goofy goober.
So what makes me a goofy goober? It comes down to little things, those seemingly insignificant things that I find myself doing on a daily basis. Things like going 'weeeeee!' out loud on the swings, running around like a child, blowing bubbles. You may be thinking, yeah sure, you do those things because you're a mom and your kids expect it of you. But the thing is, I have enjoyed goofy activities like this before I became a mom - doing them around my kids just makes me seem less like a wacko in the eyes of society today.
But why does society frown on acting goofy as an adult? Why does society dictate that, once we hit the age of 30, or maybe even 20, that blowing bubbles is no longer acceptable? It's like those signs by the cash register that say 'No alcohol under 16' (this is Europe) - if it was up to society, they'd also have signs saying: 'No blowing bubbles over 25'!
I have accepted the fact that I am a goofy goober. So has my husband, thank God. My husband, who had lost all contact with his inner-goofy goober years before we met, has been known to let his guard down and be a goofy goober again, every now and then. I have been a major influence on him as far as goofy gooberness goes - he knew that I was a goofy goober (a trait that goes far back in the Hennessey gene pool, incidentally) when he married me (even the third time). He accepted that life with me would involve regular amounts of goofy gooberness. Now that we have kids, that amount has increased tenfold, which helps him to rediscover his inner-goofy goober every day anew. For someone who is not born with natural goofy gooberness like me, it's a challenge for him. But it's a challenge we face together.
Being a goofy goober makes me a better parent, I'm convinced of that. You have to be a goofy goober at times just to cope with the challenges of parenthood. I mean, how else can you come up with songs about doing a pee-pee on the potty? You can't. Not with a straight face in any case. It takes a degree of goofy gooberism to accomplish a task like that.
I believe everyone has a goofy goober within them, it's simply a matter of letting it out. Ask yourself this: when is the last time you giggled inanely, ate ice-cream that had a face on it, or played with your food? When is the last time you flew a kite, sang along to a Disney movie or ran after an ice-cream truck? When is the last time you made a daisy chain, finger-painted or did the puzzle on the back of the cereal box? Yesterday? Last week? Last year? Too long ago to remember? Then you might just need a new mantra. Memorize these few lines and by doing so, you can create a portal through which the goofy goober in you can emerge:
I'm a goofy goober, yeah.
You're a goofy goober, yeah.
We're all goofy goobers, yeah.
Goofy goofy goober goobers yeah.
We're all goofy goobers. Yeah. You, me, the mailman, the pope. Your mom, your neighbor, even that guy who picks his nose behind his newspaper on the subway in the morning. When you're chewing a piece of gum, can you remember how to blow a bubble? When you're going out to get the mail, why not try whistling a tune? If you feel like making pancakes, why not make them in animal shapes? Add some food coloring to your glass of milk! Draw mustaches and missing teeth on the photos of people in the newspaper! Fold a paper airplane out of that jury duty notice! Be a goofy goober! Yeah! Do it today! (It'll be the best day ever.)
So what makes me a goofy goober? It comes down to little things, those seemingly insignificant things that I find myself doing on a daily basis. Things like going 'weeeeee!' out loud on the swings, running around like a child, blowing bubbles. You may be thinking, yeah sure, you do those things because you're a mom and your kids expect it of you. But the thing is, I have enjoyed goofy activities like this before I became a mom - doing them around my kids just makes me seem less like a wacko in the eyes of society today.
But why does society frown on acting goofy as an adult? Why does society dictate that, once we hit the age of 30, or maybe even 20, that blowing bubbles is no longer acceptable? It's like those signs by the cash register that say 'No alcohol under 16' (this is Europe) - if it was up to society, they'd also have signs saying: 'No blowing bubbles over 25'!
I have accepted the fact that I am a goofy goober. So has my husband, thank God. My husband, who had lost all contact with his inner-goofy goober years before we met, has been known to let his guard down and be a goofy goober again, every now and then. I have been a major influence on him as far as goofy gooberness goes - he knew that I was a goofy goober (a trait that goes far back in the Hennessey gene pool, incidentally) when he married me (even the third time). He accepted that life with me would involve regular amounts of goofy gooberness. Now that we have kids, that amount has increased tenfold, which helps him to rediscover his inner-goofy goober every day anew. For someone who is not born with natural goofy gooberness like me, it's a challenge for him. But it's a challenge we face together.
Being a goofy goober makes me a better parent, I'm convinced of that. You have to be a goofy goober at times just to cope with the challenges of parenthood. I mean, how else can you come up with songs about doing a pee-pee on the potty? You can't. Not with a straight face in any case. It takes a degree of goofy gooberism to accomplish a task like that.
I believe everyone has a goofy goober within them, it's simply a matter of letting it out. Ask yourself this: when is the last time you giggled inanely, ate ice-cream that had a face on it, or played with your food? When is the last time you flew a kite, sang along to a Disney movie or ran after an ice-cream truck? When is the last time you made a daisy chain, finger-painted or did the puzzle on the back of the cereal box? Yesterday? Last week? Last year? Too long ago to remember? Then you might just need a new mantra. Memorize these few lines and by doing so, you can create a portal through which the goofy goober in you can emerge:
I'm a goofy goober, yeah.
You're a goofy goober, yeah.
We're all goofy goobers, yeah.
Goofy goofy goober goobers yeah.
We're all goofy goobers. Yeah. You, me, the mailman, the pope. Your mom, your neighbor, even that guy who picks his nose behind his newspaper on the subway in the morning. When you're chewing a piece of gum, can you remember how to blow a bubble? When you're going out to get the mail, why not try whistling a tune? If you feel like making pancakes, why not make them in animal shapes? Add some food coloring to your glass of milk! Draw mustaches and missing teeth on the photos of people in the newspaper! Fold a paper airplane out of that jury duty notice! Be a goofy goober! Yeah! Do it today! (It'll be the best day ever.)
May 06, 2010
The Urinator, Awaaaaay!
In an attempt to get involved in the coincidental theme that my two favorite bloggers, Patricia and Jacob have unintentionally initiated, I am dedicating this particular post to a phenomenon with which I have recently had to cope with on a whole new level: my son Bram's 'piemie'. (I just can't bring myself to call it by its official name yet - he's still my baby...!)
Bram has been aware of his fascinating appendage for some time now, a fact I have tried not to pay too much attention to, for fear it become an obsession before he's even anywhere near puberty. But, I realize it's a part of his body like any other, and should be explored in a healthy way - like my mother said, 'It's just as important as his nose!' (Well, perhaps it's just a bit more important.)
The discovery of his piemie and all it can do is just as interesting for me as it is for little Bram, but it doesn't make my job any easier. What is my job as Bram's mom? Essentially it's to provide food for him to eat, a place for him to sleep, a lap for him to sit on and clean diapers about every fifteen minutes. You see, Bram's piemie might be the size of a slightly overweight earthworm, but he has the peeing capacity of a drunken British football hooligan on vacation in Ibiza.
Bram can pee through anything. The force with which the pee shoots out of his piemie is something a Jedi knight would be jealous of. It doesn't matter what kind of magical mega-absorbing brand diaper I put on him, he can still manage to pee right through it, as well as several more layers, at a time. Nothing escapes the wrath of Bram's pee - his diaper, his PJs, his sleeping bag, his sheets and the protective spongey layer on top of his mattress which is meant to absorb the excess pee. Bram's pee penetrates this layer with no difficulty whatsoever and continues to leak about three inches deep into the mattress.
Now, the crazy thing is, his diaper his more often than not virtually dry even though his clothes look like he just dove into Niagra falls. How can this possibly be?! It can only mean one thing: Bram has been blessed with the super-human strength of Power Peeing. Maybe this is the reason why he still hasn't started talking yet - he's been too busy developing his peeing-power, which will undoubtedly aide him in saving the planet one day. I can just hear the cries of citizens in distress crying out,
'Is it a leaking faucet?!
Is it a hole in the roof?!
No!
It's Bram - The Urinator!'
The first thing that I am met with when I go into his bedroom in the mornings is an overwhelming aroma of boy-pee. So obviously, Bram has either peeed through everything again, or a bum has been living undetected under Bram's crib for the past month. Well, there ain't no bum under there. Bram is just so happy to see me, he starts jumping up and down in a puddle of his own piddle. The only thing he wants is for me to pick him up so we can have a big morning cuddle, but his entire body is soaked with slightly luke-warm pee. Naturally, my maternal instincts outweigh my desire to remain pee-free, so we cuddle. As you've probably guessed by now, Bram isn't the kind of man who does things half-heartedly, including cuddling. I get the biggest squeezes in the mornings from Bram, which is the best, but they do tend to make his pee to leak through my bathrobe and onto my PJs as well! Like I have nothing better to do than run yet another load of wash! I mean, I need to watch Columbo re-runs and pick the balls of my sweater, for starters!
This summer, we plan to start Bram's potty-training. I pray to the Mother God (that's the Big Man's assistant, who was hired specifically to watch over moms in particular) that Bram's Power-Pee won't destroy us all in the process. To be honest, I'm a little concerned for my safety and the preservation of my house - what if he pees a hole in the wall or something? I've never potty-trained someone with super-human powers before. I'd better go join that 'parents of super-human power-peers' support-group on Facebook. Any tips from people with super-human power themselves are more than welcome!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to do.
Bram has been aware of his fascinating appendage for some time now, a fact I have tried not to pay too much attention to, for fear it become an obsession before he's even anywhere near puberty. But, I realize it's a part of his body like any other, and should be explored in a healthy way - like my mother said, 'It's just as important as his nose!' (Well, perhaps it's just a bit more important.)
The discovery of his piemie and all it can do is just as interesting for me as it is for little Bram, but it doesn't make my job any easier. What is my job as Bram's mom? Essentially it's to provide food for him to eat, a place for him to sleep, a lap for him to sit on and clean diapers about every fifteen minutes. You see, Bram's piemie might be the size of a slightly overweight earthworm, but he has the peeing capacity of a drunken British football hooligan on vacation in Ibiza.
Bram can pee through anything. The force with which the pee shoots out of his piemie is something a Jedi knight would be jealous of. It doesn't matter what kind of magical mega-absorbing brand diaper I put on him, he can still manage to pee right through it, as well as several more layers, at a time. Nothing escapes the wrath of Bram's pee - his diaper, his PJs, his sleeping bag, his sheets and the protective spongey layer on top of his mattress which is meant to absorb the excess pee. Bram's pee penetrates this layer with no difficulty whatsoever and continues to leak about three inches deep into the mattress.
Now, the crazy thing is, his diaper his more often than not virtually dry even though his clothes look like he just dove into Niagra falls. How can this possibly be?! It can only mean one thing: Bram has been blessed with the super-human strength of Power Peeing. Maybe this is the reason why he still hasn't started talking yet - he's been too busy developing his peeing-power, which will undoubtedly aide him in saving the planet one day. I can just hear the cries of citizens in distress crying out,
'Is it a leaking faucet?!
Is it a hole in the roof?!
No!
It's Bram - The Urinator!'
The first thing that I am met with when I go into his bedroom in the mornings is an overwhelming aroma of boy-pee. So obviously, Bram has either peeed through everything again, or a bum has been living undetected under Bram's crib for the past month. Well, there ain't no bum under there. Bram is just so happy to see me, he starts jumping up and down in a puddle of his own piddle. The only thing he wants is for me to pick him up so we can have a big morning cuddle, but his entire body is soaked with slightly luke-warm pee. Naturally, my maternal instincts outweigh my desire to remain pee-free, so we cuddle. As you've probably guessed by now, Bram isn't the kind of man who does things half-heartedly, including cuddling. I get the biggest squeezes in the mornings from Bram, which is the best, but they do tend to make his pee to leak through my bathrobe and onto my PJs as well! Like I have nothing better to do than run yet another load of wash! I mean, I need to watch Columbo re-runs and pick the balls of my sweater, for starters!
This summer, we plan to start Bram's potty-training. I pray to the Mother God (that's the Big Man's assistant, who was hired specifically to watch over moms in particular) that Bram's Power-Pee won't destroy us all in the process. To be honest, I'm a little concerned for my safety and the preservation of my house - what if he pees a hole in the wall or something? I've never potty-trained someone with super-human powers before. I'd better go join that 'parents of super-human power-peers' support-group on Facebook. Any tips from people with super-human power themselves are more than welcome!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to do.
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