I try to see Joe every day, but it's become every other day. He was moved to a rehab center that is even further from my house and it's a problem getting there at times. This has been a busy summer.
I think he is getting substandard care, but I think that's how most of these places are. They sent a member of his family some paperwork for them to sign, stating they would waive their right to sue.
She sent it to her attorney and the place was horrified she would have an attorney look at it. At this point she said to them, 'Let me get this straight. Since he's been there, two weeks, you let his colostomy bag explode all over him which is probably what caused the subsequent infection to his feeding tube that was never removed, and you didn't come for an hour after he called to use the restroom... at FIVE AM... and when he got out of bed to try to help himself, he fell and got hurt. Why would I waive my right to sue?"
It's kind of been one nightmare after another the last two weeks. Here he is at the end stretch and I wonder if the rehab center will kill him.
I'm the one that is calling the family, "Make them get his ass out of bed and eat in the dining hall. He has to get out of that room." "He fell... again..." "I bought him shorts for rehab... but I'm not sure he's wearing them..."
He doesn't have family here. I am their eyes and ears and I report every time I see him. What do people do without people to look in on them?
And so this is a post about the selfishness of me... not the good in me.
People who know the situation, work and friends and his family, have said, "You are so good to do this to him. I think you might be a saint...' And on and on and on.
And I need to set the record here... get it off my chest as to why I am doing this, going in the 11th week. Why I go every day or every other day. Why I check on him. Why I dutifully report back to the family.
I would love to tell you I'm altruistic and do it because I'm a regular Florence Nightengale.
But that's not my personality and truth be known, I'd just as soon not be doing this.
However, I owe Joe.
For 10 years, my mother in law was dead, and my father in law wanted to come live with us.
I don't miss my father in law, coming up on the 1 year anniversary of his death next week.
For 10 years my father in law missed her. The drama, the inability to live alone, the mental issues he had... they were headed to my house. And they would have been at my house... every.single.day... if it had not been for Joe.
Joe hung out with him. They were buddies. They went to the intracoastal, rolled down the windows to the van and napped. They ate two out of every three meals together. When Pop couldn't drive, Joe drove him.
Joe... was my buffer. Without Joe, Pop would have been in my life.
Nobody else realizes that. My sisters in law live in NJ and CA. My brother in law lives an hour from here. But my husband and I... we felt the brunt of him and with my husband at work, I'm acutely aware that if Joe hadn't been in his life, he would have used very trick in the book to be at MY house... with just me and the kids.
Joe saved me.
And THAT is why I go every day. Joe was a genuine friend to Pop and still cries for him. He is lonely without that mean old goat. He was his friend for 70 years.
And I am indebted to him. For as long as it takes...
This happened last week, nearly verbatim. I dragged my second son into Radio Shack with me because I needed a part for my cell phone. I had something else to get too.
Me: Do you sell trackballs or these little silver rings for blackberries?
RS: No... Sorry. But can we offer you a new phone?
Me: No, that's fine. I don't want a new phone. I want to fix this one...
RS: But we can look at your contract and get you a new phone!
Me: I don't want a new phone. This one is fine. I just need a new trackball.
RS: But we can get you a new phone!
Me: My contract isn't up! I'm going to look around. Thank you.
I looked around the store, another clerk came up, he found what I needed, we joked about my driving a really old car that still had a tape player, he went to ring me me up and he said, "Can I get you a new phone?"
Mr. T busted out laughing.
I stood there incredulously.
Me: I don't want a new phone. Thank you.
RS#2: But your other phone looks broken. We can get you a new one.
Me: I DO.NOT.WANT a new phone.
About this time, my husband walks in, who was meeting us so he can take Mr. T and I can go back to work.
Husband: Hey. Watcha doin'? Getting a new phone?
Mr T: Bwahahahahaha!
Me: NO! I DO.NOT.WANT A.NEW PHONE. I AM NOT GETTING A NEW PHONE. I AM HAPPY WITH MY PHONE!
Husband: Sheesh. Touchy...
We left the mall and I explained the entire ordeal and how he walked into it.
But I got home, frustrated my phone was still broken, and realizing... a new phone was imminent.
That Saturday I was in Miami and my phone broke the rest of the way. The ring broke, 1/4 of the piece disappeared, the trackball would only work if I closed one eye, hopped three times, and if it was promising to rain... or so it seemed.
I got home and looked on the RS website and there... was... the ultimate phone... for FREE.
I went down and got it the next day. FREE.
It's one of those android phones with a slide out keyboard. And... I'm addicted.
I've downloaded games for Bones, found places to take notes for my myriad 'To Do lists' (I live and die by lists), there is a flashlight app that I've used, turning my phone into a flashlight, and I keep finding more free stuff to use. (Note "FREE". I pay enough for the monthly fee. I'm not spending one more damn dime.)
Pretty much though... for free I got a great phone and a flashlight. That flashlight feature may be my all time favorite feature. Seriously. You all can keep all your widgets and gadgets, I like that flashlight.
It took me awhile to get used to the phone. I wasn't sure I'd like it. But I've spent the better part of two days searching for pix of people so when they call their picture pops up. I got rid of crap I'd never use and promised Mr. T that we'd track Gator football with it.
My eldest son is officially my chauffeur now. Since he gets his license on Tuesday, I make him drive me everywhere. I'm comfortable now and I throw him the keys and say, 'James, take me to the Rehab Center to see Joe..." or "James, take me to pick up your Dad..."
I then proceed to read or do paperwork while he drives me around. It's like Driving Miss Daisy, except I sit shotgun.
Today I played a game I downloaded.
We got to our destination meeting my husband and Mr. T and Mr. T looked at Ringo and said, "How'd it go?"
Ringo replied, 'I looked over because I heard... BIRDS in the car. Birds. I'm driving along and Mom is playing Angry Birds. MOM. MOM is playing it."
Mr. T: *blink*
Me: Hey, I downloaded it for Bones. I had to try it out...
I'm lovin' this funny little phone/flashlight. Very fun.
Bones is a funny little kid. We all know it. It's his antics that spurred a lot of this writing seven years ago. My Dad always said watching my life is like watching a cartoon. And I know that I'm essentially living a strange version of Calvin and Hobbes...
... moreso when they were little. Now with teenagers it's Calvin meets Zits. If you want to know what my life is like with teenage boys... read Zits. Nine times out of ten, it's been done in this house and there is an element of truth.
I swear. Sheesh.
When Bones isn't around, sometimes his older brothers and I will laugh about him. Sometimes Ringo's friends will laugh with us. His friends love him. He's one of those infectious personalities... when he's not bugging the crap out of you.
So Bones is in Drama Camp... AGAIN this week. This is all per his request. He is very social and loves the kids there. The man who runs it is the department chair for the school Bones goes to... the Drama department chair.
And... I suspect he thinks Bones is a riot. Bones got in the car the other day and he said, "Mr. Tino has me sing Happy Birthday... ALL.THE.TIME."
Me: Happy Birthday?
Me: To who?
Bones: Whoever's birthday it is. Just me. I sing it to them.
I was puzzled and let it go.
Yesterday we had the following conversation:
Bones, entering my car: So, I had to sing HB again today.
Me: OH! So who's birthday was it?
Bones: Nobody's. One of the little kids got hurt so Mr. Tino pulled me out of class so I could sing to him, to make him happy..."
And that's when it occurred to me, Bones just doesn't stand up and sing Happy Birthday, there is drama and movement and... potential hilarity.
Me: So you sang him Happy Birthday?
Bones: Well, he pulled me out of class, the boy was crying, he was not really hurt, but more kind of embarrassed hurt, and he asked me to sing and we couldn't think of anything so he said, 'hey, sing Happy Birthday", so I sang it and the little kid started to laugh and I went back to class.
Me: You don't just sing Happy Birthday do you? When you sing it's a full on drama performance isn't it....
Bones, grinning: yeah. Hey, the kid laughed and felt better.
And that's what it's all about. Heh. I just think it's funny that others see it too.
I wasn't sure what to do today... I had a kid I had to lift up. Nobody's business as to why, let us just say we received some potentially life altering and not in a good way news yesterday and he was still reeling. I'll leave it at that, except to say, I can't change anything, I can't fix it, I can't make it go away.
I was at work and I picked up my phone and texted one of his closest friends.
Me: Can you come over today? I'll pick you up from home, I'll take you to work after, I don't care. Let me know. It would be good if you could hang with him.
I suspected they'd talked, but I wasn't sure.
He txted back: Sure. My Mom said it's OK.
Me: OK. I'll get you. Let me know what you want to do. I'll take y'all anywhere.
Him: Can you take us to the gym? I always think that makes me feel better when I'm sad.
I picked him up, took him back to our house where my kid was just sitting on the couch, doing nothing.
Him: Get up. We're going to the gym.
Son: We are?
Him: Yeah, get a shirt on. Get up. Let's go...
And with a slow grin, he got off the couch and got dressed.
I picked them up 90 minutes later, both of them were laughing.
I asked him later if he felt better and he said, "No. Not at all."
And deep inside he doesn't and he may never, but there are spurts of good which is all we can ask for sometimes until the dark recedes. I'd not be his age ever again. I remember it and I hated it.
People have asked me how he is doing. He doesn't make great grades and he's kind of immature. But when I assess the situation, I usually say, he's becoming a very good musician... and he has the GREATEST friends, absolutely the most wonderful friends.
Today... showed it. It made me smile. I know all his friends, one he's known since he was born. I have all of them in my cell phone. Every one of them. And I know... who I need to call for which situation.
He has great friends. And you can't beat that with a stick.
I swear, I'd change it all if I could... for you. You're f*cking perfect... to me.
... and it pretty much summed a good bit of it up.
It is summer and I'm still riding on the edge. It's not like it was by the end of school, but I'm still a mess inside, just waiting for it all to come unraveled. I clumsily joke sometimes that it's a form of 'Mother PTSD from having an ADHD child...'
We were in Pensacola playing a game. I was the 'it' person and everyone had to pick from a group of movies as to which one best fit me. I picked The Muppet Movie since one of my big lines at home is "I live with clowns". Everyone else picked... "High Anxiety". Everyone else would be all three of my kids and my sister.
And I am high anxiety. I'm anxious right now as I post this. There is too much uncertainty in my life, too much chaos, too much I can't control.
All of it is... too much.
Part of it is still not knowing EXACTLY what high school Mr. T will be attending in four weeks, although that decision will be made one way or another in the next six days. Everyone else has moved to the next step while I've been stuck in some sort of limbo waiting and wondering and... anxious for him.
Part of it is my eldest, stuff I don't post on and won't ever post on, but just know that he stresses me out, beyond teaching him to drive. It is being 16 and I'll leave it at that.
But most of it is my youngest and his ADHD. It is a constant flux of good grades, bad grades, good behaviour, bad behaviour, big energy, angry energy, happy energy... ROLLER COASTER ride.
Living with him is like living on a perpetual roller coaster. We are so blessed that he's at the school he's in... so far it has been such a perfect fit, but I look to the future and know high school is going to be tough. The last two years of his middle school are going to be tough.
As great a fit as this new school is, there were still failed tests, notes from teachers, incidents at school. He didn't pass the FCAT in math. There were many blind sided moments. Many. And I hate those. I don't cope well with being blind sided.
I spend a lot of time wondering when the other shoe will drop. I never take a good day and just embrace it. I do that with my oldest two boys... with them on a good day, we relish and look to the next. But with Bones... there is not embracing the good moments and looking for the next. With Bones I take in the good feelings of the good moments and then look over my shoulder to try to get a gauge on what's coming from behind me to ruin it all.
It is like living with perpetual mood swings. It is not uncommon for him to do something fantastic, to get some great grade, only for me to receive an email from a teacher five seconds later telling me he hasn't turned in homework for two weeks.
It is like this... nearly every day, sometimes its an hourly event.
And it has taken a toll on me. I am damaged.
I love my children. I spend hundreds of hours volunteering at their schools, I am their biggest cheerleaders, I spend hundreds of hours helping with homework, I lose sleep over them.
But when it is time for them to leave home, I will not cry. I will be ready for the next phase of my life. That's what's supposed to happen. You raise them to be contributing members of society, able to hold good relationships, and stand on their own.
It is how it is to be.
And when it happens... I'll be off the rollercoaster. It will be a quiet house with level emotion.
I will be ready.
Can you imagine living somewhere where a leopard can come to your neighborhood and attack you? Or where there are 'forest guards'?
Holy cats. Literally.
(You might live in India if wild animals can stray into your village and kill you. You might live in India if you have forest guards...)
I was thinking today. I get all these 'You might live in FL' lists, and I decided to make my own for South Florida.
You might live in S. Fl if you've seen an alligator in your yard.
You might live in S. Fl if you've had to quickly warn a neighbor there is a 12 foot bull gator in their yard for fear they'll stumble upon it instead while mowing their lawn.
You might live in S. Fl if when your 16 year old asks to play golf with friends, you have to reiterate to him to stay away from the gators, don't taunt them, engage them or try to hit them with golf balls.
You might live in S. Fl when your kids point out that the morning road kill on the highway is... a gator.
You might live in S. Fl if you've had to stop your car in the middle of the road because... a gator is blocking your path.
You might live in S. Fl if it's raining hard and as you drive down the boulevard your son says, while looking in the swails off the side, "Look, a gator..."
You might live in S. Fl if the running game in the car is not counting VW bugs, but counting gators sunning themselves.
You might live in S. Fl if you have to cut your grass twice a week in the summer.
You might live in S. Fl if you can plant a houseplant outside, give it one growing season, and it turns into a tree.
You might live in S. Fl if you suspect the city water is polluted.
You might live in S. Fl if you open the morning paper and find an elected official is indicted and you think, "Ho hum. Again?"
You might live in S. Fl if when a friend says to you, "Did you see the shuttle launch?" they don't mean "did you watch it on TV", but instead, "Was the sky clear enough that when you walked out your front door you could see the launch?"
You might live in S. Fl if you try to eat at as many new or good restaurants from May through September because everything is almost empty.
You might live in S. Fl if you avoid going to dinner at all costs from November until April because you'll never find a seat... in particular on a weekend.
You might live in S. Fl if you've met a Holocaust survivor.
You might live in S. Fl if you walk into a restaurant, in particular on 'the Island', and a 90 year old man walks in with a 21 year old woman dressed in 3 inch fmp's, bleached hair, and 36EEE. And it is NOT his niece.
You might live in S. Fl if you have to drive through the ghetto to get to the nicest neighborhoods in the area.
You might live in S. Fl where the per capita earnings are amazingly high, people drive BMWs, Mercedes, and Bentleys yet the public education stinks.
You might live in S. Fl if you are sitting at a stoplight and you're the only one NOT driving a BMW, Mercedes or Bentley.
You might live in S. Fl if you become a weather wonk in June.
You might live in S. Fl if you take a Cat 1 hurricane seriously, NOT because it's a Cat 1, but because you know dang well that by the time it gets to you, in less than 12 hours, it can be a Cat 4.
You might live in S. Fl if you hate the people reporting on the weather channel about hurricanes because they sound so stupid. "Look, this is a STICK! In 120 mph winds, it could be DEADLY!" Right.
And... you might live in S. Fl if you drive down the road and see a long line of Lamborghinis driving down the street and although your kids are excited at the sight, someone says, "Remember when we saw this last time when we were at..."
Not making any of it up...
The comment issue was mine. For some reason comments were listed as closed on that post. I have a suspicion as to how it happened and am aware now what to do differently.
Thanks for the email!
Two of us were pooped upon.
Two weeks ago, I was with Mo at some friend's home while my boys were swimming, and as I held the baby I heard a most unlady like sound come from her seat. I figured she was just gassy and blew it off.
I offered her up to our friend to hold her, as I hate to be a baby hog, and as I lifted her away from my body I noticed that the top of the fat pookie's diaper had become a fountain of yellow seedy poop...
I immediately looked down and found my lap and shirt covered, as if someone had painted me. Blech- factor... I didn't have a change of clothes so even after wiping it off as best I could, I was forced to wear poopy clothes until we left.
Bonus... I'm the mother of three boys and didn't actually really care. What's a little poop amongst babies and people who love them?
But Bones is different and as he was holding the fat pookie one day later the next week she peed and pooped on his jeans and shirt. We played it off as just big pee as for some reason he was able to wrap his mind around a bit better, the thought of being urinated upon as opposed to being... pooped upon. (It wasn't all yellowy, so he believed us... at first. By the end of the week he was declaring, "I got POOPED on!")
This entire thing cracks me up as he is so dramatic and I feel certain that in her adulthood, when she gets married, I can picture Bones on her wedding day whispering in her ear, 'I remember when you pooped on me..."
Meanwhile, my favorite picture from vacation of the Fat Pookie is this one. I have it on my desktop at work and everyone laughs at it.
This picture has two names. One is... The Ten Toed Sloth and the other "Bones and Anti-Bones". Heh.
You gotta love those thighs...
My brother's birthday is next month, but we always celebrate early at my folks' house. Little known fact about my brother, he had this thing about thinking chickens were funny when we were kids, in particular when we were in college.
He had a rubber chicken, rubber chicken key ring, a plate with a chicken painted on it... and many more things, but my memory fails. The painted chicken plate hangs on MY wall in my eat in kitchen.
Roses is one of the blogs I keep up with. I think she's funny and insightful. She's got great kids who are funny and do things like juggle... and do it well! And we had the same hair until I cut it last week... (You're wondering how I know we had the same hair... she has a picture of the back of her head.)
Whereas I quilt, Roses knits. I don't play with big sticks. I'll poke my eye out. But she evidently can play with big sticks, and can probably run with them too, and she does it very very well. Knits with them... not runs with them. Although she may do that well too... I digress.
And she makes... chicken hats. For the last few months I've been thinking... "I need to get him a chicken hat for his birthday". And sure enough, I did it.
I am not one to post pix of adults unless they say OK, he didn't, so this is ME in my brother's chicken hat, before I wrapped it. You can even see the tag still in the back. Heh. Minnie Pearl's chicken hat.
Still cracks me up...
The title is from a story about my son Ringo and my brother. My brother keeps his head shaved. Ringo was but a wee laddie and asked my brother why he didn't have any hair.
Replied my funny brother, "Cuz the chicks dig it..."
Flash forward a few hours, we were all in the kitchen again and someone walked in and Ringo said, "You know why Uncle TN doesn't have any hair? Because the chickens peck at it..."
Heh heh heh. Assimilation. It made sense to him.
There is so much crap running through my head... so it's all random. A big post with pictures is coming. My computer is just so dang slow, at 6 years old, that it's going to take me awhile to get them downloaded.
I'm busy finishing the Fat Pookie's quilt. It is going to be amazing and I can't wait to post pictures. I am so in love with this little baby girl. When we visited she went to just barely gazing at herself in the mirror and fists closed, to fists open, grabbing, and laughing/growling at herself in the mirror.
She's a growling baby and it cracks me up.
Her big sister, The Great Flambina, is smart and wonderful. She is two, which tries her parents, but in my mind, she is doing exactly what she's supposed to be doing at this age... seeking out her own type of independence as she struggles with talking. Once those two things gel... understanding and accepting her limitations while using her words... all will be right with her little world.
And no, I won't always call my youngest niece The Fat Pookie. It's just a temporary name. For now it makes me laugh as her little thighs are like ham hocks.
Knowing my long lasting love of all that is fried dough, otherwise known as 'doughnuts', my sister recommended that I make the trek into the heart of Atlanta, down by Georgia Tech and try a doughnut shop called, Sublime Doughnuts.
Let me reiterate in case any of you dear readers have forgotten... I could write poetry about doughnuts. When my grandfather died and my grandmother didn't have anyone brow beating her about anything, she lived on nutter butter cookies and pistachio ice cream. *I* would live on doughnuts.
I grabbed up Bones and Mr. T and we made our way there last Wednesday morning... and it was WORTH, every... bite. Holy cats. I met the chef and proprietor, a young man, much younger than my boys expected, who has served in the US Navy as a cook, went to culinary school, and then he had a vision and opened his own shop.
God Bless him... I so hope it works out for him in a BIG way. Industrious Americans... I love them. The selection of doughnuts... I have to go back. We left with a dozen and my cup o' Joe, that I have found recently I cannot live without. (I'm struggling lately to stay awake during the day, let alone get out of bed.) I'd love to have stayed with a newspaper, sat at one of the tables, ate, drank, and be merry.
So go there if you're in the area. They're closed on Mondays. Fun doughnuts. And if you go to his site, the opening segment showing him start his day made me grin. How often have I said when I've been forced to wake up way too early, "Nobody gets up this early except Farmers and people who make Doughnuts..."
I could write poetry about doughnuts.
I got my hair cut shorter and I absolutely LOVE IT! I needed something more youthful and sassy. I was tired of feeling like the middle aged Mom that I am.
Besides, it has come to my attention that the Great Flambina may have inherited MY hair and I need it to always look fun. I don't want her to grow up thinking her hair sucks. I have motivation now to try to always look good.
I'm thinking of coloring my hair eggplant. Just a quiet purple sheen in the summer sun.
I said to my hair dresser, 'So, do you think I could pull it off? I don't want it to be SCREAMING purple though...'
Said she, "Bou, you don't have enough gray for it to really take. I think it would be just a light sheen..."
So who knows, in the next few months I could live on the edge and put eggplant colored highlights in my hair...
On a news front, I'm glad Osama bin Laden is dead, I think Casey Anthony killed her baby, and Rupert Murdoch and his ilk are sleazeballs.
I read that Osama had wanted to target Obama's plane. I'm hoping that the thought we can reason with terrorists has finally been put to rest by those flakes who think we can. We can't. Terrorists are insane.
I think Casey Anthony is guilty as hell of killing her baby, but I also think that the jury really didn't have what they needed. Take the emotion out of it and look at the case, and the baby's body was just found too late to give them the evidence. That may not be a popular belief, but looking at what they had to go on, I'm glad I wasn't on that jury. It would have haunted me... forever.
That said, I suspect justice will enact itself soon enough. Look, it finally did with Jeffrey Dahmer. Sometimes it just takes a bit longer.
And I'm blown away with what the media gets away with in Britain. Usually what happens in Britain follows over here with time. Dear Lord, please don't let us have our media have THAT much control. It's bad enough as it is. What has happened over there is revolting... and the fact it made it's way over here with 9.11 victim's phone hacking just turns my stomach that much more.
Work is frustrating me. I'm stressing about my children and their future. I think that is the basis of my sleep issues and stress eating. (Stress eating? If Sublime Doughnuts was down the street from ME instead of 9 hours away... I'd gain 40 pounds.)
I got a text from my girlfriend, Lola, that kind of put it in perspective. We were texting about our kids and schools and our concerns and she said, "We're going to be OK. They're going to be fine..."
And I think she's right. It's just getting to that place called "Fine" that has me rattled on a cellular level.
Grades, SATs, Eagle Scout, college apps starting in 10 months, volunteer hours, etc, etc, etc. Blech.
This is the season in Florida where you can put a potted plant outside and in three months it'll turn into a tree. This is the season where my husband obsesses about the grass and how often it must be cut.
I swear he lays in bed listening to see if he can hear the grass growing....
We have taken on my Mother's Crape Myrtle obsession and we're pricing them out today. I suspect that in the next few weeks we will have Crape Myrtle's in our yard!
That's all for now...
This trip has been mostly a hit and run. With the exception of my parent's home, where even that visit was four days shorter, I hit a family's house, stay a night, and move on.
Perhaps it's better that way as with three boys it is crazy energy and it's easy to wear out one's welcome.
My niece is speaking up a storm and for the most part, I've been able to decode. That Mother skill of interpretting a two year old's attempt at communication is not something that evidently goes away... it just takes a bit of time since every two year old is different.
The Great Flambina has a name for just about everyone. Ringo it G, Mr. T is T, my husband is 'Uncle G' clear as a dang bell, Bones is Yah Yah (which makes him nuts), and I am... Eight.
As in the number.
It was supposed to be Aunt, but she can't say it and then we were playing hide and seek, just she and I. She communicates wanting to play by putting her hands over her eyes and saying, "A..B... Dada, Eight".
That is two year old counting. Being that there are but four syllables there, you better hide fast.
Since I'm the one who has been playing with her, Aunt became Eight.
Imagine my confusion when I was hiding and I could hear this sweet 2 year old voice yelling, "Eight! EIIIIGHT! Eight!"
And she was yelling for me, I realized, when she found me and shrieked happily with wide open arms, "EIGHT!"
I'm OK with it sticking. How many people get their own crazy name like that?
I picture her getting married one day, introducing me to her fiancee and saying, "And this is... Eight."
Today is my Mom's birthday, a big one. BIG. She wouldn't allow us to throw her a party or do anything big, so we had a typical family birthday party, where we all gathered around, had dinner, had her open presents, and had angel food cake with fudge icing.
She spent the day on the back porch loving on all her grandbabies. My boys played in the backyard, while the Great Flambina would play around the porch and the newest Chunky Monkey sat on her lap, cooing and making sweet baby noises.
It looked relaxing and the kids were excited to help her celebrate.
We leave tomorrow. This trip was a hit and run, far quicker than normal and we didn't get to see anyone at all outside of doing our family thing.
My Dad had the babies, kids and men in homemade 4th of July hats, which was a riot. Mo and Flam made the Fat Pookie's and her big sister's hat.
I think Flambina looks like she's ready to go golfing...
This was the outfit my sister put the Fat Pookie in after insisting that the last outfit made her look chunky because of the horizontal stripes. She came out in this outfit, busting out and I was like, 'Oh sure. This is MUCH better..." Right.
We keep laughing... she's just so CHUNKY! She gets chunkier and chunkier and my sister is thinner and thinner. Ringo was so funny. He said, "You know, when you first see her, you don't think she's that cute, but the more you're around her, you really see how incredibly cute she is."
She'll melt your heart...
This is her passed out while we went blueberry picking. 'Tis the life...
Happy Birthday to my Mom! We have all been so blessed to have you in our lives. We are who we are because of you.
This is my sister's newest baby, 11 weeks old, with Bones. I call this baby... The Fat Pookie.
I hold her and I cannot quit laughing. She has JOWLS. And her thighs. Her little thighs are rolls and rolls of fat that are bigger than my bicep, on a tiny baby.
The other day we were skyping and my sister had her in a little white onesie with a pink tutu. I said to her, "She looks like one of those dancing hippos on Fantasia..."
Mo didn't laugh. She said I was being mean. OK, maybe she laughed when she said I was mean.
But the baby is a chunky monkey. When you see her, it makes your heart sing because she's just so dang awfully fat and cute.
Mo was playing with her today and she said to us, "I think the problem is I put her in horizontal stripes. She looks fatter in horizontal stripes... "
A baby fashion faux pas? Really? I'm not thinking vertical stripes are going to thin out that baby face or those chunky monkey thighs...
Bones said to me quietly, "Mom, she's going to have to lose some weight on her thighs. Look at those tiny feet. No way can they ever hold up those legs..." Bwahahahaha!
Needless to say, I am attached to this baby. We're all attached to her. I cannot get enough of her, holding her, kissing her, whispering to her how much we all love her. We're all madly in love.
She makes me laugh.
So my boys are home from the Camp from Hell and... funnily enough, they are laughing about all of it. I thought they were going to come back irritated and over it all, instead they've been taking it in stride, laughing about the absurdity that surrounded them.
I'm very organized for their packing for camp. From instruction I took from a Scout Master many years ago, my boys leave with seven zip loc bags. Each bag is labeled a day of the week, each bag has clothes for that day. This does a few things... it ensures the boys have packed clothes for every day, certain days may require a Class B uniform and they know they have one if it's in that bag, when they come home if there are many bags that are full of clean clothes I know they didn't change (blech, didn't happen to us, but DID happen to a gf of mine... her kid came back with 5 bags of clean clothes), clean socks for every day go in each bag reminding them to change their socks (yes, that reminder is needed) and the biggest bonus... if it rains and rain gets in their tent, all new clothes stay dry.
I don't pack for them. They know the drill; they use the same bags year after year. The bags are stowed with the other camping gear.
The other prereq, is only old tennis shoes go. When they need new shoes, the old ones go into the garage to wait for camping. (If they've outgrown them, we go to Walmart or Payless and buy cheap crap tennis shoes that need to last exactly 7 days.)
So keep those little facts in mind as I tell this story.
When we arrived at Camp and unloaded all their things, as I stated previously we stowed all their things in the pavilion, which quickly filled with ants. My eldest took the initiative to get rid of the ants while my 2nd son set up camp in their tent.
I walked into the pavilion and found some ant free items and took them back to their tent, which was totally set up... beds were made, bags of clothes under each cot, battery fans set up and flashlights ready for the night.
I reached through to the two of them and the following conversation ensued:
Me: OK, take this bag...
I handed it through and T took it from me.
Me: And... here's another...
And Ringo took it from me...
The entire time, I'm starting to look around, something didn't smell right.
I held out another bag.
Me: And the last one. *Looking around*
Ringo: What's wrong.
Me: I'm sorry... something... something doesn't smell right.
Mr. T and Ringo: *blink*
Me: *quietly* It... smells... like... poop.
Ringo looked at me grinning, kind of sheepishly, "Mom, don't worry, those are my old shoes..."
Teenage boy shoes could be used as nuclear weapons. There was no need to develop nuclear weapons. We could have just harvested hundreds and thousands and millions of teenage boy tennis shoes and dropped them on our enemies and won.
Clean up would have been a b*tch though.
Yesterday we picked up the boys from Camp and I had had the forethought to pack plastic bags in the car to immediately pack their shoes away from the air we breathe.
For the most part my car seemed OK, but every now and then, my car would wreak.
We unpacked the car when we arrived at my folks', and immediately threw their shoes on the back porch. The back porch, parts of it have become toxic. Tomorrow we're debating whether we're going to attempt to wash them or just take them outside and hose them down with water, soap, vinegar, and anything else we can think of.
I'd thought a big bonfire would work, but there's a burn ban here in Pensacola.
Ghastly. Absolutely ghastly.