Quite possibly the world’s greatest invention, IMHO, is The Sleep Sheep. This enchantingly soft, fluffy and lovable character restored the sanity to my home countless times. See: people are Pavlovian. Provide constant stimuli and we’ll continually furnish you with the same response. And for the most part, infants are just little people. Stimulus/response…stimulus/response (already I’ve noted you’re drooling).
A newborn cries, little bundle gets changed and fed, and finally the wee bairn is lulled to sleep by Mommy’s gentle touch and the constant sounds of Sleep Sheep’s riveting yet monotonous racket. Soon, said tot needs less lulling by Mommy and can rely exclusively upon the gentle cocoon of security afforded by the TOTALLY life-like whale sounds. Seriously?!? Whale sounds… I attended R.I.T., needless to say, it sounds less like “Whale sounds” (which I’ve never actually heard) than it does deaf people having sex (which I actually HAVE heard), but who am I to judge the sick sense of humor afforded the Sleep Sheep manufacturers.
Sleep Sheep is so amazing that not only does she put cranky babies to sleep, Sleep Sheep can work her magic on grown-ups alike. Hell, Sleep Sheep, blared loud enough can out deaf-sex any sniveling bundle of joy – especially at 3am. Wait, that just doesn’t sound right. Sleep Sheep can out whale any wailing nipper – no matter the time of day! Yes, that’s much better…
Sleep Sheep is my BFF. Once a long term sufferer of insomnia, I rest quite well now. I can crawl into bed, turn on Sleep Sheep with her preposterous white noise and [well, so I’ve been informed] sleep straight through my husband coming upstairs, turning on all the lights in our room, smashing his foot into his dirty clothes basket and the ensuing swearing, flip on Transformers (the movie) to at least volume 24, brush his teeth, rearrange the entire left side of our bed, pull the blankets off of me, unceremoniously fling himself onto the mattress and fart loudly. [that’s always the best one the next morning – “I even farted really loud, and God did it smell…but you didn’t even budge.” Yes, honey – you’re a prize.] Thank you, Sleep Sheep.
Many times, while looking back on my childrens’ infancy fondly, I’m forced to wonder: how on earth did I withstand the awesome power of Sleep Sheep back then and not drop the baby on their little noodle? Wistfully, I turn my attention back to my kids playing in the driveway. Two of them are wearing helmets for no reason, other than, “We like helmets, Mommy.” While the third could possibly be the poster child for birth control…and I’m confounded. How many times DID I drop them due to Sleep Sheep’s seductive allure? On second thought…curse you Sleep Sheep…CURSE YOU!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Linda Blair
Two Words. Projectile. Vomit. When I say it in my head, it feels more like a paragraph than two simple words. Once upon a time, I was uncomplicated, unspoiled…and well, puke free. Back in those days, projectile vomit was something I had heard of but never experienced. It was that funny thing that happened to Frat Boys who had eaten bad chicken wings the night before a bender.
In any case – did you know that stuff can actually launch 6 feet? I sure as hell didn’t. It was a scene straight out of the Exorcist (which, incidentally – I always thought was contrived; the barf scenes that is). How terribly mistaken I was!
I was awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the bellowing cries of my infant daughter. I rushed down to her crib. I pick her up…as she is facing away from me (and now, I look back and all I can think is, “Sweet Jesus…thank you for that.”), I move to her changing table b/c something just doesn’t smell right. Oh, little did I know…that the smell I thought was the meager “stinky-poo” my bundle of love had made was really Hades reincarnate trying to escape the Underworld via the porthole of my baby’s mouth.
Upchuck hurled out in a fire-hose blast that was so powerful, it knocked me backwards. I stood transfixed. It went full force and nailed a wall easily 5 feet away. I must have screamed, as my husband ran downstairs. He called my name, "Cathy?". I turned. The hork followed suit. In a stream lasting what probably was a sum of 30 seconds, I took out 3 out of 4 bedroom walls, a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, two dressers, a toy box, much of the floor, the dog and the front of my now appalled husband. Immediately, my twisted mind thought, “If we could unleash this power properly; we’ll never have to pay to power wash the house again.”
The baby, unscathed in this whole extravaganza, burped once (to which, I almost dropped her on the floor and ran for my life) and passed right out. It was in that precise moment, I realized that the saying “sleeping like a baby” meant you could wake up screaming, yak your guts out and go right on back to sleep without a care in the world…the next time someone says, “Oh, she’s sleeping like a baby.” I’m bolting for the door.
In any case – did you know that stuff can actually launch 6 feet? I sure as hell didn’t. It was a scene straight out of the Exorcist (which, incidentally – I always thought was contrived; the barf scenes that is). How terribly mistaken I was!
I was awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the bellowing cries of my infant daughter. I rushed down to her crib. I pick her up…as she is facing away from me (and now, I look back and all I can think is, “Sweet Jesus…thank you for that.”), I move to her changing table b/c something just doesn’t smell right. Oh, little did I know…that the smell I thought was the meager “stinky-poo” my bundle of love had made was really Hades reincarnate trying to escape the Underworld via the porthole of my baby’s mouth.
Upchuck hurled out in a fire-hose blast that was so powerful, it knocked me backwards. I stood transfixed. It went full force and nailed a wall easily 5 feet away. I must have screamed, as my husband ran downstairs. He called my name, "Cathy?". I turned. The hork followed suit. In a stream lasting what probably was a sum of 30 seconds, I took out 3 out of 4 bedroom walls, a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, two dressers, a toy box, much of the floor, the dog and the front of my now appalled husband. Immediately, my twisted mind thought, “If we could unleash this power properly; we’ll never have to pay to power wash the house again.”
The baby, unscathed in this whole extravaganza, burped once (to which, I almost dropped her on the floor and ran for my life) and passed right out. It was in that precise moment, I realized that the saying “sleeping like a baby” meant you could wake up screaming, yak your guts out and go right on back to sleep without a care in the world…the next time someone says, “Oh, she’s sleeping like a baby.” I’m bolting for the door.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Inna Wata!
Recently, my husband & I were invited out on a local harbor cruise with some friends. The cruise was touted as being a Jamaican cruise. My friends are Jamaican. There was reggae, there was bumping, there was curried goat, there was no rum punch…I was disappointed. I digress. Let me describe Liv. Liv is a (this is an official Jamaican term, btw) BIG DOOD – he’s about 6’5”, braided hair, with a charming and easy-going smile. His wife, Thalia, always looks like she is up to trouble. Of course, this means that she & I get along extremely well – even if she still thinks she is in the motherland and drives on the wrong side of the road from time to time. I've learned to wear a seat belt.
Prior to departing my house, she informs me of the monumental importance of this trip; as Liv is afraid of the water. He cannot swim. “In fact, “ she says, “probably 90% of Jamaicans can’t swim.” I don’t laugh at her joke…if only I knew then [shaking head]. We park the car. I ask what boat we are taking. “Di Titanic” is growled at me from somewhere in the front seat. Ok….these folk certainly are weird. But, hey! I dig culture as much as the next person…not to mention Rum Punch. We board the boat.
I notice that not many people are near the side of the boat. In fact, everyone kind of congregates right in the middle of the boat. The boat pitches gently, and a few shouts of, “Lawd Gad! Hav mercy!” can be heard, and I am struck dumfounded. These people really ARE afraid of the water! We sit down, and I lean across the table to Thalia, “You were born on an island for God’s sake…how can none of you [looking around] NONE OF YOU?!?! swim?” She stares at me and answers plain as day that most do not expect to have to swim off the island at any point in their lives. Again, I’m rendered speechless.
Liv joins us. He immediately notes the lifejackets over in the cabinets on the side of the main room, “Di life jacket dem ova deh so.” He looks petrified. At this point, I’ve already come to learn there is no rum punch aboard this vessel, and now I take it out on Liv, “Right. Also notice how many people are on the Titanic here…and how many preservers there are. I’m not good with numbers, but I suspect som di fok be gwon over wit no jacket.” [Thalia loves when I attempt Liv’s accent, and I love that I even understood what the hell he said.] We all get up for a bit.
I found myself randomly asking folks if they could swim. The resounding answer was, “NO!” People stared at me goggle-eyed before moving on…Fascinating. As the evening wore on, the hubs & I found ourselves on the side of the bow, facing the serene & tranquil water. I took a load off and sat on the railing for the briefest of moments. I must have had 15 people shout at me from various distances (depending on their direct fears of coming too close to the crazy woman who might jump), “Wat ye do? Git offa dere! CHO!” I’m sick in the head…at this point, I’d hook my leg onto the railing and lean over hollering, “Ruuuuuuuum Punnnnnnnnnch!” People screamed and darted away. I don’t know that I’ll be invited back.
Prior to departing my house, she informs me of the monumental importance of this trip; as Liv is afraid of the water. He cannot swim. “In fact, “ she says, “probably 90% of Jamaicans can’t swim.” I don’t laugh at her joke…if only I knew then [shaking head]. We park the car. I ask what boat we are taking. “Di Titanic” is growled at me from somewhere in the front seat. Ok….these folk certainly are weird. But, hey! I dig culture as much as the next person…not to mention Rum Punch. We board the boat.
I notice that not many people are near the side of the boat. In fact, everyone kind of congregates right in the middle of the boat. The boat pitches gently, and a few shouts of, “Lawd Gad! Hav mercy!” can be heard, and I am struck dumfounded. These people really ARE afraid of the water! We sit down, and I lean across the table to Thalia, “You were born on an island for God’s sake…how can none of you [looking around] NONE OF YOU?!?! swim?” She stares at me and answers plain as day that most do not expect to have to swim off the island at any point in their lives. Again, I’m rendered speechless.
Liv joins us. He immediately notes the lifejackets over in the cabinets on the side of the main room, “Di life jacket dem ova deh so.” He looks petrified. At this point, I’ve already come to learn there is no rum punch aboard this vessel, and now I take it out on Liv, “Right. Also notice how many people are on the Titanic here…and how many preservers there are. I’m not good with numbers, but I suspect som di fok be gwon over wit no jacket.” [Thalia loves when I attempt Liv’s accent, and I love that I even understood what the hell he said.] We all get up for a bit.
I found myself randomly asking folks if they could swim. The resounding answer was, “NO!” People stared at me goggle-eyed before moving on…Fascinating. As the evening wore on, the hubs & I found ourselves on the side of the bow, facing the serene & tranquil water. I took a load off and sat on the railing for the briefest of moments. I must have had 15 people shout at me from various distances (depending on their direct fears of coming too close to the crazy woman who might jump), “Wat ye do? Git offa dere! CHO!” I’m sick in the head…at this point, I’d hook my leg onto the railing and lean over hollering, “Ruuuuuuuum Punnnnnnnnnch!” People screamed and darted away. I don’t know that I’ll be invited back.
Friday, June 10, 2011
I Love Lawn Gnomes
I’ve discovered the purpose of those houses whose front yards are plastered with various lawn decorations of all sorts of shapes & sizes. From children silhouettes playing hide & seek, the cow tail hose holder, pink flamingos and even the Virgin Mother in a ½ bathtub….it is to distract you from the crazy person “gardening”.
I’ll admit, I hate doing yard work. I have a black thumb (yet strangely the rosebushes that were in our yard long before our arrival; flourish every year, though I hack them down to nubby stumps every fall) and have attempted to kill every plant within my reach. I’d just as soon plow & pave my entire yard, paint it green and pretend it was a “lawn”.
My typical day out weeding goes something like this:
“Is that a weed? Honey!? Do you know what the hell that is? Is it supposed to be growing there?” No response, save for my oldest screaming, “Can I have your baby shovel (referring to my gardening spade)? I want to dig a big hole.” Fabulous. “No Digging!”
“Honey???”
At this point, I usually march into our garage in search of weed killer of some sort. In the process, about 6 different things from a shelf fall on my head. A spider lands on my face. I scream like a small child. My arms swat. More things fall from the shelf. I smash my big toe into the kids’ wagon. I then trip over a soccer ball, and land ass-over-teakettle on the ground, weed killer in hand and only partially wounded.
I hobble like Quasimodo back into my front yard. My hair is askew and covered in cob webs…I think I’m bruised up like a prize fighter. I’ve started mumbling to myself, “#%&*@!...weeds, $^*@!! that I have to do...” I’ve started gesturing with my hands as I encounter the hole dug near a tree in the yard, you know – the apparent escape effort of my daughter to evacuate her current hell & find her way to China. I drop the weed killer…it lands on my toe (you know, the one that just blasted a wagon?), I swear some more.
Finally, I blast the bejesus out of the offender in my mulch. Right then my husband walks up and informs me that I just sprayed the kids’ daisies that they planted last week. Noting the car driving by with lookie-loos as I start to pull my hair out…I realize how much more incognito I’d look if only I had a lawn full of atrocious ornaments.
I’ll admit, I hate doing yard work. I have a black thumb (yet strangely the rosebushes that were in our yard long before our arrival; flourish every year, though I hack them down to nubby stumps every fall) and have attempted to kill every plant within my reach. I’d just as soon plow & pave my entire yard, paint it green and pretend it was a “lawn”.
My typical day out weeding goes something like this:
“Is that a weed? Honey!? Do you know what the hell that is? Is it supposed to be growing there?” No response, save for my oldest screaming, “Can I have your baby shovel (referring to my gardening spade)? I want to dig a big hole.” Fabulous. “No Digging!”
“Honey???”
At this point, I usually march into our garage in search of weed killer of some sort. In the process, about 6 different things from a shelf fall on my head. A spider lands on my face. I scream like a small child. My arms swat. More things fall from the shelf. I smash my big toe into the kids’ wagon. I then trip over a soccer ball, and land ass-over-teakettle on the ground, weed killer in hand and only partially wounded.
I hobble like Quasimodo back into my front yard. My hair is askew and covered in cob webs…I think I’m bruised up like a prize fighter. I’ve started mumbling to myself, “#%&*@!...weeds, $^*@!! that I have to do...” I’ve started gesturing with my hands as I encounter the hole dug near a tree in the yard, you know – the apparent escape effort of my daughter to evacuate her current hell & find her way to China. I drop the weed killer…it lands on my toe (you know, the one that just blasted a wagon?), I swear some more.
Finally, I blast the bejesus out of the offender in my mulch. Right then my husband walks up and informs me that I just sprayed the kids’ daisies that they planted last week. Noting the car driving by with lookie-loos as I start to pull my hair out…I realize how much more incognito I’d look if only I had a lawn full of atrocious ornaments.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Yep, she's Indian...
I've come to realize, since having kids...that these little individuals are hilarious. Their improper use of words, their inflection of voice and even their gestures are amazing. I'm the proud mother to three vibrant, creative and opinionated little cherubs. Ok, you're catching me on a good day - many times, I think I've spawned aliens. In any case, my "baby"; my two-year-old, we've discovered - is Indian.
Alright, that's not really PC - she's Native American. Don't let the blue eyes, tow-head and pale skin fool you...she's Indian (I'm already giving up on the PC thing...). This child has renamed herself, and most everything in our house. Gone are the days when you could simply call here by her mere first name. Now, you must address this Native Princess as "Leila Big Girl". She's the younger sister to "Noah Has A Mohawk" and "Callah Purple Glasses".
Yesterday, I made the mistake of not properly following the correct dissertation protocol when requesting Leila Big Girl's presence. I thought I was going to be scalped. She peered at me over her glasses (which magnify her bright blue eyes by about 1000%). She growled. She grabbed my face. I think she may have tried to bite me. And what normally is this sweet high pitched toddler voice was replaced by demon speak, "I LEILA BIG GIRL. YOU ARE NOT MY MOMMY!" Hey now, that was a bit uncalled for.
"I AM your mother. Now, get your hiney over here, I need to talk to you." Brave, bold move on my part. She rushed at me in a frenzy. Mashed her face against mine. I was sure a war cry was to follow. I was terribly amiss. Instead, in a voice straight out of the Exorcist, she informed me, "I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL!" Each shout became painfully (on my ear drums) more obvious that I was powerless to stop the name and culture change that just happened inside my home.
Having no longer remembered what the hell I even wanted from "Leila Big Girl", I got up and did what any other self-respecting parent would do...I grabbed my purse, told my husband I was going out, and asked if Target sold Chieftain Headdresses.
Alright, that's not really PC - she's Native American. Don't let the blue eyes, tow-head and pale skin fool you...she's Indian (I'm already giving up on the PC thing...). This child has renamed herself, and most everything in our house. Gone are the days when you could simply call here by her mere first name. Now, you must address this Native Princess as "Leila Big Girl". She's the younger sister to "Noah Has A Mohawk" and "Callah Purple Glasses".
Yesterday, I made the mistake of not properly following the correct dissertation protocol when requesting Leila Big Girl's presence. I thought I was going to be scalped. She peered at me over her glasses (which magnify her bright blue eyes by about 1000%). She growled. She grabbed my face. I think she may have tried to bite me. And what normally is this sweet high pitched toddler voice was replaced by demon speak, "I LEILA BIG GIRL. YOU ARE NOT MY MOMMY!" Hey now, that was a bit uncalled for.
"I AM your mother. Now, get your hiney over here, I need to talk to you." Brave, bold move on my part. She rushed at me in a frenzy. Mashed her face against mine. I was sure a war cry was to follow. I was terribly amiss. Instead, in a voice straight out of the Exorcist, she informed me, "I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL!" Each shout became painfully (on my ear drums) more obvious that I was powerless to stop the name and culture change that just happened inside my home.
Having no longer remembered what the hell I even wanted from "Leila Big Girl", I got up and did what any other self-respecting parent would do...I grabbed my purse, told my husband I was going out, and asked if Target sold Chieftain Headdresses.
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