He’s Two

Back when Evan was two and Sean was just a babe in arms, I met another woman with children the same ages.  She was a friend of a friend, who came over with her children for an impromptu play date.  They all stayed through naptime.  I went and put Evan to bed for his nap.   At that time, Sean actually nursed around the same time as Evan’s naptime and usually fell asleep for his afternoon nap.  It was beautiful.

I offered the mother the guest bed for her daughter.  The mother declined.  Because her daughter didn’t take naps any more.  As I watched the toddler stumble around the room in exhaustion, I asked why.

“Because she cried so much I just gave up.”

I pitied the child.  Not the mother.  I had been there with Evan.  In fact, I would sit just outside his room, placing him in his bed over and over for two hours before the kid finally gave in and fell asleep.  Two hours.  Yup, that was a fight worth fighting.

So when Sean started crying about being put to bed last week for his afternoon nap, I was shocked.  Here was the boy who loved his bed because he could just go to bed when he was tired.  What was wrong with this kid?

Then today as he cried for an hour and half, it dawned on me.  Sean was two.  He wanted to give up his nap.  Sorry, dude, your mommy is willing to take this to the mat.  Bring it on, little man.  Bring it on.

I promise you it’s not the plague; it’s allergies

I need to go on a rant here, and it might just be too much information for some of you.  So if you want to slink away now, I won’t hold it against you.  I’ve been thinking about this rant for some time because I’ve got no one in real life that can truly understand, and I figured since I know so many moms online, maybe someone will understand out there.  Besides some of my most favorite bloggers are open and honest about their TMI stuff and their embarrassing shit.  And I want to be like them.

About six weeks ago, Evan came down with a cold.  A nasty little thing that knocked him down for almost a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose.   You might remember me mentioning I had it before committing radio silence for a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose, and a cough that sounded uncomfortably close to a smoker’s cough.  Sweet.  Not only did I feel like crap, people looked at me like I had the plague.  All I needed was a couple of boils, a hood, and a bell to ring and call out “Bring out your dead.”  Since I’m a responsible pregnant mom, I didn’t down a bottle of Nyquil like I would have and been done with it.  No, I suffered for a week before my OB/GYN appointment, where my doc told me what I could take and that there was a list of medicines on the website if I ever needed to look anything up.  Sweet!  I was on the mend.

Except the cough.  Which lingered.  And lingered.  And by God, it’s been five f-ing weeks.  About three weeks in, I searched, scoured the website, and you know what.  There was no list of medicines.  So after a day or so, I called.  And low and behold, they told me what to take for a cough.  Sweet!  Now I was on the mend.

Except my allergies hit.  After going eighteen years without allergies, moving to CA for another ten, and returning home, I have allergies in my home town.  Are you kidding me?!  Now my nose runs like a faucet because I can’t take the good stuff.  And I still have that damn cough as I try to hack out a lung.

I was probably out of morning sickness danger for over a week before it dawned on me the only time I vomited was when I had a real bad coughing attack after lying down.  Just yesterday a coughing fit sent me running to the toilet where I dry heaved for five minutes as I pissed my pants because that’s what I do when I’m pregnant and vomiting.  I piss my pants.

Oh, and it gets better.  If it’s a powerful coughing spell, I piss my pants.  Sometimes it’s just a little; sometimes it actually does wet my pants.  Then I can’t make up my mind whether I feel like a four-year-old learning to potty train or a ninety-four year-old losing my faculties.  Either way it’s extremely embarrassing.  In the beginning it was so bad that I wore a heavy day pad (Thank you to whatever blogger mentioned that) so I wouldn’t pee in public.

Now I know this is partially my fault.  I should have been doing my kegel exercises.  I did push out Sean without contractions, so that was bound to loosen things up.  But I never remember to do them.  It’s on my list of things I should do, but tend to forget.  It’s pages after file all the old business papers and organize Evan’s school work, but it is before the-husband-feels-neglected-because-of-the-morning-sickness-I –should-really-give-him-a-bj.  Yeah, I don’t think I’ll get around to that either.

So I figure I should just keep drinking cough syrup and popping allergy pills until it is all gone away, not (my original plan of) stopping as soon as I start feeling better, leaving the rest up to the immune system.  Because hey, they’re losing the battle there.  I hope the little bean can forgive me if there are some side effects, like a lower IQ, the need to watch professional wrestling, or sixth finger. 

Wish me luck.  And thanks for listening.                                 Um . . . any one there?

Parenting Books

I was sitting with another mother, talking about random things as my boys and her twins played a complicated game of chase after school the other day.

The Mom: So have you ever read _________?

Me: No.

The Mom: Oh.  How about ________?

Me: No.

The Mom: Ok.  Have you ever heard of  ________?

Me: No.

The Mom: So what parenting book do you read?

Me: Oh, I’m just trying to wing it.

Her Son: Um, um, Evan won’t give me back my toy.

Me: (Using the voice) Evan!  Come here.  (Evan trotted over.)  J wants to ask you something.

Her Son: Can I have my toy back?

Evan: (Thinks a minute, then hands back the toy.) Sure.  Can I see your toy?

Her Son: Ok.

Oh brother, Evan will refuse to give it back in five minutes.  Maybe it is time to read a parenting book or two.

Riddle Me This

When they eat so little, when their diet isn’t much different from mine, why is their poop is so foul-smelling that it lingers in the bathroom for hours, bringing tears to my eyes, making me wonder if I should call Hazmat?

Just wondering.

Yesterday’s lines

I know what you’re thinking.

Fae! I thought now that you had more energy you wouldn’t abandon your blog again until the day the baby came unexpectantly and you didn’t trust anyone to handle the blog for you.  I mean, Wednesday you actually took the time to write an extra post on Tuesday to schedule when you were helping out at Evan’s school because KathyB! And CK made it sound like so much fun.  What gives?

Oh, you had no idea I was at Evan’s school because I hadn’t written my Thursday blog?  Ok, so obviously I talk to myself.  I also answer myself, and today in the grocery store I actually started talking to myself out loud, which was a little disconcerting because I couldn’t blame it on “talking” to the boys because they weren’t there. 

Yesterday you could find me with the boys and my saintly mother, standing outside in a line of a couple of hundred people waiting to get my N1H1 flu shot.  I wouldn’t be so bitter if my phone hadn’t told me it was going to be 78 degrees, partly cloudy.  We hit a record of 92 without a cloud in the sky.  78 is a long way from 92.  I choose to wear jeans because they fit me better.  Stupid phone.

My mom called me yesterday.  Are you going to get the flu shot today?  She didn’t have to specify which one because I knew there was only one she was concerned about.  The one that nearly 40 percent  of pregnant women were dying from?  Yeah, that one.  We were all concerned because the week before my county ran out of vaccines in one day, and they got a fresh shipment in on Monday.  But when I called to ask questions like, how do I prove I’m pregnant if  I’m barely pregnant and can my son get it if he has a fever, I was told no, my son couldn’t receive the vaccine if he had a fever within the last 24hrs.  Where did Sean get this mild fever?  I have no idea.  So I decided against going down to the ball park where they were giving away health.  Besides I wasn’t sure at this point if I had a cold or allergies because I was still hacking stuff out of my lungs.

I assured my mom I would call the health department to see if they had any more injections.  The news had reported only a shipment of 500 came in on Monday, and I was sure those would be gone.  But as luck would have it, they still had some left.  Since The Husband likes to walk on the dangerous side of health, he stayed home to work as my mom volunteered to come help me with the boys.

The clinic started at one, so we thought we would get there an hour early.  We knew we wouldn’t be the first ones in.  Both my mom and I assumed we wouldn’t get out of there until 2:30 or 3.  I packed lunch, toys, juices, books, crayons, paper, and the double stroller.  My mom brought their official tailgating chairs.  Smart mom.

We settled down at the end of the line of about two hundred people, mainly family.  As one gentleman asked, why can’t they give these out at school?  Here.  Here.  Most of these kids were missing school. 

Sean slept.  Evan was bewildered and went to join another family, seeking their chips instead of the healthy snacks I brought.  Luckily the mom was a good mom and asked if Evan could have any before she gave him any.  I said no and dragged Evan back to eat some lunch, promising him a treat if he did well in line and getting his vaccine. 

A half hour before the start of the clinic, workers rolled out large trash cans filled with ice and bottled water to hand out to the line.    Fifteen minutes later, the workers walked the line handing out pens, cardboard, and forms.  When the worker got to me and asked how many I needed, I replied three.

Three kids?

Two kids, and I’m pregnant.

Like I have mentioned before I don’t look very pregnant.  So for the occasion, I wore my most pregnant-looking shirt, and I brought my last ultrasound. 

Oh, Hon, how are you doing out here?  Do you need more water?  Do you need to be in the shade?

I’m fine.  Really, I am.

My mom and I filled out the forms.  The line condensed.  Then they asked for all the pregnant women.  I was assured I could bring my boys, and we followed.  We heard they wanted to get us delicate conditioned women out of the sun.  We were moved past the beginning of the line and through the open gates.  Due to the massive amounts of people wanting the H1N1 vaccine and the low quantity of the vaccine, my city moved all their clinics to one of the spring training baseball fields.  We waited in line overlooking a pristine ball field.

Evan: Mommy, what are we doing?

Me: We’re waiting to get our vaccines, remember?

Evan: Mommy, I think we’re in the wrong place.

Me: What do you mean?

Evan: We’re at a baseball field.  We should be at a doctor’s office.

Me: (laughing) You’re right, but so many people want this, they moved it in a big area to allow everyone to get it.

Evan: Oh.

Then the line of pregnant women and their families moved.  We realized we had been shown to the front of the line, before the clinic even officially opened.  My fears of not getting my vaccine were unfounded.  We were registered and escorted into the mad house that was giving the vaccine.  Tons of tables and three nurses behind each were crammed into a room much too small for the purpose. 

First things first.  The pregnant woman needed her shot.  And it hurt like a bitch like these things usually do.

Then the nurse escorted us over to another table for the boys to sniff their vaccines.  Evan was a pro.  Sean had to be held down and was pissed off, trying to cough and gag it out.  Hopefully he’ll be more cooperative in four weeks.

We were done.  It was 1:30.  Really?  That was fast.   As we walked to the back of the parking lot, where we found the first parking spot, Evan started getting upset.

Me: Evan, baby, what’s wrong?

Evan: I didn’t get a shot.

Me: No, you got the spray.

Evan: But I didn’t get a shot.

Me: You don’t like shots.  Why would you want one?

Evan: If I don’t get a shot, I don’t get a treat.

Me: (hugging him) You still get a treat.  You did great in line and getting your vaccines.

Evan: Oh.  Can we get Eegee’s?

Me: Yes.

So we did.  And for those of you that haven’t had the pleasure of an Eegee’s, imagine a virgin margarita with hunks of lemon or strawberry mixed in.  Mmmm.

To make matters worse on publishing, The Husband’s laptop has decided every once in a while not to find a server.  Awesome.

Sean’s Second Ultrasound

I’m sixteen weeks along.  And I remember what defined my sixteenth week along with Sean.  It was his second ultrasound.

I made chicken fried rice for dinner one night because The Husband had brought home a rotisserie chicken home the night before that we didn’t finish.  Evan loved fried rice; it was one of the few things he would eat with vegetables.  But that night he picked out all the chicken, refusing to eat it.  Weird.

Back then, I hadn’t figured out DVD time, so Evan would hang on me demanding my attention.  This meant the kitchen went unclean, the food left out, and, of course, I hadn’t figured out to clean as I cooked.  The kitchen was a disaster, but at least I was spending quality time with my son.

I turned on our gas fireplace and played with Evan on the ground.  The Husband didn’t return my calls, so I had no idea when he would be home.

About Evan’s bedtime, I vomited.  Barely making it to the bathroom.  Weird.  My morning sickness always hit in the morning, unless I ate too much for dinner and went to bed right away.  My morning sickness always let me know with plenty of time to hit the toilet. 

As I placed Evan in his crib, I nearly vomited on him.  Weird again because I usually never vomit twice on the same day.  I finish tucking Evan in bed, beginning to worry.

I went downstairs to clean.  I wasn’t feeling right.  It was too hot.  So I went to turn down off the fire, but Evan had made off with the gas key.  I couldn’t find it anywhere.  I tried to use priers to turn it, but I just didn’t have the strength.  I ran and vomited again.

This time I dialed The Husband over and over until he answered his phone.  Only his administration assistant answered.  And I knew he was at the bar with his employees.

Admin: FAE!!!!  HOW ARE YOU?!  WE NEVER SEE ANYMORE!

Me: Hey.  I’m busy taking care of Evan in the day.  Is The Husband there?  I need to speak to him.

Admin: I MISS YOU!  WE USED TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN TOGETHER!

Me: Yeah.  I know.  But really, I need to speak to The Husband.  Now.

Admin: YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU.  WE SHOULD HANG OUT.

Me: Admin.  Please hand the phone to The Husband.  NOW.

Admin: OH FAE!  YOU WERE ALWAYS SO MUCH FUN.

Me: Fine.  Tell The Husband to call me as soon as he can.  Alright?  Can you do that, Admin?  Can you tell The Husband to call me right away, Admin?

Admin: OF COURSE!  YOU KNOW THE HUSBAND LOVES YOU.  REALLY, REALLY LOVES YOU!

Me: Right. 

Click.

God, I hate dealing with drunks.  If The Husband didn’t call me- I went and vomited again.  Now I was really scared.

I went into the kitchen to clean up, to take my mind off of things.  But as I looked at the chicken carcass, the dirty dishes, the vegetable trimmings, I got sick to my stomach again.  I turned around and ran into the office, digging through my stack of pregnancy pamphlets the doctor’s office gave me.  I pulled out the one that told me what were emergency symptoms or not. 

Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Here.  “If you vomit more than four times an hour, go to the emergency room immediately.”  Well, it’s been four times in two hours, so maybe I’m safe.  Oh wait-

Make that five times in two hours.

I called The Husband again, getting his voice mail.  Again.

Fine.  I’ll take Evan and go with out him.  Crap.  I had to wash his car seat today because he spilled juice all over it.  I pulled it out of the washer and threw it in the dryer.  Chanting cuss words all the way. 

I vomited again, getting it in my hair and on my clothes.  I turned on the shower, waited for the warmth and walked in.  I cried as I peeled off my clothes, as I washed my hair, as I washed my body, wondering what was wrong with me.  Why was I all alone?  I got out of the shower and got dressed.  I felt the vibration of the garage door.  THANK GOD! 

I rushed out of the room to hear Admin’s drunk voice.  I turned around and slammed the door.  Are you f-ing kidding me?

A minute later the door opened.

Admin came bouncing in and threw herself at me in a bear hug.  I’m going to kill her.

Admin: FAE!!! You’re not made at me!  Are you?!

She gave me a pout.  I took a deep breathe.  I was to weak to kill her.

Me: No.  (breath) But I’m sick.  I need to go to bed.  I need to talk to my husband.

Admin: Oh FAE!  You can’t be sick!  You’re pregnant!  Get some rest!  I’ll get The Husband!

She bounded at the room, and I was eternally grateful I didn’t own a gun.

Minutes passed.  No husband.  I turned off the lights.  The door opened.  The Husband swayed into the room.  F me.  I am going to kill someone!

Me: Did you drive?

So help me God, if you drove, I will kill you right now.  Screw the need of a father figure for the kids.

The Husband: No!  We got a ride.

Breathe.  Calm down.

Me: Where were you?

Perfect, Fae.  Let’s interrogate him while he’s drunk and you’re pissed.

The Husband: We went out for a beer.

Me: More than one beer.  Why didn’t you call back?

The Husband: Because Admin answered the phone.

Me: Did you think that when I called your phone, that I might just want to talk to you.

The Husband: Admin didn’t tell me you wanted to talk to me.

Sigh.

Me: Why didn’t you come up sooner?  Something is wrong.

The Husband: I was hungry.  I ate the fried rice.

Oh God!  The Fried Rice!  It was poisoned.  I have food poisoning!  Crap!

Me: Oh, crap!  I think there’s something wrong with the rice.  I think I have food poisoning.

The Husband: Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

Me: When?  When you didn’t answer the dozen times I called?  When you didn’t call me back after Admin answered?  When you didn’t run upstairs to see me when you got home?  When was I supposed to tell you?

The Husband: I’m sleeping in the other room.

Me: FINE!

He stormed out.  I went to bed.  Then I jumped up to vomit.  I needed to go to the hospital.

I went down stairs where the fire was still roaring, the kitchen was still a disaster, and now the Admin was snoring on the couch.  I pulled out the almost dried car seat cover and struggled to put it on.  I ran to vomit again.  I heard The Husband vomiting in the other bathroom.  I waited for him.

Me: I have to go to the hospital. 

The Husband: Ok.  Let me know how it goes.

He headed to our bedroom.  The son of a-  Wait.  He can’t drive.  I have to drive.  I can’t show up with a drunk, food poisoned husband and a toddler.  Fine.  I picked Evan up from the crib and placed him on my side of the bed.  I punched The Husband awake.

The Husband: Wha-

Me: I’m going to the hospital.  I’m pregnant with food poisoning.  I’m putting Evan in bed with you.  Please comfort him if he wakes up.

With that I left. 

The emergency room was quite empty, which surprised me as the last time I was at an emergency room at night it was crowded.  Granted this was a Tuesday, and the last time was Sunday night.

I had a great nurse that diagnosed me quickly and stuck me with an IV to pump liquids back into me.  It wasn’t long before I was chattering, and he had to run and find extra blankets for me.  He brought out the little machine to get Sean’s heartbeat.  He couldn’t panic.  After looking for the sound for five minutes, the nurse started to worry.

Nurse: Don’t panic.  You’re not that far along, so it’s a little hard to find.  I’ll schedule an ultrasound for you.  Don’t worry.

I smile.

Me: I’m not worry.  How often to do you get a chance to use that thing in here, any ways?

He smiled back.

Nurse: Not often.

He wheeled me in to get my ultrasound.  It turned out everything was fine.  Though they kept me there until I went through two bags of fluids.  It was 5am by the time they let me leave.

As I got dressed, I had to sudden urge to vomit again.  I ran to the bathroom and purged the last of whatever was in my stomach.  I also peed my pants.  Great.  I snuck back into my room and waited to catch my nurse.  He came minutes later.

Me: Hey, um, is there a phone I can use to call my husband?

Nurse: Sure.  Sure.

Me: Um, yeah, I peed my pants when I vomited, and I need him to bring me another pair.

Nurse: Oh.  OH!  Ok, hold on.  I can get you a pair!

He ran off.  Well, he was a little squeamish for being a nurse.  He returned with a pair of scrubs, and I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.  They turned out to be the most comfortable pants I have ever owned, and I loved them.

So I left with a prescription, new pants, and instructions to rest all day.  Hahaha.  I had a toddler waiting at home that would be up in two hours.

I went home to catch a nap, then got up to go to the pharmacy and the grocery store to grab some fluids.  I had left Evan with breakfast and cartoons as The Husband slept like a hibernating bear.  I laid on the couch all morning watching cartoons with Evan.  About noon, I called a friend to see if she could take Evan to the park after his nap, so that I could sleep all afternoon.  Evan’s naptime was a blessing.  My friend picked up Evan and willingly took him to the park.  As I slept, The Husband woke feeling great.  And guilty.  He scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled.  I can count on one hand how many times he’s done that in our marriage.  A friend called him out on it too because as the guy said, “The Husband knew he was in the dog house.”

And the stupid key, we didn’t find it for two weeks.  I had to go hunt one down to buy, which took three days.  And just so you don’t think I’m the world’s worst cook by poisoning my family, my doctor assured me it must have been the chicken wasn’t cooked right and that we didn’t eat the undercooked meat next to the bone until I pulled it off and stuck it in the fried rice.  We never bought chicken from that store again.

While those hours rank up there as one of my worst, at least I got a great pair of pants out of it.

Sean’s first ultrasound

When I was pregnant with Evan, I got one ultrasound.  The twenty week one; the one that I told the nurse we didn’t want to know what he was.

With Sean, I had three.  During Sean, I realized my doctor wasn’t one to schedule unwarranted tests, which included ultrasounds.  But I didn’t figure that out when I went to get the first ultrasound.

I was about twelve weeks or so pregnant.  It’s hard to tell for sure with Sean because he came 11 days early and was 8lbs and 11 ozs.  He was fully cooked.  Someone (me) missed counted.  But since they couldn’t catch Sean’s heartbeat, my doctor sent me to get an ultrasound.  No big deal, right?

I had a friend who was waiting for her green card to get a job (A Canadian married to an American and it took over a year.  Go fig), so she had nothing to do during the days.  I asked her to come with me to help with Evan.  She actually took part of more pregnancy stuff than The Husband.

So she came with me and Evan.  We went into the little room.  And we watched in amazement to see them pick up that little bean on the screen.  Wow.

The lab technician assured me everything looked great, and that she would pass on the results.

It took two more visits to the doctor’s to learn what he feared.

He measured my stomach and smiled.

The Doc: Oh, good.  The little one finally grew enough.  I was getting worried about how small the baby was.  Everything is perfect now.

Um, was I supposed to worry?

Are you happy?: A book review

I just finished reading a book that I just HAD to tell you about.  I was browsing the library shelves when I saw Happy Housewives by Darla Shine.  The front of the book says “I was a whining, miserable. desperate Housewife- But I Finally Snapped Out of It . . . You Can, Too!”  See, why I had to get it?  I would read it, report back, and then we would all have fun making fun of it.  Brilliant.

Except half way though I realized, except for one of two things, she actually made some sense.  Well, that went that post.

You know me.  I’m not miserable.  Usually.  Unless I’m puking and peeing at the same time because I’ve been poisoned by proestrogen.  Unless I’m sick.  Unless the boys decide to try to cage fight; while I’m too tired to care and busy trying to get dinner on.  But on the whole, I’m a happy . . . homemaker?  Really, I don’t know if there’s a title I like. 

As I read Shine, I realized she wasn’t really talking to me at first.  She started talking to the upper-class moms who stay at home with the kids but have a nanny and/or cleaning lady.  We’ve all heard about them, and we’ve all heard about their complaining.  Really, Shine tells them to fire the help and do it themselves.  My grandma would say these women were just too bored and needed to work to stop whining.

But as the book went on, I realized she was talking to all moms.  She talked about enjoying your house because that’s where you stay all day, making it a place you want to be.  Shine wrote about how moms need to take care of themselves, feel good about themselves, encouraging our kids through our example of being healthy adults.  She encouraged moms to have a social life, to have hobbies, to have some me time.  Really, that’s what so many stay-at-home moms need, a balance between mom, wife and woman.  And I agreed with her and stopped making fun of when she wrote about fixing your lipstick before your husband comes home.

While at first, I couldn’t stand her writing style of breaking out of “character” to tell me she needed to do something for one of the kids.  I’m a trained writer, so I saw it as poor writing skills, but I then realized she was just being a mom, showing her street cred, if you will.  How many times are we talking to someone on the phone and have to ask for a minute to deal with a kid issue?  My only problem became that she dropped this style three-fourths into the book.  She should have taken it through to the end.

Since I can’t leave it all rainbows and sunshine, I will criticize some of her suggestions.  Like throwing out all your clothes that are older than a year, so that you always have a fresh wardrobe.  That must be nice when you’re rich, but most of us can’t do that.  Or the fact that she says that all houses should have a playroom with a door, so you can shut the door on the mess.  At one point, I could I hide the toys in a kiddie corner, hidden by the couch, but now in my itty, bitty house, the toys are taking over.  (Send reinforcements if I ever miss three days in a row because it means a regime change of the toys.)

But the best part, that I actually tossed the book down so I could call my BFF and howl with laughter with someone, is when Shine talked about her healthy eating.  Talking about Susan Powter’s books, Shine writes, “She gives oatmeal as one example.  She says everyone thinks oatmeal is a healthy food, but have you ever heard of an oat tree?”  Well, no, I haven’t, but that’s because oats grow on grasses like wheat.

So if you’re browsing and in the mood for some light reading to encourage you through your path of stay-at-home motherhood, I suggest you pick up Darla Shine’s Happy Housewives.  Just take some of it with a grain of salt.

Career Decision

The Husband: So, Evan, what do you want to be when you grow up?

Evan: A police officer!

The Husband: Why?

Evan: Because that’s what Papi did, and I want to be just like Papi!

The Husband: Do you know what Daddy does?

Really, you think working on the computer and talking on the phone all day is going to interest a four-year-old who has been in a police car and looked at the uniform?  Yeah.  Me neither.

Pumpkin Aversions

The Husband has food issues.  He hates using his hands to eat if there is any possible way to spill.  Hamburgers must always been on plates.  Pizza is always cut.  Chili is eaten at luke warm temperature.  Just to watch someone eat something messy (like those old Carl’s Jr. commercials), gives him the creeps.  We were at a restaurant once where they served him still boiling soup, and he threw his chair about a yard back.  It’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.  And I, I love to eat with my hands; I love to get messy.  While doing a sociology experiment, I had to eat a utensil dinner without utensils.  I adored eating my rice bowl that way so much that I did it for years.  The Husband and I both agree that this weird trait of his shouldn’t be passed to the boys as long as I also taught them to eat with utensils as needed.

Today we carved the pumpkin.  And yes, I love digging my hands into the pumpkin and pulling out the innards.  (Can you guess that I mix my meatball mixture by hand?)  The Husband wanted to carve, but he was more than willing to let me clean the pumpkin.  In my mind, I pictured the boys and I ewwing and squealing as we pulled out piles of slimy pumpkin vines.

Instead.  As I pulled out the innards, the boys shied away.  I couldn’t convince them to touch them at all.

Evan: Mommy!  They’re the icky!

Me: (to The Husband) I wonder where they get this from.

The Husband: Your side.

Me: (short laugh) Right.  No one in my family is grossed out by food.

The Husband: So all the looks come from your side and all the weird food aversions come from mine?

Me: Apparently.