Evan insisted on dressing himself. Which was a first. While he feels perfectly capable of picking out his own clothes (like a blue and green striped shirt with camouflage shorts), he usually doesn’t try to dress himself. I was a little surprised.
Me: Evan, how did you get so big?
Evan: I did it all by myself. I growed and growed until I was all big.
The Husband and I wanted to visit Boston. We only had one day without any obligations to the wedding. One day to squeeze in a week of vacation. Boston was our first choice.
Then a friend of The Husband, who was born and raised in Boston, told him that the boys would be completely bored with any of the historic stuff in Boston and we would spend the time trying to keep the boys occupied. He suggested Salem. Remembering the weeks of studying Salem’s history when I was a teen, I agreed. My parents and baby brother were staying longer in Boston and decided to join us.
I tried to pump up the boys telling them about the pirate museum. Sean ran around the hotel room, yelling “Yo-ho!” Evan wasn’t convinced. I mentioned the witch museum, grasping at straws. I had forgotten that Evan was a witch last Halloween, and he jumped around, talking about witches and wizards.
We ended going to a pirate museum and two witch museums that were run by the same company. The Husband had looked at the reviews the night before, worried about the negative reviews. The negative reviews were right; I wouldn’t call these museums. They were more like walking through a wax museum as each museum had rooms filled with manikins positioned to act out scenes. We were walked through the tour by different guides who were knowledgeable and entertaining. In the end, we were entertained and learned something. Though I decided after watching a scene form “a trail” (which looked and sounded a whole lot like a scene from “The Crucible” to the point I swear it was from the play word for word) and hearing what the scenes were in the museum, I decided the boys did not need to have a look through the witch dungeon. At the end, we spent a couple more hours there than we had planned, since we were hoping to catch a glimpse of Boston history that day.
We ended up not getting to Boston, staying at a hotel just outside the city. After dinner, where Sean learned to say “Appabee’s,” charming the wait-staff, we found a park on the map. We took the boys, letting them run off their energy. My mom spied an ice cream shop just passed the park, and we went to satisfy our curiosity and sweet tooth. The Husband, being a generous father, let Evan pick his own ice cream out, which was bubblegum. In his defense, The Husband had no idea that there was real bubblegum in the ice cream.
When we got to the hotel room, The Husband fell asleep immediately; while, I tried to get the boys to sleep without much fuss, fighting, or giggling. Nothing like sharing a double bed. In desperation, I rolled a towel up, length wise, and placed it between them, commanding not to stray over the towel with dire consequences.
About two-thirty in the morning, I was awoken by a strange sound that I couldn’t place. The Husband sprung from the bed, yelling for me to grab something because Sean was vomiting. Apparently Sean doesn’t cry when he throws up but makes a gentle heaving sound that barely pierces my deep sleep. I ran to the bathroom, grabbing a towel because we didn’t have anything else. We held Sean over the towel until he was finished. Then I cleaned him up, putting on a new shirt, and he fell asleep. I washed out the towel as best I could and returned to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard the heaving noise. I sprang across the bed, grabbing the towel that laid in between the boys. I held Sean over it, noticing that Sean was still sleeping as he emptied more of his stomach. When Sean was finished, I went back to bed, leaving the towel folded up near Sean, ready for more.
The Husband: What do you think is wrong with Sean?
Me: Dessert to close to bedtime. Two nights before we left, Sean threw up because my dad fed him three cookies, a piece or pie, and some Papi candy. Sean will be fine. He doesn’t even have a fever.
The Husband was content and was snoring to wake the dead within seconds. The Husband is notorious for his snoring. His friends believe I’m a saint. His snoring usually doesn’t bother me because I’m a heavy sleeper. Not this night. I lay awake for twenty minutes wondering if I put a pillow over him if it would quiet him enough for me to get some sleep or would that be murder and if he did accidently die could I claim lack of sleep and frustration over vacation as an insanity plea or would this be manslaughter.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was waking up to a thump and crying. It was four-thirty, and Evan had rolled out of bed, hitting his head on the night stand. The Husband swore and picked Evan up, depositing him into our bed so I could soothe him. Unlike the last hotel, this one didn’t have cheap chairs I could have moved around to make a gate to keep Evan from rolling out. I had hoped my son had grown out of thrashing so much. I was wrong.
A half an hour later, I was woken up by the screaming of the alarm as well as The Husband trying to fight it. I hate beeping of alarms. The Husband hates alarms. I got up, went around the other side, removed the alarm from the monster paw, trying to bat it to death. I shut off the alarm.
Me: Leaving Boston at 9am. Brilliant.
The Husband muttered something incoherent that I chose to ignore than speculate on the negative reaction to my sarcasm. He tried to roll over and sleep again.
Evan vomited all over my side of the bed. The Husband thought it was a good time to get up. We calmed down Evan and cleaned him up. He stopped crying and looked at us.
Evan: Daddy’s funny. Why’d he do that to the alarm?
Me: Because Daddy’s not a morning person. How do you feel?
I took a quick shower to come out dressed to find that Evan was crying because he had pooped his diaper. (He still wears pull-ups at night.) The Husband shrugged, still trying to comfort Evan. I checked. It was a little diarrhea. I calmed him down and changed him into underwear. As I turned to finish packing, Evan vomited again. I grabbed the last towel. This did not bode well for our flight. I packed the last pull-up into the diaper bag next to the last underwear of Evan’s.
The Husband: What are we going to do?
Me: We’re going to buy crackers when we fill up on gas. I’m going to give him Mylocon drops in hopes that it can help settle his stomach.
We finished getting ready and began our trek to the Boston airport, stopping to get gas and crackers. Sean refused food. I should have guessed. As we drove down the last freeway heading towards the airport, GPS being unreasonable helpful, Sean throw up, and there was nothing to catch it. Luckily there wasn’t anything left in his stomach.
When we got to the rental place, I took Sean into the bathroom to strip him and dress him. I also found out that he too had diarrhea. Awesome. We came to the unanimous decision to check Sean’s car seat and use Evan’s as we had learned coming in that air regulations does not allow for a car sea on the aisle. Siblings should not be trusted next to each other on a long, cranky airplane ride. We had already decided I would sit in the middle this time and have Evan out of his car seat.
I won’t go into the other gory details of the diarrhea. I’ll just say that poor Evan was horrified that he leaked. In the end, I had to put him into a Sean diaper in Dallas. In the hour we waited during our lay over and boarded the next plane, I had to change Sean three times. He did not leak. By that time, I dreamt of getting home, filling the baby pool, stripping the boys, and letting them live outside in the back yard for the rest of the day. Never mind the 109 degrees with no shade. Never mind this was our thunderstorm season. I was done.
We arrived at the Victorian manor with its beautiful grounds half manicured, half wild. After much discussing, messing around, walking, we settled down to rehearse. My brother T decided to give Evan a pep talk, where Evan walked away, deciding that exploring the plants where more exciting than discussing ring bearing.
T wondered over to me. “Well, we’ll leave it up in the air for tomorrow. If he doesn’t want to do it, then he won’t have to.”
“I don’t think so. If he doesn’t do it, you owe me 50 bucks, dude. EVAN!”
So I set Evan up half way up the walk as the bridesmaids and bride where to walk up a lawn and steps to another lawn. I agreed with my mom that roughly hewn steps were not a good idea for a little ring bearer to use and keep the rings on the pillow. I handed my purse to Evan, telling him to pretend it was the pillow with the rings. As the flower girl and her mother, the matron of honor, headed up the walk, I instructed Evan to walk carefully to stand by Uncle M.
Evan walked ever so slow. He chose his steps with great care. After the agonizing walk, he stood by his beloved Uncle M. Where the purse slid from his hands. “OH NO!” Evan said in horror. I picked up the purse and handed it back to Evan. While the rest of the party went through it only once, I had Evan walk through it three times.
As we waited for the release to go to dinner, Evan started helping the flower girl pick leaves to fill her bucket.
The rehearsal dinner was a lobster feast, where friends of the family had donated several days to catch lobsters. I feasted on shrimp as one does not find it very much in the desert. While we were all stuffed on the food, they brought a delicious cake cover in chocolate covered strawberries. In the meantime, the flower girl, who was two and a half, Evan and Sean played with the beach balls I had brought to keep them occupied. It is there, under pine trees and mosquitoes, that Evan lost his heart.
At the wedding, Evan and I waited near the path, beside the stairs, behind the chairs. We watched the girls pass one by one as I held the pillow with the rings secured with knots. When it was Evan’s turn, I placed the pillow in his hands, slipping them through the ribbon to make it less likely for him to drop it. Evan looked up at me and said in a quiet voice, “I can’t do this.”
It was Evan’s turn. “Yes, you can,” I whispered back. I gave Evan a nudge down the aisle. He took deliberate, slow steps, holding the pillow in a way that tested the knots so that all could see the rings dangling from the ribbon. The flower girl and her mother caught up with Evan before he was even half way down the aisle.
Evan reached the end where Uncle M removed the rings and pocketed them. Evan stood there still with his serious face on. It looked like he was pouting and scowling at the same time.
I sat down in the front row next to my parents and The Husband, who held Sean. We waited for Evan to get tired, so we could usher him to our seats. Instead Sean realized his brother and beloved uncle where standing just a yard from him. Sean slid out of The Husbands lap and joined Evan and Uncle M in the line. While Evan stood statue still, Sean had to move when he’s happy, so he danced. He completely charmed the photographer. I lured him away with fruit snacks.
As weddings and receptions go, it was fine and beautiful. But it was there I realized what will tear asunder my boys. A Girl.
Evan chased the flower girl, wanting to hug her and dance with her. The flower girl wanted nothing to do with Evan; instead, she preferred to chase Sean to hug him and dance with him. “I just want to touch him.” Sean, in turn, wanted nothing to do with this girl, pushing her away, hitting her when she didn’t get the point. Evan remained heart-broken through the night, bursting in tears at the end, when the girl wouldn’t dance with him yet again. By that time, I felt it was time to wrap things up and get out of there.
As we drove home to the hotel, we asked Evan what his favorite part of the wedding was. “Natalie.” Ah, young love.
1) Kids four and under can handle three hours on a plane. The last half hour makes the mother want to jump out.
2) Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine, you all need to pay for better street paint. When it’s dark and rainy, it would be super nice to be able to see the street lanes.
3) You all need to invest in street signs. Especially Boston. Not helpful for tourists.
4) Tolls suck. Do you know how much money we paid to just do u-turns?
5) I’m willing to pay twenty dollars more a day to have maid service.
6) “Take the second exit at Broadway” is not a helpful direction. Left, right, or straight are directions.
7) “Continue on Route 1” when you are starting at a parking lot on Route 1 is not a helpful direction. Again, we need a left or right.
8) Frustrated, tired husband, who is driving, ranting at tired, frustrated wife, who can’t find where they are on the map, makes the wife wonder about quickly divorces.
9) Delusional tired husband ranting at freeway system makes delusional tired wife laugh hysterically.
10) GPS can save you or destroy you.
11) When lost, GPS sounds like a bitch.
12) GPS does not know all.
13) My mother is an obsessive caller.
14) The family wit came from my father.
15) Black shirt or black tux = ring protecting ninja.
16) Always include all children of a family in an event. Do not leave any child out of that family. The child will join event unasked.
17) Never ask sister-in-law or brother where to eat because they like crowded, trendy places that are not suitable for children or tourists that would like to do something other than sit at a table waiting for breakfast.
18) Tearing apart lobsters is harder than watching it done.
19) Newly big-potty-trained child will always need to poop when you don’t have the little seat to use.
20) It’s easier to hold a pooping child if you are sitting on the floor.
21) Always buy two of everything when you have two children.
22) Traveling with children is more tiring than traveling alone.
23) Security guards in Boston like to start sh*t.
24) Tired, frustrated mother is more the willing to return sh*t.
25) Telling your mom on your cell phone as you’re waiting to board the plane that your kids have vomited and diarrheaed all morning does not make fellow passengers easy.
More details in the days to come.
When Evan was just shy of two, my bff insisted we bring him to her vacation “Bible” school. (It’s in quotes because that’s not what they call it although it’s what it was.) She had booked a petting zoon, and she figured we could leave Evan with her while we took the infant Sean out to dinner with us. (Because she knew I wouldn’t part with Sean at that age. Why fight a lost battle?)
We made the hour-in-traffic trek to her church, where the festivities were in full swing. The Husband decided to take Evan into the petting zoo to get Evan acquainted with the animals and all the kids.
The Husband: Look, Evan, a chicken!
Evan bent down to eye-level with the chicken to examine it. Then he blew on it.
It turns out we never explained that chicken nuggets, chicken strips, chicken legs all came from an animal called a chicken. And that the cooked chicken is hot to touch, not live ones.
One of my favorite blogs to read is Polymer Clay Snails (who is apparently taking a break right now, hmmm), and she has some interesting pictures of what she calls Baby OCD. Evan has his own version.
Candle party
This is the candle party. Everyone is hanging out and having a great time. Except the guards. They didn’t even make the picture. My candle box is under my bed for no better place to put it. I am often awoken by the sounds of a candle party.
The bottle party
Then he decided to start taking things out from under the sink. Seeing that this is the kid that flung red nailpolish across the living room floor, I decided that bottle parties are not a good idea.
Super
The first wedding I ever attended I was three. I was also the flower girl. My dad’s younger sister was getting married to a really sweet and fun man. I was excited because I was the flower girl.
My mom made my dress. It was long to my feet, but it didn’t twirl. It was white with tiny pink rose buds. Around my waist were two thin pink ribbons. I was adorable with blue eyes and curled blonde hair.
But I was barely three. After I had done my duty, I was to walk back to my mom who was suppose to be sitting on the side waiting for me. She wasn’t there. Some usher had moved her. But I knew what I was suppose to do, and I saw my mom raise her hand so I could find her. As I started down the stairs, a firm hand pressed on my shoulder. I looked up at the face of my youngest aunt who sternly shook her head. I pointed to my mom, and my aunt shook her head.
So I stood there. Bored. Oh so bored. Grown-ups talk to much. I never stood for so long. I sat. Then I laid down. Then I decided I wanted to see my new shiny black shoes. Hey, my feet look like they’re walking on the ceiling. I wonder what it would be like walking on the ceiling.
Everyone at church watched as two Mary Jane-d feet kicked in the air, just high enough for everyone to notice.
That is the part none of my little cousins forget to tell. They tell it with glee, especially to The Husband, especially when I brought him home for the first time.
Hey, I was three. I was adorable. And I can still wrestle you all to the ground.
“Do you want us to call the police?”
Said the campus safety officer.
Really? The police? Over dumping 22 packets of red Kool Aide in a water fountain? My dad is going to kill me. For being caught. I wonder if an arrest will have me thrown out of college. Then my mom kill me.
Glitterboy: No. I swear my hands are pink from getting cotton candy for Disneyland. We were just walking and talking because I’m leaving for study abroad this week.
The Officer: We passed the fountain, and it was clear. We pass the fountain again, and it was red. You are the only two in the vascinity. We can call the police instead of dealing it on the campus. There are laws on vandalism.
We exchanged looks. We’re the good kids, bored without a car. It was my idea. I could still get us out.
Glitterboy: Fine. We poured Kool Aide in it.
This is why I should do all the talking. My best friend is not as smart as he looks. He also isn’t that great at lying. Things I should have taken into account before we did this plan. But how was I suppose to know that he was going to get the Kool Aide on his hands and then try to wash it off in the fountain. Boys.
Me: It was my idea. It was 22 packets of Fruit Punch Kool Aide. The chloriene tablets will eat it in a day or two. It’s not really vandalism if it’s not perminant.
The officer shot me a dirty look. Sorry, dude. You’re not a real cop. I’ve been around those since before I could walk. You don’t intimidate me, Rent-a-Cop.
The Officer: I’m writing you up. Tomorrow is Monday, so the Dean of Students will want to talk to you then.
He wrote down our information, handed back our IDs. We salked backed to his mom’s car, where she was waiting for us, since he was staying with her before he left for Tanzania.
His Mom: Where have you been? It’s been almost an hour!
Me: It’s my fault. Mrs. J. We got caught putting Kool Aide in the fountain.
His Mom: What!? You did what?
Glitterboy: We have a hearing tomorrow with the dean. They threatened to pull my study abroad.
His Mom: They won’t do that. Faemom, it was your idea?
Me: Yes, ma’am.
His Mom: Explain.
Me: Well, the bubble bath thing is getting old. Everyone does it. But we did have a stroke of genius when we used grape flavor bubble bath. Then when we tried food dye, it turns out you need a LOT of food dye, not just two packets. With my partner in crime leaving in a couple of days, we needed to do SOMETHING to celebrate. So I came up with trying to dye the fountain red. I’m not nearly as good as Glitterboy when it comes to math so I guesstimated the amount of Kool Aide I needed for the fountain. I decided on 21 plus one for luck. But I doubt it was enough to do more than make it slightly pink by tomorrow. I just didn’t calculate a better escape route. Or the fact Glitterboy would put his hand in the water.
His Mom: You put your hand in the water?
Glitterboy: I got some on my hand. I had to get it off.
His Mom: (rolls her eyes) Glitterboy, we’ll talk more about this at home. Faemom, your punishment is to call your dad and tell him how you got caught.
Crap. Amazingly my best friend and I came from the same town, from the same side of the town. Only he was raised a bit south, and we didn’t do the same extra-curricular activities to run into one another in high school. But his mom used to work for the courts and knew every police officer. Every one knew my dad. He’s pranks were legendary.
So the next day as we sat in an impromptu judicial meeting to determine our fate, which turned out to be against the college rules as they didn’t bother to bring in a student for the third chair. They tried to grill us, intimidate us, humiliate us.
Glitterboy took the pleading I’m-so-sorry-I-don’t-know-what-I-was-thinking-this-is-my-first-offense-don’t-take-away-Africa-or-my-full-academic-scholarship-remember-how-I-was-head-of-student-religious-affairs-last-year-I’m-so-sorry route.
I played the rebel without a cause. “Yes, of course, I knew that was a pump and not a filter. But you have five chlorine tablets in there. No, it wouldn’t do any damage. I made sure of it. I only used enough packets for a light tinge that would go away in a few days. I admit it was in poor taste. I should have that it through. Of course, it was my first offense. Yes, it was setting the bar a little high. No, I don’t know who would put bubbles in the fountain. I agree it is childish. Well, of course, I’m a good student. Go ask the Dean of the Chapel. I’m his student assistant next semester. Hey, isn’t he ahead of you in the power pyramid? I could have sworn I saw something like that. Should I ask the Dean of the Law School for a character testimony? I work for him you know.”
In the end, we had to split the cleaning bill of $240, which I felt was a little too high, and we were both put on academic probation. We also had to write an apology letter. Glitterboy’s was pretty sappy. As I turned mine in to the administrative assistant, I asked the grandmotherly-looking woman if this would appear on The Permanent Record.
Grandma Admin: Heavens no, dear. The Dean would like me to keep these things forever, but we would run out of room. I throw everything out in three years. Keep your nose clean, dear. There’s nothing wrong with a little fun, but you don’t want to be kicked out.
Me: Yes, ma’am.
Grandma Admin: Run along. Here before you go, take a piece of chocolate. I hope this is the last time I see you in here (looks down at my name on my letter), Miss Faemom.
Me: Yes, ma’am.
Of course, no one ever proved who made the exit signs blink code in the parking garage, who changed all the voice mail messages of the departments, who plastered the business building with flyers protesting the FTAA. Or who put the red collar with a bell on the school mascot statue with a sign calling it the school’s pussy.
This Saturday my brother is strapping on the ball and chain and repeating sacred words outside in 40% chance thunderstorms at a place that he is paying too much to be at. (Lady K, if you read this, I’m not judging; I was just more laid back and uncaring about my wedding.) Where is this blessed event taking place? I’m glad you asked. It’s in New Hampshire. It’s a four hour plane ride, which starts at 11am, stays in Dallas two hours, and then gets us into Boston at 9:30 pm. Then we have an hour and a half drive to our hotel. I’m going on the record to say The Husband is responsible for the flight arrangements, or really his admin assistant is.
The admin assistant is also responsible for the seating arrangements as well. The first leg will be The Husband and Evan and Sean and me. From then on it will be the boys and I; while, The Husband will be a row in front or behind or two rows away. I wonder how much it would cost for me to upgrade.
Not that I’m worried. I used to fly with Evan all the time before Sean was born. I’ve got a portable DVD player, DVDs, and earphones. I have books, coloring books, sketch pads, crayons, pencils, food, toys, prizes. Yup, I’m one prepared Mama. Woe to the flight attendant that tries to separate my bag from me. So if you here about a plane doing an emergency landing because of a mom beating the crap out of a flight attendant, that’ll be me. I’ll totally do a shout out when I’m interviewed on the morning news.
“Well, Diane, I had everything I needed to keep my boys occupied when the flight attendant told me she would stash it to the rear of the plane. I was reading a couple of my favorite blogs at the time like Bad Mommy Moments, Lost in Suburban Bliss, Inktopia, Parenting by Dummies when the flight attendant took it when I told her no, thank you. I had to stop reading The World According to Me to tell the woman my kids will tear this plane up if you don’t give me that bag. “
Hmm, I have a REALLY LONG favorite blog list. Maybe I’ll just repeat my blog roll.
Apparently I can also take as much juice, water, and milk with me because I’m taking a toddler. Or at least, that’s what the FTA website says. I wonder if they’re going to be real hardasses like they are at the OC airport or the Maui airport. (Maui, four security checks; like anyone flying out of Maui wants to die.) So if you here about a mom arrested in Boston or Tucson airport for security reasons, that’ll be me.
“Well, Chris, I told the security officer that I was allowed to bring juice. I showed him the guidelines that I printed out from the FTA website (not to self, totally print out those guidelines). Then I told them that there was no way it was anything explosive because it would have eaten through the cardboard. I should have been more polite, but I was trying to get through so I could read Mothering, Not Drowning, Naptime Writing, Unruly Helpmeet, and The Momoplex before I got on the plane. In hindsight I wouldn’t have screamed ‘Do you really think if I wanted to bomb a plane I would do it with my own kids on it especially since I have medic-crap I forgot to take it today.’”
I really have to work on my shout outs.
Because we’re lugging two car seats, two boys, a huge diaper bag, a wimpy umbrella stroller, a backpack Evan’s suppose to carry, two monkey leashes, I figured I should leave the laptop behind, since The Husband is bringing his. Unfortunately, he’ll be working on his when I would normally be blogging. I have my Blackberry Storm, which I will use to read you all, but I probably won’t be able to comment unless I drug his tea with sleeping pills. Just think of me as a guardian angel watching you or maybe more like one of the fifty readers who never comments. Since I’m totally anal about my responsibilities (or I just can’t bare to see my stats drop), I plan on scheduling posts. My problem is I’ll miss you all. I’ll miss you so much I’m debating on taking up Twitter just to hear you all talk. My bff is begging me not to go to the dark side.
Now I’m off to read before I have to pack and clean and run and get the Lunchables I left in my parents’ fridge. If you have any advice, please leave it. I’m totally planning on checking my blog Just One Last Time before we leave for the airport tomorrow.
