A sick day took him.

He didn’t need to take a sick day.  After all, he had nowhere to be, but with me. He had no way to call in sick, unless you count him coming up to me on Thursday afternoon, hands held out dramatically, with a glorious, thick streamer of snot hanging from his nose, saying, “Um. Mommy? I have a snot.”

Thursday night was full of the stuff nightmares are made of: he puked up part of his dinner because he was gagging on mucous, came to bed with me after his second screaming awakening made it clear I’d be running to his room all night long otherwise, kicked me repeatedly for the next 8 hours, woke at least once an hour screaming and crying, telling me it hurt and yelling “NO NO NO”, accused me of making his throat hurt (ouch, dude), refused to drink anything, and rounded it all out by peeing in the bed in the morning and then telling me to get up and make his breakfast.

I was so tired.  And so very grumpy.  Then, while I was peeling his wet underpants off of him, I suddenly smiled. I thought about how I had patted his back over and over again all night long. It reminded me so much of long nights when he was this little kid baby:

That was March ’08. I can’t believe it was that long ago. It seems like just yesterday.

But yesterday was forever ago. And it will never be again.

I looked at him, shivering before me after I got him out of the wet clothing. He looked back at me solemnly, and then reached his arms around my neck, climbing into my lap. He held on tight, snuggling his head into the curve of my neck, and we just rocked for a little while, together.

I mostly think that colds are from the very Devil himself; they are miserable, horrible things that torture us and make us feel as though a close cousin of death has crawled inside our faces and set up camp.  And when our kids are sick, it is the worst.  It is so awful to watch them suffer.

But sometimes I experience these tiny moments when I wonder if they are some kind of weird gifts to parents – obviously not in the times of worry and pain, but during those moments when our kids slow down and just want to be held again, loved again, rocked in our arms, or when they just nap in our laps again. These are gifts, even though given in sickness, and it is these little capsules of memories gone suddenly burst open, and a chance to teleport to another moment in time again, for just awhile, that make me smile even as he sniffles.

A sick day took him.

I was there where it delivered him, all day long.

Braden: “Mommy, I need to be fixed.”
Me: “You need to be fixed? Why, are you broken?”
Braden: “Yes, Mommy. I’m broken with sick.”

I am his designated fixer, and he is the spark of magic in my life.  I’m reminded, again, that whatever age he is right now, it’s my favorite one.

For the record, it’s not like Nostradomus has done any better at this point.

Braden’s personality is this incredibly intoxicating blend of sweet, joyful, and smart mixed up with volatile, demanding, and loud.  I’m going to go ahead and claim responsibility for passing on/modeling the former behaviors and blame my husband for the latter.  Not because it’s true, but because I’m mostly an asshole and I like to say anything I can to make myself look good.

My son is not shy. He is unafraid to let you, and everyone around you, know exactly what he thinks and feels at any particular moment.

His thoughtful observations and questions ["If the bug is dead, we should just recharge his batteries." / "Why is the sun sleeping?"]

strange ideas ["My penis is on backwards."]

silly, quick quips [Him: "You need to get me a new eyeball!"  Me: "Just call me Frankenmommy."  Him: "You're not green."]

and even his demanding and frustrated exclamations ["I CAN'T GO PEE, I HAVE TO DANCE FIRST."]

are equally interesting and enlightening, often funny.

He’ll make you think and also laugh.

But did I mention that he’s loud?  Holy crap, he’s LOUD. As John put it the other day, “He goes to 11. And often stays there.”

It’s so true.

Because of this, I was both excited and somewhat scared (okay, more than somewhat, possibly a shitload at times, when I considered it too carefully) about Braden’s very first time on an airplane.  In fact, as soon as I found out we were going to get on an airplane with him, I started punching myself in the face no less than 10 times every 30 minutes to toughen myself up.  I asked John to make airplane noises and then start screaming directly into my ear at random times when we’re in public to help condition me.  For some reason he made the same face he made that one time I asked him how long he thought it would take for a mouse to explode in the microwave and whether or not that time would be altered by getting the mouse really drunk first.

I think he’s just so in love he doesn’t know what to say.

Of course, other than the idea that Braden might morph into a slightly more insane version of himself in-flight, causing all the other passengers to gang up on us and tape us to the wings, I was really excited about our trip home to North Carolina.  My father pulled a super-awesome act and purchased the three of us plane tickets to come for a visit while my sister and her family would be in the States. (They live in Switzerland. Incidentally, I love my sister very much, but I’m kind of mad at her because she has yet to introduce me to Swiss Miss and I just KNOW she’s been blowing that giant horn on the mountain with the Ricola guy, but she hasn’t so much as invited me to join them.  I also expected her to bring me a likeness of myself sculpted entirely out of the best cheese and chocolate in the world, but that has nothing to do with where she lives, it’s just a tradition we have.)

Anyway, we accepted the tickets my father offered in a heartbeat – no way were we going to turn down such a generous offer. We love seeing our extended family. Where else can you drink too much, raid the fridge for pickled beets and cow tongue, set off fireworks when it’s not even July 4th, and fart at the dinner table? (I know you are dying to hang out with us now. Please contain yourself.)

In order to make the trip go smoothly, I spent the weeks leading up to our trip thinking of ways to keep Braden busy on the flights, hoping to keep his roar to a minimum so that nobody would start fashioning voodoo dolls in our likenesses before we even disembarked the airplane at our destination.

I came up with some great ideas, like packing his favorite toys, a notepad and pen, new books for him to enjoy, and DVDs to play on my laptop with headphones just for him.  So we went shopping and I picked up some supplies of that nature along with a brand new roll of extra-strong, soundproof quality duct tape.  You know, in case our luggage got damaged.  And I swear that I only measured the width of the tape against the height of his mouth while I was in the store selecting the right roll because everyone knows that luggage tears generally only occur in the exact dimensions of a 3 year old boy’s facial orifice.

If you don’t believe me you can contact The Official Luggage Tear Association of America Aimed At Defending Moms Who Needed To Tape Their 3 Year Old Spawns’ Faceholes Shut.  OLFAAADMWNT3YOSFS for those in the know.

I have their mailing address around here somewhere.  You can email me if you need it.

Anyway, in the car on the way to the airport, Braden was in a good mood, excited. I was only punching myself in the face a couple of times an hour at that point, so I was mostly able to enjoy the ride.  I did happen to remember that it was Friday the 13th.  While I tried to decide how we were going to die that day, I made sure to address the issue on Twitter.

You know, for good luck.  And to remind everyone else that it was Friday the 13th, in the hopes that I could inspire all the superstitious people who follow me to be fearful and miserable for the rest of the day.  And because I secretly hoped all the rabbits on Twitter would get the message and hide their poor little paws.  I love rabbits, so I wanted to try my best to keep them safe.  I’m a giver like that.  Besides, they look like total dumbasses with peg legs.  Not cool at all, like pirates.

By the way, I’m not really all that superstitious, but I did decide that at some point that day either:

a) we would die a horrible, flaming death after our airplane plummeted from the sky and crashed in a heap of charred and twisted metal because I packed one too many pairs of shoes in my luggage,

b) we’d be chopped into a million pieces by a deranged madman who got pushed past his breaking point because he HATES TO BE ASKED TO TAKE OFF HIS SHOES IN PUBLIC much less be chided for not laying his carry-on bag down flat in the plastic bin, and besides, only assholes who hate their jobs would nitpick at you like that. So it’s really quite understandable why he’d then lose his mind and kill us all with the machete that he somehow managed to get through security. (After they confiscated his nail file, of course.)

or

c) I would die from laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe anymore after Braden got excited at correctly reading the word “frog” and decided to start yelling it out on the plane over and over again and by the way? This is how that sounds: “FUCK! FUCK! HAHAHA! FUCK!”

Three guesses which of my predictions was the closest to the truth. (Apparently I can laugh for a long time without expiring from lack of ability to breathe properly.  So I was wrong about the whole dying part.  Not all of us can be Nostradamus, okay?)

As usual, Braden found groupies all throughout the airport.  Having had his ego filled to bursting, by the time we got to our gate, Braden was already tired and hungry, and demanded sustenance.  Then he had a minor drama queen moment with head to the table, lots of sighing, and talk of feelings like “too sad” and then he ended up telling me he did not want to be at the airport.

I was all, “Suck it up, dude, we’re going to wait here for awhile and then we’re getting on the plane.”

He told me I was a world class jerk and then wouldn’t share his fries with me.

So I peed in his apple juice when he wasn’t looking.

Okay, I didn’t.  But I thought about it.  I actually decided the opening to the bottle was way too narrow and it would make more of a mess on my pants than it was worth.  Not having a penis is so unfair sometimes.

While the (clearly) cutest boy in the world ate his fries, John and I knocked back some pre-flight refreshments.

We boarded our first flight with no incident. Braden was almost humming with excitement on the way into the plane and arriving at our seats.

We got settled and waited. I could hear, across the aisle, the murmuring of John and Braden talking to one another.  Braden was a bit fidgety.  I suggested John tell Braden, using his toy airplane to illustrate, what was going to happen when the plane took off.

I saw the airplane sliding across the tray table, heard the quiet explanations. Braden was smiling, nodding. Suddenly he exclaimed, exuberantly, “The airplane is going to fly high, high up into the sky! *short pause* AND THEN IT’S GOING TO CRAAAASSSHHH DOOOWWWWWNNN!!!!!”

I swear I didn’t laugh.  I’m not a complete liar, either.

We were an instant favorite amongst our fellow passengers.  I flexed and readied for my best one finger salute, just in case.  Luckily, nobody said anything, which is really kind of awesome, because I’d choke a kid for something like that if he wasn’t mine.

Braden really liked the feeling of take-off and landing.  I had to suppress the urge to tell him that he only likes it because he doesn’t know that we could die at any minute. (Okay, to be honest, I like it, too, and I do know. But turbulence can go right to hell.)

I wish I hadn’t complied with the Flight Crew’s requests to stow all electronic equipment during take-off.  And not just because I like to get in trouble and possibly taken to jail by TSA officials. (Though it is a favorite past time.) The photos and video I could have captured of Braden would have made you all smile and laugh.  (My life’s sole mission.)

Other travelers laughed and grinned as he exclaimed, “THREE… TWO… ONE… BLAAAAAST OFFF!” It kind of made up for the whole “suggesting we were all going to die during a fabulous crash landing from hell” thing.  Plus, not even one person called him a dumbass for saying “Blast Off” about an airplane / thinking we were in a rocket.  Those were the nicest people ever.  I would have bought them all vodka drinks, but then there wouldn’t have been enough for all the Bloody Marys that John and I needed.  Yes, needed.  There’s a medical reason.  No, I can’t talk about it with you. Not because I don’t trust you, but mostly because I’m a liar but I can’t think of anything right now because I’m too tired.  Shhh. Don’t tell.

Luckily, Braden had only momentary discomfort with ear pressure, alleviated by noshing on helpless little gummy rabbits.  I pretty much felt like a genius for packing them, since he can’t chew gum yet.  Well, I mean, technically he can chew gum, but he can also probably choke to death on it because he doesn’t know how to not constantly laugh and yell, drawing in great amounts of air.  And I kind of like having him around because he can still eat for free at some restaurants and he makes me laugh.  Oh, and don’t even act like I’m contradicting myself on the whole “love rabbits” thing from above, because those gummy rabbits were made of 100% fruit juice with no more than 10% actual rabbit flavoring.  See how superior you think you are? I showed you.

During the flight, I made a new friend, only 4.75 years old.  She was very adamant that I recognize how close to 5 she was, and even instructed me to be ready for her birthday.  Someone is a little too obsessed with herself, if you ask me.  She wouldn’t even shut up and let me talk about myself any of the 50-some times I tried to tell her about my blog or all my funny Tweets.  How rude.  I mean, really.

She talked more than Braden does.  A LOT MORE.  She told me quite a few stories about her squishy pink lizard.  She said it can swim! and do flips! but I think she was full of shit because during the entire flight, the thing didn’t move EVEN ONCE.  You know what I think, though?  That thing is conning her for her sweet little girl love.  It’s not right.  I made sure to sneak it off of her before we deplaned and flushed it down into that blue death in the airplane toilet.  Lying lizard toys are one of the main things about this country that’s causing the whole place to go to hell in a handbasket, and I, for one, will not stand by while nothing is done about it.  It’s true.  I’m an amazing activist for important causes.  Don’t be jealous, we can’t all be so inherently wonderful.

My new friend (I don’t remember her name, but it’s not my fault, she didn’t even have a cell phone number I could add to my contacts list) also regaled me with stories about her little sister, cartwheels, the color of her carry-on luggage (it matched her dress), and her mother’s age.

LOUDLY: “My mommy is 33, almost 34! She’s old. How old are you?”  I told her I am 5 – clearly better than her because she’s only 4.75.  Then I asked if she also knew how much her mom weighs. Her mother just looked at me with glazed eyes.  I don’t know much ALS, so I could be wrong, but at one point I think she signed “Please just take her, I won’t tell anyone.”

I don’t need a girl, though, since Braden already lets me paint his toenails and put styling product in his hair, so I declined.

By the way, I think the little sister was totally trying to hit on Braden.  I think it’s a chicks dig cars kind of thing.  Or maybe it’s his keen fashion sense.  Maybe the killer blue eyes.

Watch out, mothers of daughters.  No, really, watch out because if we don’t have this kid fixed (can you do that? will they do that at the Vet?) we are SCREWED.  Please to be fitting your female children with chastity belts.

Anyway, the flights went fairly well.  Nobody died at all and my fears of Braden losing his freaking mind were unfounded.

Well, unless you count the times that the Shrieking Banshee of Death emerged when seatbelts had to be buckled and tray tables returned to their locked positions.

Airplane windows really do need to be lower.

Can we redesign all airplanes to accommodate my tiny son’s desire to look out at the amazing sights around and below us as we ascend/descend? Surely that’s not too much to ask.  IT’S JUST MONEY AND TIME, YOU ASSHOLES.

No? Oh well. I’ll just keep knockin’ these back.

And making Daddy sit next to Braden.

You know… if he can handle it.

wonder and light

it’s in every wide-eyed stare
that seems to light up
his whole face

while softening mine

it’s in the way he views lights
sweetly breathing the word,
“wowwwwwww”

my heart stops for a moment

it’s in the excited, rising
pitch in his voice as he says
“Santa” and “Cwissmas”

that puts a twinkle in my eyes

it’s in his sincere concern
when he asks me with
worry stitched across his face
“Am naughty, Santa bwing no pwesents?”

i have to stifle a laugh

it’s in the mirth with which he replies
“That’s wight! If I good, Santa bwings
pwesents! on CWISSMASSSS!”
when i remind him there’s still
hope

i love him no matter how naughty he is

it’s in the way i can feel the joy
as he does because he
reminds me how to

i have a reason to let go and smile

he runs the years back
on my rusty clock
just by being himself

the ultimate gift in life

he is wonder and light
and i am grateful.

Stripes at my back, my heart on my sleeve.

Today’s Photohunt Theme: “Stripes”

my favorite stripes in a warm time
run up behind me in a line
I lay back and close my eyes
the time of solace and rest flies

quite soon I hear the little feet
marking out a quick-paced beat
a giggling is drawing near
the favorite sound my ears could hear

my eyes open and see his face
filling up my eye-view space
he’s grinning, asking to join me
I reach out, pull him up quickly

now a different kind of peace unfolds
of tickling, laughter, hugs and holds
and just as rest can make me whole
this connection refuels my soul.

Haiku Friday

There’s nothing quite as
crappy as your little one
being really sick.

Crying, whimpering,
headache, fever, pathetic…
a sad little boy.

Sleeping on the hard
floor in his room is no day
at the park either.

We do what me must
to give them comfort, though, right?
Yeah. *hobbles away*

Awaiting that PLOP of fabulosity.

Elmo, Big Bird, & Cookie Monster are my latest allies in The Great Potty Training Challenge.

Braden is so good at peeing on the toilet when he’s naked. I mean, seriously, I never thought I’d be writing these words about anyone, but:

I am SO proud of the way he hops on that pot and pees!

I’ve watched him progress from a potty in the living room to the toilet that’s off the kitchen near the garage. He’ll stop playing (!!!) hold it while he runs all the way there, move a stool over, put the potty ring on the toilet, climb up, hop on & slide back, and then let the stream go.

It is the best hissing sound I’ve ever heard (so far).

We’re working very carefully right now at getting him to be just as good at it when he’s wearing pants.

Some days are good. Other days? We’re swimmin’ in Peed Up Pants, Yo.

And, just in case you were wondering?

Good Things To Swim In:

• Water
• Beer
• Wine
• The Ocean
• Money (A La Scrooge McDuck)

I was going to say Jello, but enough to swim in would be enough to drown in. Yeah.

Note To Self: Save the Jello for the super awesome, fun Naked Wrestling with girlfriends at our slumber parties.

Bad Things To Swim In:

• Vomit
• Unpaid Bills (Speaking from experience here)
• Booger Pies
• Warm Spit
• Peed Up Pants, Yo

We are making strides, but it is bumpy and sometimes ugly. It is as if having anything on his butt is a signal to him that it’s okay to let’er rip.

We have been calmly and lovingly letting him know that we have other expectations, and encouraging small steps towards the final, desired behavior at all times.

Simultaneously, we’ve been talking to him about how FREAKING AWESOME WONDERFUL GREAT AND FABULO-TASTICAL it is to “put your Poo-Poo in the toilet!!!!!!!!1″.

And can I just say, that on the day that he pulls down those pants and drops a log into the porcelain throne, it will be the most FABULOUS PLOP I have ever heard.

I think I might cry a tear when it happens.

Or do some Naked Jello Wrestling.

Lazy Douche Enablers: Jamie, Blonde Mom Blog

Lazy Douche Enablers write posts for me every other Tuesday. That way, I can be a much better… you guessed it: Lazy Douche. Today’s Enabler is Jamie, of Blonde Mom Blog.

In Which I Reveal My Unbridled Hatred For Dora

My youngest daughter is 4 and still drinks the sickeningly sweet Dora Kool Aid served up with a side of oddly shaped football head and the incapacity to speak without yelling.

We’ve acquired a motley crew of Dora dolls that talk (thank God for hard to find batteries that mysteriously “die” and cannot be replaced) plus a talking Dora cash register. Thankfully we do have one doodle pad Dora theme toy that is blissfully silent. The Dora dolls, however, have those creepy eyes half-rolled back into their heads while they wait to be recharged in the corner of my daughter’s room perched on, what else, a Dora chair. I’m not sure what’s worse…hearing Wishing Fairy Dora sing over and over again or seeing her passed out like a nightmarish Latina Bride of Chucky doll ready to kill me with “Where Are We Going…TO HELL…mwaa haa haa haa.”

Seriously. The dolls are nightmare inducing. It’s enough for me to grab them one by one, shake them, and scream, “Dora, Shut The Fuck Up!!!!”

I guess I’ve watched one too many episodes of Dora where I find myself secretly rooting for her and Boots, the dumb as a box of taco shells monkey, because I know it will come out, “Dora, Shut The Fuck Up… Por Favor!!!”

_______________________________________________________________

Jamie has been writing about the more humorous, and messier, moments of life in the dog hair/estrogen filled vortex she calls home at BlondeMomBlog since 2005, but has never used the real F word on her blog. Muchas gracias, Lotus.

And yes, I can figure out how to make anything into a tribute to him. Neener.

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Four”

A Braden burrito, one hand sticking out
Just four days old… fuzzy head, little pout
Sleeping so soundly, a thief in the night
Stealing our hearts while we put up no fight

After four weeks of learning, he pursed his lips well
And our stolen hearts continued to swell
Just beginning the journey of parenthood
Much already learned, much still not understood

In four short months time it became very clear
Nothing else had ever been so very dear
Or so frustrating right in the very same minute
Your patience is tested and pushed to the limit!

We have not yet gotten to the next four in line
only half-way there, but there’s plenty of time
No need to rush things or hope time would move fast
I’d rather cling and make each moment last

But by now we’ve learned that it never ends
The journey of parents just stretches and bends
Every challenge is met, then a new one appears
Little victories fade, and there will be new tears

But for every moment that passes a new wonder is born
Your spirit is lifted even as it is torn
The child will bring joy, laughter and mirth
To each piece of your life, every day after birth.

For all the fours had so far
And those still to come
I am blessed and happy
That he is my son.