We must have gotten into some bad sushi

Why do I spend the better part of every holiday season vomiting? Really. I'd just like to know.

Man.

My family has been sick since mid-November with a godawful plague. It seems like swine flu lite. What I mean by that is that it includes hacking cough, chest congestion, runny nose, and miscellaneous yuck, without the incredibly high fevers of swine flu proper. I think it's possible the kids actually do have swine flu lite, because they've been vaccinated, which can give you less than complete immunity. I think I recovered from middling swine flu right before we went to Texas. I think Big K has had swine flu proper for weeks.

But that wasn't awesome enough. No.

Last Wednesday, we got like 20 inches of snow or some shit. It was awesome. Snow day extravaganza. The planet that is The Woods essentially stopped spinning. My sister came over to bake Christmas cookies. I felt so dang festive I dressed my children in matching outfits. Nothing indicates my sense of festivity like putting my kids in matching outfits. They were ready to rock. See?

We had a pretty fun day baking. Grandma J called and said she was bringing over chili for supper. It was all very festive. And then around 5 p.m., I was smashing Phook on the belly with a pillow, and she sort of puked a little bit. Just like a toddler version of spit-up. I chalked it up to my beating her and the fact that she'd eaten nothing but sugar all day. But then like half an hour later, she informed me she had a sore "budd" (short for buddha) and needed medicine. And then she said she needed to spit in a bucket. And then she spit in a bucket like 15 times and on the 16th time she blew her cookies in that bucket. (Can I get a shout-out for Phook's excellent vomit prediction? I don't think many 3-year-old's do much other than spontaneously puke somewhere really horrifying.) So, yeah, I was hopeful it was a sugar problem (although both my kids have steel guts inherited from their father, so I deep down knew that was unlikely). But then she did it again. And proceeded to spend the entire night heaving ho like a pathetic little creature.

The next day, we did the Pedialyte-sip two-step and she held it down and proceeded to get better. But then Big K walked in the door looking like nine kinds of hell at about 1:30. He crashed in bed for a couple hours and woke up boiling. He then sorta kinda basically blacked out/passed out and said we needed to go to the E.R. upon regaining consciousness. His fever was 103 and they packed his head and pits in ice to bring it down and gave him some I.V. rehydration. He hadn't tossed his cookies but other unsavory things had occurred and he was all kinds of fubar. So that was neat.

We got home from the E.R. that night and I felt the godawful and sadly familiar rumbling in my gut signaling I had calls to make to my friend Ralph, and that I'd be calling him on my big white phone. I did not disappoint myself. I proceeded to spend the entire night on the bathroom floor in a horrific stew of my own spewings of all varieties, freezing and shaking and getting charley horses in my legs once the dehydration started to get really special. I crawled into the tub a couple times in the middle of the night to rinse the offal off of myself and I'm sincerely surprised I didn't drown. Finally morning came and Phook came down the stairs and found me lying in a pile of filthy blankets and discarded soiled pajamas.

"What's a matter wif you, Mumma?" she said. I told her I was real sick. She went and got me a bottle of 7Up from the fridge, which awesomely had been opened so it was already flat, and then she gave it to me and said, "Don't drink it all - just little sips." Dude. I'm not kidding. My 3-year-old child actually provided me with effective care. I then crawled my feverish arse back into the tub and she tested the water for me to make sure it wasn't too hot. I'm not kidding. She said, "Don't worry, Mumma, it's not too hot and not too chilly. It's just real warm." Thanks, little buddy. So then I floated in the tub while she watched and eventually Big K and Bigs came downstairs and bless their hearts, my parents agreed to take the kids off our hands for the day, because we were sincerely dead. We could not safely have cared for our children. It was so friggin' bad.

Friday passed in a feverish haze and eventually I was able to walk up the stairs (instead of crawl), and that was good. The days since have passed in a similar haze of gradually getting strength back, but Big K and I are still nowhere near 100%. Phook seems totally fine and Bigs has yet to go on his maiden vomit voyage, so we are counting our blessings and hoping his relative good health holds. Did I mention that both kids are still hacking like the Marlboro Man?

Overall, I just need to note that I am pissed. I am nowhere near done Christmas shopping and haven't even started wrapping. Cards aren't sent. Baking is utterly derailed. House is a disaster. And now I'm feeling frazzled and Scroogey. I hate that. I don't want to be Scroogey. But my holiday vibe was hijacked by my intestinal tract and I'm feeling bitter about the whole transaction. I should be done with my baking and shopping and just have a few things left to wrap. Instead I'm all Scroogey. Sonofabitch. It's the most wonderful time of the year. I was supposed to gain 8 pounds instead of puke up 8 pounds. What a crock.

So that's that. I'm pissed. I don't have my shit together. I will get it done. There isn't a question of getting it done. I just prefer to enjoy it. So now I am left to focus on trying to enjoy it while doing it in a hurry while trying to ignore the bastard that is stress that keeps scratching at my happy holiday door. Today is the first day I've even attempted to do anything since this shit storm started, and it's just been catching up on general household maintenance. Ugh.

The only solution is to put my kids in matching outfits. And to get myself a belt. I definitely need a belt, at least until I can get back on track with gaining my 8 pounds of frosting fat.

Quote of the Day

So you probably forgot (or never knew) that I have two Christmas trees every year. My standard tree and my food tree. I was a little behind my normal holiday decorating schedule this year on account of our vacation, but we finally got the big tree decorated last night. And tonite, with Big K at a meeting and Bigsy in the sack a bit early on account of a simultaneous quadruple molar eruption, two freshly immunized band-aided thighs, and a big dent on his head from a recent incident (just a day in the life!), Phook and I took to the task of decorating the food tree.

The food tree is decorated with all food ornaments, of course. 95% of them are delicate glass types, mostly this Old World Christmas brand. I've collected them and been gifted them over the years. They're not super-cheap. I love them more than a person should love earthly goods. So of course I let my 3-year-old unwrap them all from the little bubble wrap and tissue paper nests I had painstakingly packed them in last year.

So we're going through the ornaments. She's unwrapping and commenting. I'm hanging and responding. We're having a nice time. Oooh! An orange! Whoa! Dat's a big huge pepper! Hey Momma, it's a hot dog! I wike to eat hot dogs!

And then she unwrapped the sushi roll. Now I like to think my kids have pretty adventurous appetites for toddlers, but they've never had--or seen--sushi. (They ban you from The Woods for life if you enter city limits packing sushi.)

So anyhow, Phook examines the thing and finally says, "What's 'dis?"

And I said, "That's sushi, Phook."

And Phook said, without any further questions and with unbridled passion, "I love sushi!"

Dude, that kid is so friggin' funny.

And a good time was had by all

Well, we returned to The Woods late on Wednesday night in one piece, if a tad worse for wear on account of a LONG day of travel. The trip was good.

You all want to know if Bigsy caused a scene in international airspace. We'll get to that. But first I need to tell you that Phook is the rockstar of the air traffic scene. As I predicted, I would fly that kid to Australia. She just gets it, she's cool with it, she's down with it, she was awesome. I was a wee bit nervous that once the engines got very loud on take-off she'd get weirded out, but no. She just casually looked out the window and said we were going "way up to the top of the sky" like she's got more frequent flyer miles than a jet-setting celebrity. There was no fear, no discomfort, no mayhem. The kid pulled her brand-new mini suitcase on wheels (b-day gift from Granny and Grampy) the entire trip, and when she boarded the second plane when we connected in Atlanta, like 3 miscellaneous passengers blurted out, "Well, she looks like she's done this before!" as she walked down the aisle. Phook fuggin' owned air travel. At one point on the return trip when I was seated across the aisle with Bigsy, her father ordered her a Fresca to drink, which for some reason struck me as absolutely hilarious. He then busted out a bag of Funyuns he had been hoarding and she sat there and wolfed down Funyuns off her tray table while downing a Fresca, and it was such an amusing moment that only a dad would orchestrate, I nearly peed my pants.


So, Bigs. Well, my tiny hope that we'd be able to transfer the kids from bed to car on our first wake-up was of course extinguished as quickly as the thought entered my mind. So the kids were woken up at about 3:45 a.m. after having a very late night on account of travel to Milwaukee and the process of getting settled in there. So I was filled with horror from the get-go. Getting to the airport, checking in, and security were all a blur that involved an intense amount of jostling of crap while I wore Bigsy on my back. When we hauled Phook out of bed with her ever-expanding collection of guys (which included pink blankie, daddy sleep guy, mommy sleep guy, baby, kitty cat, and little baby), I was not cogent enough to think to stow the majority of that zoo somewhere. Instead we let her attempt to carry it and we all ended up with blankies and babies and guys sticking out of our every orifice. [That was a funny sentence.] (On the return trip, only pink blankie was accessible and he was towed hands-free, stuck in the handle of her wheeled case...much better.) We got on our plane for the 5:40 departure with only a couple minutes to spare.

Bigs was in no way scared or disturbed by the process of being launched into the air in a very noisy machine. And he was...wait for it, wait for it...good. Now he wasn't easy, but he was good. He required intense maintenance to keep him amused. This involved many, many snacks. It involved the use of a new kiddie digital camera. It involved suckers. It involved animal noises. It involved books. It involved an iPod.

It involved wrestling, wrangling, changing a poopie dipe in an airplane bathroom, being fed lots of snacks we didn't want by a grubby little paw, and a spilled bottle of Aquafina. It involved, as Big K says, "extreme parenting." But he was good. We successfully contained him without medicinal supplements. A miracle. I dare say that I will travel again by air with my children. Wowzers.

Our first full day in San Antonio, we took the kids and their cousins-in-law-to-be to this place called Inflatable Wonderland, which I was lovingly referring to as InflataHell. I didn't think Phook would like it since she has shown tendencies toward claustrophobia and fear of heights (she won't go into a McDonald's Playland tube structure), but she proved me wrong. She was all over that place. It was basically a huge building filled with assorted bounce houses and inflatable slides. Bigs was of course the youngest kid in there and the most insane, dive-bombing himself all over like a madman. He definitely ended up with a huge scrape on his forehead, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was concussed. But it was a good time.


We then spent a day at SeaWorld, an event that I can't really show you pictures of because Big K had the camera all day and somehow managed to take approximately 50 pictures of nothing and/or me with a mouth full of popcorn and a lazy eye. But it was really fun. Phook really enjoyed feeding the dolphins and sea lions, something that freaked her out when we went back in March. The San Antonio SeaWorld also has a couple of major roller coasters, which Phook was totally obsessed with. She did not want to make forward progress when we were near them...she just wanted to watch people go rocketing down the coasters. She also road on this little Shamu coaster, a little ferris wheel type thing, and a little ride that took her up in the air and then dropped down a little bit. We have a picture of that last one, which I apparently took because Big K is on the ride...okay, so our lens was dirty.

And no matter how many times I see it and no matter how cheesy it might be, I officially cry during the Shamu show regardless of whether my hormones are in a pregnant, lactating, or dormant state. FYI. Also, it is totally weird to be in 65+ degree weather watching people walk around in scarves singing Christmas carols. My holiday brain is very much set to go into seasonal cheer mode with the weather...not so much in a place where people are still riding water rides. Good data to have collected about myself.

We also spent some time on the River Walk area in downtown San Antonio after a (relatively lame) visit to The Alamo. (Which Phook called "The Elmo" in very charming fashion.) I wish we would have had more time down there but we ran into a desperate naptime situation and had to call it a day. My brother-in-law who we were visiting got engaged while we were down there though, so I'm guessing we'll need to make a return trip to see the wedding, during which I will spend more time downtown. There was a lot more to see down there. But Bigs did dig the Mexican chow:

On Sunday, we took off for Port Aransas, which is a little island off the coast of the Corpus Christi area. Luckily, the weather almost cooperated for the first afternoon we were there, and we ran in the surf with the kids for a couple hours, even though the local types looked at us like we were on drugs for running around in the water in "winter." My kids absolutely adore the ocean. I wonder where they get it from???

They also spent some quality time dicking around in the sand. You can't have a bad time doing that.

Unfortunately, the cold/wind/rain front that was expected did come in, despite my prayers that it miss us. So I put my kids under the bathroom cabinet for a couple days:

Kidding. It was only a couple hours. We decided to make lemonade and went to Corpus Christi to check out the Texas State Aquarium, which the kids totally and completely loved. I didn't have to show them shit and try to get them to love it...they just loved it. (Makes me want to do a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago this winter.) A highlight was the dolphin show, which was just an underwater viewing on account of the weather, but was still awesome. Phook got to hold a triangle to the glass while the dolphins practiced shape recognition, but sadly the trainer walked right in the way when I was snapping a picture of the dolphin touching her shape. However, I got one of the dolphins socializing with my kids:

They also really adored the sea turtles, especially Bigsy. They seemed to think he looked like a tasty appetizer, because they followed him around from viewing area to viewing area.

Right after this, our camera died, so that's the end of the photographic record. (Ironically, I just fixed the camera 5 minutes ago while sitting in the recliner...bummer.)

Anyhow, we wrapped up our time at the ocean, returned to San Antonio for one more night and basically crashed, and the kids started losing their shit on account of a week of a jacked up routine, missed sleep, and homesickness. By the time it was time to go home, it was time to go home. Wednesday's travel was awesomely successful with Phook on account of Funyuns and Fresca, and I did managed to walk Bigs to sleep in the carrier before boarding the first flight, which gave me an hour and a half reprieve while he remained cashed on my chest. But then he woke up, and it was extreme parenting again, now with more tired. We made it to our connection in Detroit with little mayhem, but the final evening flight from Detroit to Milwaukee is a memory I have already started to repress. I got the kids bagels and tasty yogurt parfait things from a coffee shop in the airport, and that was good until Bigs refused to let me feed him and ripped the spoon from me and began flinging yogurt, granola, strawberries, and blueberries all over himself, me, and the aircraft. And then when that was done, he screamed some more. It was a very short flight, thank the gods, but it fuggin' sucked. I am pretty sure my face looks like Tiger Woods' after his "car accident" on account of Bigsy's flailing. Dude and dude. But it was really overtiredness and end of ropedness more than an actual problem with flight, so I'm gonna let it slide and keep my options open re: future air travel.

So here's the best part. Upon returning to Milwaukee, Big K's uncle came and picked us up in our own van, which had been at his home in a Milwaukee suburb while we were away. When Phook saw the rusty shitbomber van pull up, she ran up to it, hugged it, and woefully declared, "Oh van car, I'm so happy to see you!" I think she was homesick, hey?

Now it would have been better for this blog if I had a really horrific story about how we hit turbulence and all ralphed on ourselves in glorious fashion, but unfortunately everything went well. It was a good trip, good times, and we're happy to be home. (And boy was the hound happy to see us!)

And that's a wrap, kids!

Wish me luck

Well, friends, we're leaving late this afternoon for Milwaukee, and our plane leaves for Texas at 5:40 tomorrow morning. I am as prepared as I can be, which means I am completely ill-prepared. It is fair to say I'm nervous. It is fair to say that today has been a pretty major disast of trying to do last-minute packing and errands while trying to keep two cranky children from eating each other in a fit of cannibalistic rage. It is fair to say I am ready to get out of here - I just am not particularly amped for the getting there.

Please send good flying vibes to the vicinity of the Ks tomorrow.

Please send good boarding vibes to my nervous Houndy, who my sister predicts will be hairless by the time I return as a result of his anxiety.

And on that note, have a Happy Thanksgiving!

XO,
Momma

Fit and Fat: Actual Living Specimen Found Roaming The Woods

I'm hating myself a little for this post already, despite not having written it yet. But I'm gonna do it anyway. I'm gonna talk about fitness.

To paraphrase my sister, I'm the type of person who is inclined to sit on my porch drinking a giant Dr. Pepper while armed with a Super Soaker filled with mayonnaise that I use to shoot any poor sap who comes jogging past my house in body-hugging, moisture-wicking activewear. I mean, don't get me wrong. I've pretty much always been outdoorsy and basically active in my day-to-day operations: hiking, walking several miles a day, gardening, and generally dicking around in a state of perpetual low-grade motion. But I am not a person who purposefully tends to fitness. You know, for like 45 minutes at a certain point during the day while wearing a heart rate monitor. No, not Big W.

Ahem.

So, Hosedog. My sister went on this fitness and Weight Watchers bender nearly two years ago and she got all fuggin' fit. She made pals with this weight-lifting meathead at her former school, and he got her on a serious lifting program and she got hooked. And then she got all cardio-tastic and ran a half marathon. And shit like that that I disdain. And then she moved home to The Woods to teach here. And then she asked me if I wanted on her fitness bandwagon. And I was all like, "Fuck no. Okay."

So since the beginning of the school year, I have been waking up at 5:30 IN THE MORNING, and my sister pulls in my driveway at 5:45 and we drive up to school and we go in the weight room and we work out until we almost puke. Every day, unless there are extenuating circumstances. But we've been pretty dang faithful for a couple of semi-roomy gals who don't necessarily shy away from a cream sauce. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we do cardio. Tuesday is arm day. Thursday is leg day. Sometimes we throw in an ab workout. We wear weight-lifting gloves and shit and grunt when we have to. It's all like scheduled and planned and just like all the fit people who do fitness every day because they're fit. And then I come home and walk the dog a mile or two for a cool down. And people say to me, "Wow, I saw you out walking before 7:00 this morning!" And I casually affirm their statement, but on the inside I'm thinking, "Bitch, that was my COOL DOWN! I am so fit that the impressive little early a.m. trot around town with the houndy is my fuggin' COOL DOWN!"

So, Hosedog is pretty much the best personal trainer ever. She has enough weight training knowledge to actually impress my husband, which is close to impossible in pretty much any department, but most especially that one. When I'm like dying my way through the third set of some horrific skull crushers or some other horrifically named weight lifting maneuver, she always casually but in a very timely manner says, "Hode, your forearms look HUGE right now!" I mean, not that most people desire huge forearms, but I'm a fan of all hugeness and it works. She's really supportive and knowledgeable and awesome and a great person to almost puke with. And it's a nice way to start our day together. We can bitch about things, almost puke, and bitch about things. It's nice. Pretty much every day, we spend a minute in my driveway deciding whether we should just go out for a big fuggin' omelet instead...but up to the weight room we trudge. The only way to work out is with a partner. I don't know what the heck I'll do when she moves away again.

So I'm feeling muscular. I mean, I am muscular...my baseline physique is abnormally muscular for someone with a uterus. But Hode's maneuvers have got my arms all firm and, dare I say, almost toned? My legs need more muscles like Turbo needs more ears, but it's always nice to be just a little bit more of a badass, right?

And the cardio. That's the reason I'm posting today of all days when I've been keeping this big fitness secret from you all. Today I did something that is, for me, epic. When I was a kid living on my block filled with my cousins and 100 other kids, we of course ran all over hell all the time playing ridonkulous games that involved a lot of, well, running. And I hated it. I hated feeling winded. I hated the way it made my sides hurt. I hated the burning feeling in my lungs. I took to telling the other kids I was allergic to running. And I wasn't kidding. That's right. As an 8-year-old, I very seriously told people I was allergic to running. Fast forward to high school, during which time I participated in lots of organized sports and tended to not suck. I still hated running. I played many, many basketball games during which I saw not even 30 seconds of bench time, but still that is different than straight up running. There is stopping and starting, for example.

But that, high school, was the last time I was actually purposefully moving my body at a speed greater than a brisk walk with any regularity. Yeah, I graduated 12 years ago. And gained 600 pounds. And spent 44 consecutive months pregnant or nursing (that particularly statistic is never going to get old for me).

So Hode says we're gonna do real cardio. Me, seeing no point in this, decided that if I was going to do it I needed some explicit plan to follow so I could have goals, meet them, and generally feel as if there was a point beyond self-torture. So I found one of those Couch-to-5K programs, even though I wasn't doing a 5K. Because it was a plan, it was clear, I could cross things off. So I started doing something like walking 90 seconds, jogging 60 seconds, or something like that. Of course it was easy. But then when I started to run for like 3 minutes, my body got a little pissed. I never had wind problems (amazingly), but where my calves connected to my bones hurt and my hips hurt and various parts of my legs felt like they'd explode. But I kept at it, and never couldn't do the workout I was supposed to do on any particular day. Thanks be to iPod (ironically, also a gift from Hode).

So today, today was a big deal. I ran for 20 minutes (21 actually, because I wanted to do an even 2 miles), without stopping. The previous workout had been 8 minute run, 5 minute walk, 8 minute run...so 20 minutes seemed like an eternity. I mean, really. That is a long time to be running on purpose if you haven't so much as broken into a trot for 12 years. I wasn't going to attempt the 20 minutes today because I've had a horrible chest cold for what seems like 3 months, but at the 8 minute mark, I felt good. So I kept running. (You know, like Forrest.) And I just kept running. And my body kept running. And then it ran some more. I was sweating pretty awesomely and feeling like I was exerting myself, but it was totally freaking doable. Me. Running. For as long as it takes to watch an episode of Cougar Town if you fast forward through the commercials.

The weight room is in a mezzanine overlooking the gym, and we are roughly at eye level with the gymnasium lights. There is a big silver light that another light casts it light off of right in the middle of my field of vision...making for a big silver shiny spot. It is my focus object in labor. I go to the light. I actually enter the mythical place where I am just going, not really even completely conscious of the fact that my body is moving. Holy shit, right?

Because, um, pals, I'm a chubster. Really. I've lost a few pounds since we started with these shenanigans, but I do not look AT ALL like a person who runs. I am, in fact, muscular. But I am also a giant cow. My midsection is decidedly wrapped in an exoskeleton of flub. Not "pinch an inch" flub. Actual flub. I am flubby. I have back fat. My BMI is, like, a lot. (Eff BMI, by the way.)

So, here it is. I am fit and fat. Ha! This phenomenon actually occurs! Neat!

You know what the cool thing is? Now that I am reasonably fit on top of my fat (or underneath it, as it were), I don't really look at the fat the same way. I'm just pretty much cool with myself. More forgiving, definitely. Whatevs, back fat, you can't keep me down! I can run for 20 minutes! And next week I will run for 30! So, take that, Fatty McBackfatterson.

This is entirely personal. I don't much care about anything except the fact that I feel really good. When Bigsy takes off for the highway, I can definitely catch him. If I ever need to flee from an attacker, I could actually potentially get away. I feel strong. I feel healthy. I feel solidly mentally stable. My pants fit better. I don't look in the mirror and get all pissy about my midsection...I just flex my big arm muscles at myself and then go make Big K feel my triceps while I gloat.

This, this...fitness...was not a bad idea.

Dude.

Good times.

So I came in the house this morning after my big marathon (ha!) and I was shrieking and dancing and yelping. Phook laughed at me for a bit and then said, "Okay, Mom, it's time to settle down." Big K was appropriately proud of me but could not resist saying, "So you ran two miles for the first time in your life at age 30. You're an inspiration to old ladies everywhere!" That was a good one, I gotta admit. And then we laughed about how I'm going to try to stay fat as a disguise of my fitness so I don't make other people feel bad about how unfit they are. You know, it's kinder to the general Wisconsin populace if I keep an ample midsection. Can't fly your fitness flag too high around here. Good times in the K bathroom this morning.

So, there you have it. I don't think we can call me a runner, but I think we can call me fit. Yes, we can say fit. I will indeed call what really fit people consider a warm-up to be evidence of my own watered-down version of fit. Yes, I will. Yes, fit. I am.

Ha!

XO,
Momma

P.S. If you read this whole post while loading your mayo gun, I really understand. I've read a lot of posts like this on other blogs while loading my own mayo gun. I hate few things as much as other people's fitness. So if you hate my fitness, I understand, I really do. Just don't tell me in my comments, because that would make me really sad on a very fit day.

Leavin' on a jet plane

Aw, buds.

Next Tuesday, my whole family and my MIL and BIL are getting on a plane and flying to Texas to see Big K's other brother; he defected there a couple years ago. Our flight leaves at 5:40 a.m., which means I'll be dragging myself and the kids out of bed at a really disturbing hour. My plan is to have everything ready and throw them in the car in their p.j.'s at the last possible minute and pray that they'll still be in a deep enough sleep to pass back out in the car, but that's highly unlikely and I'll functionally be getting my children up at about 4 a.m.

We then take about a 2 hour flight to Atlanta, have about 40 minutes to change planes in what is a huge and extremely busy airport, and then take another 1 hour flight to Texas. We'll get there at about 11:30 a.m. local time. Right now, I can't even look at the itinerary to check the return flights, but I know it spans over nap time.

Allright, crap.

This was my idea, the flying. Big K had been angling hard for the typical K Family 24-hour roadtrip, but I couldn't imagine Bigsy strapped to a carseat for 24 hours. Sure, we did it when he was 9 months old, but a 16-month-old is a decidedly more mobile animal, and this one is rabid. And then there is a 3-year-old thrown in the mix just for giggles. I had credit card miles, we have a vehicle to use when we get there...we only had to buy one ticket and therefore it is actually cost effective to fly. When I was clicking my heels and booking the tickets, I was amped.

But now that I think about the realities of those hours and what the heck it might do to my kids at 30000 feet, I'm not able to control my gag reflex.

The good news is that we do not have to haul strollers or car seats because our destination has a kid population-in-law and they have stuff we can borrow. Major awesome. I will wear Bigs in my Ergo carrier in the airport. Phook is oddly adept at marathon and sprint distances, and my husband is a pack mule. So I'm not even worried about airport logistics.

Nor am I worried about the 3-year-old in question. The child has been totally amped to "fly up to the top of the sky" since I broke the news to her months ago. She is a great car traveler, she enjoys nearly anything we hype up to her as awesome, she can be entertained with books and drawing really easily, and she is generally not a real big shithead until after she has had her sleep schedule jacked up for more than a 24 hour period. So Texas may suffer some damage, but I'm optimistic that she'll do her part to keep the skies friendly.

But Bigs. Oh Bigs. I love him, I do. But the child is mad man. Have I mentioned that? I don't blog about him enough. Here's the thing. He puts Phook's status as a physical savant in a fairly distant second place, and we thought she was a rockstar. The child taught himself to two-footed jump--both on the ground and off of miscellaneous items--several months ago. You know, right around the time most kids are starting to get the hang of walking. He now spends about 4 hours per day jumping. You know, just cuz. He goes up and down stairs with ease. He can climb up onto any piece of furniture, even if it starts at a height that is taller than he is. He bends over, puts his head on the floor, and drives himself around with his forehead stuck to the carpet just for the fun of it (we lovingly call this the "meat plow."). He thinks all his body parts are weapons. He can kick, throw, operate a scissors, put a straw in a juice box better than I can, operate most features of the DVD player, and if I gave him chopsticks, I'm guessing he could figure out their operation by suppertime. He also has a cruddy, garbled vocab of maybe 20 words and screams really loudly when unhappily restrained.

A couple weeks ago, at church, he wanted off my lap and he crawled down onto the pew and sat like a big boy next to Phook for about 4 minutes. I think that's the first and last time I've ever seen him hold still while conscious. I was gasping for breath and clawing at the pew in front of us because I nearly lost consciousness from shock.

Fellow passengers, I apologize in advance. Given that it's a 5:40 a.m. flight to a huge international hub on a Tuesday (albeit Thanksgiving week), I'm guessing it is not going to be a particularly family-filled flight. Just us and a lot of people who hate us. Oh shit.

Did I mention he's flying as a lap child?

Did I mention he's getting his molars?

Did I mention we've all been sick for what seems like forever and I'm sure we'll still be flying snot rockets early next week?

So, okay. Snacks. I take lots and lots of snacks.

Someone told me to get little white boards and markers. I might.

Books. I'll take some for him to throw at me.

Miscellaneous small amusements to brain other passengers with.

But, really, I'm screwed.

Assvice? Anyone? Ever flown with a 16-month-old often mistaken for a hurricane? One with poor listening skills?

Thank God he's cute. I'll dress him in bibs to maximize any potential charm he has in the hopes that the other passengers consider sparing him. The only other good thing is that, at least on the trip there, our family will have all 5 seats across a row in an aircraft, if they honor the seat selections I made...which means he can theoretically be tossed back and forth across an aisle and not be assaulting a stranger. That's got to be worth something, right???

If there's one thing I've taken a stand on on this blog it is about appreciating what you have and not being the type of idiot who bitches about the color when someone gives you a free cashmere sweater. And yet, here I am. About to go on a long, extremely cheap vacation to a place that will be decidedly warmer than my homeland. And we're even driving down to the ocean for two days, which is, um, my favorite thing to do. And I'm all Whiny McWhinerson about the flight. Note that I've noted this, and I'm feeling appropriate levels of guilt and practicing appropriate amounts of self-flogging. I'm just having a hard time suppressing my own survival instinct...because, dude, Bigsy in a confined space for multiple hours when he is supposed to be nestled in bed...yeah, the thought of that scenario makes me feel like my life is in jeopardy.

So, dudes, have a hearty chuckle on me. And send earplugs.

XO,
Momma

Better late than never

Allrighty, so, the retail world long ago decided that it is the Christmas season, totally skipping over the lovely holiday that is Thanksgiving. But despite being behind the times, I wanted to share a few Halloween pictures with you. Because my kidlets were really cute, methinks.

First I must share with you that both kids were totally into the pumpkin gutting this year. Bigsy was all in it to win it.


Phook was also onboard this year, after years of trepidation. She pretty much solo gutted her pumpkin, then requested that we carve the face of her gymnastics instructor into the thing. Alas, Big K carved her second choice, a cat.


Big K rocked his classic maneuver of absurd pumpkin art by carving a chupacabra within a pumpkin as designed by Hode. I didn't even know what a chupacabra was, which apparently makes me really lame.


For costumes this year, Big K desperately wanted us to go as The Flintstones, because he thought Bigs was the perfect BamBam. Well, he was on point on that count, however I couldn't figure out how to get us all in costumes that are essentially scant animal-print rags without making a major investment in insulated flesh-colored body suits, so we went with two witches and two mad scientists. I think it was hott.


I really loved the mad scientists:


And this was supposed to be the witches-only picture, but a mad mad scientist snuck in:

Let's check out the cutest mad scientist in close-up:

And my favorite witch:

Man, this Halloween was really, really, really just fun. It was the first time for Phook that the holiday was all fun, no fear. She was into trick-or-treating bigtime, had the whole routine locked up, and really enjoyed herself. Bigsy was his jovial self and ate like 19 pounds of candy before we even got home. Just a good old time. I hope yours was fun as well. Now get out there and finish that Christmas shopping, you slackers! (Eff that noise, I say.)