Oh yes, and a couple of nights ago, when I thought I’d seen my fill of barfpukevomitchunksrunnypoo… last night daughter child kept me awake after having spewed her supper down my front as we ran for the loo.  Somehow the stuff managed to not only seep through my pj top, but drain down my pants- I was picking bits out of my pubes if you get my drift- it was freaking EVERYWHERE!!

And in the meanwhile, husband, upstairs so as to monopolize his own loo, had bodily fluid, in all of its various forms, projectiley erupting from every possible orifice.

Lovely.

We did have a modified American Thanksgiving planned in honour of dear Filipes today:  two beer can chickens on the barbey, mashed potatoes, corn niblets, and my virgin foray into the world of StoveTop….

Ummmmmmmmm. Not so much.  Four down, just me and the dog to go….

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So, here I lay, on my couch… it is 1:58am and I enjoy the company of my dear Sally.  As well Tyrone, Uniqua, Austin and the other swell, wholesome little beasties that are the Backyardigans.  A gentle distraction from a 10-year-old’s crampi-hurliness… he’d love to be watching something else, but unfortunately basic cable is just not that child friendly at this hour of the morning….

Welcome to BarfBag Central… the home of puke anyway you like it.  On the couch.  On the coffee table.  Splattered across the floor… so very, very close to the bathroom.  And the cool of the so very welcoming receptacle that is the toilet.

This is the second afflicted.  Zippity Zip’s insides chose Sunday night at Gramps’ to let go their various contents… Boston Pizza, shrimp salad rolls and hot, buttery popcorn, over and over again.  Despite his love for launching himself into complete spazzdom when not allowed on the computer, he launches his chunks with very little drama.  A real trooper as he merely rolls over sleepily, repeatedly, with direct aim into the plastic lined wicker bin.  And then four hours of bile and dry heaves into a plastic bag on his lap, with nary a whimper, on the looooonnnnnngggg drive home from the city.

The ever sensitive Fidgey from her place in the back, holding her nose in over-acted disgust, “Ewwww… whaaaa-aaaaaat smellllllllllllllllsssssss, mummy?!”

Yeh.  Uh- huh.  And there go my hopes that it was just an anomoly with the middle child, as child #1 spews his Ichiban, grilled cheese and hot buttery popcorn from earlier.  And with not nearly the cool aplomb.

“Ohhhhhhhhh-uuuuuunnnnnggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!! Mummy!….. Muuuuuummmmmm-mmmmmmyyyyyy!  My tummmm-mmmmy huuuuurrrrrrtttsssssss………..!!!

No.  No aplomb whatsoever, cool or otherwise. Hence he and I lay on the sofa in the living room watching peppy kiddy fare awaiting the next onslaught.  After frequent trips to his bedroom, I finally lay down with Sally, encouraging him to read himself weary with my old Archie comics and then chat inanely in my half-sleep, trying to bore him into unconsciousness.  To no avail.  He finally suggested that the one thing that might lull him to comfort, and ultimately sleep, would be….

Ummmmm…. TV.

And yes, I bought it.  Fine.  Yes, let’s go. TV, surely, will ease your pain and send you drifting back to dreamland.  Whatever. Within mere moments of his settling back onto the fresh, clean fabric of my sofa… “Bllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeecccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Sofa.  Floor.  And then bucket.

And so… here I lay, enjoying the company of my dear Sally (now wide awake, I might add).  As well Tyrone, Uniqua, Austin and the other swell, wholesome little beasties that are the Backyardigans.

As I ponder… who next?  And when?!?!

Edited to add: 2:44am, re-run of Daily Show… he sleeps.

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I was up at 4:30 this morning.  Not that I’m bothered- I love an extra early morning- but I was being kicked and there were strong little legs draped across the bottom of my bed that with determined, yet sleepy, insistency kept forcefully lying atop my own, their bony lengths digging in, resting hard against my shins.  Without blankets, I might add.

To my left a warm little face, mouth agog, spewing hot dragon breath, forcing me to remain on my right side facing the fresh cool air of the side of my bed. Save for the visits of the Beast, and her own panting dragon-doggie breath in search of midnight reassurance strokes.  Yes, yes, I’m still here and I still love you… now go lay down!

On the far side of the bed another little form.  Tiny, wiry, but stretched perpindicular, feet pushing the other small, warm body with dragon breath ever closer.

Husband is gone for the week.  The three miscreants get to share my bed.  Despite the tangle of covers and limbs, the green cloud of sleepy, butt-breath and my space being reduced to a narrow strip along the outer most edge of my bed, I love it.

And while I do so enjoy the peace and productivity of an extra-early morning, by 7pm tonight I will be largely useless.

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Miss Fidge gave me a rush of joy, happiness and best of all peace, when I needed it last night.  It was a pleasure just to watch her… and shoot, of course.

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beasley- eve of turning 10!, originally uploaded by tlcphotos.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday… but unfortunately, no internet available. So a day late, but no less significant!

I have a ten-year-old son who still tells me he loves me. Frequently. And the sentiment is, more often than not, accompanied by a big hug.
I am in love with this child.
When I stared upon his fat, red, bruised little face the first time, right where he’d been tossed upon my distended, exhausted belly, all wet and slimy… I felt an intense, complete, unadulterated and eternal love. It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever known before.
It was a love I could not have possibly comprehended before that day. Sure, I carried him for nine months. I knew he was coming. But really… I didn’t. There was nothing about his arrival I was prepared for. I was months shy of turning 30 and I still had no picture whatsoever of myself as someone’s mother. Jeez Louise, I was still grappling with my role as wife, and to some degree, daughter- OMG, and daughter-in-law?!?!- another title, another role, another responsibility, where I was afraid I would prove woefully inadequate, was just not on my limited radar.
Breezley Bean, you made me a mother for the very first time. And in those first very moments of your life outside my body, I was lost. Swirling in an emotional sea, one moment giddy with the feel of you in my arms and another alone in the shower in those early days, weeping. Crying for this little, precious person… a little personnow so vulnerable to the world. I could never protect you again like I had those brief nine months.
But now, ten so very short years later, I’ve somehow found my way as your mother… most days. But as a son, my eldest son… I have no idea how I got so lucky. You amaze me everyday. You are a fantastic brother- a natural leader to your two miscreant cohorts. You are the boy of my dreams, yet there’s no way I could have possibly dreamed you, whether those first moments or who you have become as a wonderful boy.
I look forward and feel so very blessed and grateful that I am able to be a part of who you will become.
Ten is huge, my boy! I can’t believe it’s come. I love you more than I can possibly say…. Forever and ever and always!!

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We spent an afternoon at the zoo. National Zoo. Downtown Washington, DC. I do enjoy a good zoo… and National is top o’ the heap… cuz, y’know, it’s like, free. If you don’t count the $20 bucks for parking.

Anyhoo. We get to the zoo every time we visit the in-law family on the east coast. This year, in an effort to let SIL rest, we took her kids, too. The cousins. Three. Ages 6, 3 and almost 2. Along with our own miscreants. Six kids, Filipes and I. Thankfully she had the foresight to pack snacks and drinks. For six kids. Because, we packed NOTHING! And while conscientious, organized SIL handed us a cooler pack full of afternoon at zoo sustenance, all husband and I could do was look at each other sheepishly, while pulling one another’s heads out of our respective asses. I mean, who plans to take six freakin’ kids for an afternoon at the zoo in 90 degree heat and packs NOTHING?!?! Perhaps we figured we’d spend a fortune on hotdogs, french fries and pop…. or maybe just get ‘em jacked up on over-priced lemonade and cotton candy. Or perhaps, just perhaps, we did not think at all…. But, I digress. Off to the zoo….

Mr. Gorilla Cranky-Pants…

See… just not in the mood for company…

And nothing but ass…

More Cranky-Pants… Orangutan style. Regarding his adoring public with disdain…

And some pretty- stinky!- flamingos!

Shnoooort…. Schnuuuurzzzzzzzz…. Schnuuuuuuuuummph…

Zzzzzzzzzzzz…. urcccchh…. huuuunnngh…. zzzzzzzzzzzz……

And along with the animals of course….

The girlies….

The challenge of the water fountain….

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Well, largely, I read. And swim a little. And take a few pictures. Everybody else… well…

The boys… I suppose they will be… um, boys:

And Dad enlists some child labour out of young, ever-so-amenable, Fidge:

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If I had to sum up my Mother’s Day weekend… this would do it.

Happy, happy, happy like fuscia; stripey… and completely unwound.
Despite the wretched weather. It started cold and sleeting and then warmed up, evolving into very, very cool and raining. For 72 straight hours. However after watching Friday’s ‘local’ news, I was able to implement a little exercise in gratitude as I watched our compatriots over the mountains… dig out from under one full metre of snow!!

But as I always say… if you want to rape and pillage our Great, so very embittered, Mother… and then brazenly pave your streets with gold, encrust your SUV’s with diamonds and eat poor folks babies for breakfast… well, you take your lumps.

I digress…

The positively shite weather did allow for complete and total sloth-dom. Movies. Food. More food. Naps. Yes, the entire weekend was a total write-off for getting anything done… ie. load of new soil needs allocated to new beds… new beds that are still waiting to be built… blah. blah. blah.

This weekend, thanks to Our Dear Underappreciated Collective Mother, was just about hanging with the maniacs, hanging with mi Filipes and doing a whole lotta what you don’t often get an excuse to do… absolutely nuttin’!

Oh… except for outing with the miscreants on Saturday night.

Since seeing Grease not too long ago, Zip has had an unnatural and oh-so-aggravatingly inappropriate fascination with mooning… anytime… anywhere.
Much to the delight of Zip and gaggle of young, neighborhood maniacs he got the opportunity to share his fascination with pretty, done and so very teased and stuck up neighbor teenage girl. Around the fire. There she sat… innocently twirling a black marshmallow over the low flames, lost in thoughts of Zack Ephron… his tongue and other select body parts, discount designer clothes, and how she’d really rather be elsewhere smoking a big fattie… than hanging with a bunch of snot-nosed kids and old fogies, Zip squared up… only a mere nose length from her fresh, pretty, young face… bent over and let her marvel… he even did her the pleasure of spreading his skinny little cheeks.

OK… before you go and say it. I know very well this deranged expression of exhibitionism is a direct reflection of my own inadequacy as a mother….

Particularly apropos only hours before Mother’s Day… I consider myself effectively honoured!

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“Sshhhh… mummy.” Fidge whispers and giggles.

“Don’t tell Daddy. I have his mowawning kiss.”

“Oh, you sneaky girl. Where?”

“I’m gonna yet you have it.”

Fidge lifts her little arm and with her other hand appears to pick something from her armpit.

“Heeahw. I’m giving it to you. Don’t tehawh Daddy.” She presses her empty hand, fresh from armpit, to my lips.

My lone girl child and I share a secretive giggle. I try not to feel guilty that today dad will not find his morning kiss. Cuz I have it…

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Poor Fidge. Yesterday she got another case of Nursemaid’s Elbow. Being prone and as her father and I love dragging her around by her fragile, little arm it has now happened a few times. Note to self: stop dragging girl child around by the arm…

Noooo. I kid. It happens accidentally. Really.

Yesterday, wrestling with dad in our bed- a lovely, very high, old tyme country bed- she was about to take a header onto the floor when dad grabbed the arm. An immediate response followed. “Aaaaaaaaarrggghhhhhhhhhhhh! My ahhhhwwwmmmm!” Oh boy.

It was summer when, while still holding my hand, little Fidge decided to jump off a curb into a busy street. I continued to hold her hand, while yanking her back to the safety of sidewalk and got this response: “Aaaaaaaaarrggghhhhhhhhhhhh! My ahhhhwwwmmmm!”  It was after a day of her refusing to use this arm, having a very uncomfortable and teary night and no real improvement the next morning that we decided, sheepishly, to take her to Emergency, with an arm dislocated… BY HER MOTHER! Ohmigod… the judgement… the reproach…

Nope. Just Nursemaids Elbow. A very common childhood injury between the ages of one and four, the age at which kids are most susceptible. There’s apparently a high incidence of parental yanking of little arms. Thank God. I certainly didn’t want to be the ONLY BAD MOTHER! Anyhow, with a smile and a simple maneuver by lovely, friendly, white-bearded physician; giggles of a flirty Fidge, followed by an audible “click”; and tremendous howl by no longer flirty Fidge. One big tear. Big relieved smile on tiny face. It was done.

So, yesterday after a lot of contemplation over whether or not another trip to doctor was really necessary, more hours of Fidge not moving a painful and completely immobilized little arm, deciding yes, off to hospital.

But wait… let’s look online and see what we might find… the internet: a lazy parent’s dream.

Well, lo and behold. All you’d ever want to know about Nursemaid’s Elbow as well as how to peform the necessary reduction… ourselves. Let me say that in each article I found they state it is necessary to rule out any other issues, such as fracture. You must know you are dealing with Nursemaid’s Elbow.
Given that we were sure of the diagnosis, having seen it before… twice.. we were pretty confident in our ability to take this on. In fact, it is not unusual, while ours didn’t last summer, for physicians to teach parents how to do the reduction themselves, as when this injury occurs once, there’s a good chance it will happen again.

So, I restrained. Daddy reduced. Fidge screeched. “Click”. Fidge smiled. Daddy grins with satisfaction. I hug Fidgey.

Within moments, lifting carelessly, previously painful and immobilized arm, pointing to the TV, “Can you change the chann-oh?”

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