Squishy Baffffff

Elliot gets very excited about almost anything.  It can be very difficult to deal with at times because honestly, I feel like the only coping mechanism we have at our disposal when he is on a massive adrenaline high about whatever, is a lobotomy ... because then we just wouldn't care about his constant yammering.  Because we'd be brain dead.  And sometimes that's an attractive alternative.

For example ...

Some time ago Elliot saw a commercial for Squishy Baff.  He said it looked like the greatest thing he had ever seen before in his life and made us SWEAR to buy it if we ever saw it.  We agreed just to shut him up.

Mistake number 1.

We saw it.  In the Quinte Mall.  So Curtis bought it for him (on account of our promise we made to him and our promise to ourselves that we never break a promise to our children).

We heard nothing - nothing -  but talk of the Squishy Baff for the remainder of the weekend.  All that came out of Elliot's mouth was talk of trying the Squishy Baff.  When can we DO the Squishy Baff.  Do I need to wear a bathing suit.  Can we fill the tub right up?  Do you promise we can do it when we get to our house?  Do you really promise?  Swear?  It's going to be so much fun!!!  I can't wait for the Squishy Baff!  Mommy and Daddy, don't leave the Squishy Baff at Nana's.  Every. Single. Word.

By Saturday morning even Nana was telling Elliot to shut up about the Squishy Baff already.  (In nice Nana words of course....)

In the car on the way back home - Ok, when we get home, Mommy and Daddy will get the Squishy Baff ready and Charlotte and I will get OUT of our clothes and get ready to just JUMP in when it's all ready.  And Curtis and I just kept telling him to STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

We made him sit and eat lunch before the "baff" was prepared ... his little butt was moving about like some possessed doll from an 80's horror flick.

FINALLY it was time.

I read the instructions (as I was reading Elliot said you don't need to read the instructions you're a Mommy you already know what to do you just fill the tub with water dump it in and then it's squishy baff and you just sit and watch the kids play that's all you do you don't need to read the instructions because it's really easy and reading the instructions takes too long ---- big BREATH), and while reading the instructions I had a moment of doubt about putting my children in this "safe" chemical that turns water into squishy gel because I really didn't want Elliot to grow a second penis or Charlie to develop a second bellybutton, but it SAID it was safe and I tend to trust fancy packaging ... so I started the water.

And the kids SCREAMED AND SCREAMED with excitement.

They were bouncing around naked chanting squishy baff, squishy baff, squishy baff - Elliot's little penis bouncing up and down, Charlie's arms raised in excitement.  It was a happy moment.  I felt like it was a big accomplishment too - making it to that moment without tying Elliot to a bus bound for Northern Ontario.

At long last the Squishy Baff was ready (on a practical note it took a long time for the "baff" to develop into gel ... this increased the anticipation) and Charlie wanted to be first.  So, much to Elliot's disappointment and frustration I said "ladies first" and picked up Charlie to put her in.

Her big toe on her left foot hit the baff first and she screamed and said nooooooo don't like it don't like it, no Mommy don't want to squishy baff.  And so she was done.

Elliot was panting rapidly behind me so I said, "OK mister - your turn", and picked him up and put him in the baff.

His smile kind of froze on his face oh, this is weird it's like it's like it's squishy  - I smiled and said, "it's SQUISHY BAFF remember?"

I left the bathroom to put some laundry away in the hall and 30 seconds later - 30 seconds - I heard him call my name.

MommyIthinkI'mgoingtothrowupIcan'tbreatheI'mgoingtothrowup.

So, of course I panic, and remember the thoughts of a second penis and think crap, there won't be a second penis, he's just going to suffocate on the fumes, the deadly deadly fumes that are invisible to human eyes.  So I'm trying to extract information from him by asking questions about whether or not his throat is closing or burning ... and I feel my pulse start racing ...

And then he says, no no, Mommy, it's just that I want to barf and I can't breathe because this is kind of gross and yucky.  I just don't like the Squishy Baff because it makes me feel yucky like like I don't like how it feels all over my body.  Like it makes me feel like I'm sick or something.  Can I just get out? 

Seriously.

Mommy, mommy, can you just get me out now?  I need to get out now.

Seriously.

48 freaking hours of non-stop yammering about Squishy Baff and he decides in 30 seconds that he doesn't like it.

Seriously.

I'll have that lobotomy now please.

A Very Veggie ... Beyonce?

Elliot (formerly known as Bruce Lee) likes to sing ... a lot.  And sometimes he nails it.  He can sing We Are Young by FUN from beginning to end - flawlessly.  

I'm not even kidding.  

Perhaps that's not something a Mom should be proud of.

Perhaps I'll leave that issue for another post ... anyway ...

You may remember my post about Elliot singing "they call me Freda ... just like a waving PLAAAGGG"?

Well ... here's how things went down this morning on the way to school ...

Elliot is humming away happily and every once and a while breaking into words that I can't really make out, Charlotte is chattering away about who will be at daycare first - Betty or Jacob or Karen or Dilusha or Issac - enthralling conversation really, when Elliot says, "Mommy, do you know this song I'm singing?"

He proceeds to sing a few words which I can't really hear between his little voice and the loud traffic, but I recognize the tune so I say yes and start singing along with him "all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, now put your hands up, up in the club ..." (and you know  I did a little dance as I was walking).

And Elliot cuts me off with, "MOOOOMMMEEE, what are you saying???  You don't even know the right words!  That's not how it goes!"

So I laugh and say, "Yes I do ... I just said them - 'all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, now put your hands up, up in the club, hummm hummmm hummmm ... doin' my own little thing' " (still dancing).

Elliot stopped in his tracks, looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "Noooo...that's not it.  It goes like this, 'all the single lettuce, all the single lettuce, all the single lettuce, all the single lettuce':

It's about VEGETABLES!!"

The Factory

The other day at my office, while using the toilet, Elliot asked me why there was a factory in his tummy. 

I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, so I asked him to repeat the question.

"Why is there a factory in my tummy and in the toilet?"

I was a bit stumped and so I asked him what he was trying to ask.

"Like, like ... why ... when you eat something does it go into you and then come out as poo?"

"Oh, you mean why when we eat food does our body change it into waste and get rid of it?"

"Yes.  Like why does the factory make poo?"

"Why are you saying factory?  Where did you hear that?"

  
"What factory????"

"That's what I'm asking ... where did you hear it called a factory?"

  
"Nooooo.  Like, like, WHY is there poop that comes out when we have food why does it come like poo out again and into the toilet?"

"Yes, I get what you're saying ... and that's what you mean by `the factory'?"

(Blank stare)

"You're asking about the factory that makes poo inside our bodies?"

(Blank stare)

"I'm not getting any answers on where the factory came from, am I?"

  
(Blank stare)

"Well ... when we eat, our body only uses what it needs for energy and whatever it doesn't need is either stored or our body gets rid of it ... as poo or pee."

"What are you saying?"

"Well it's a little hard to explain honey ... it's all very scientific and I'm supposed to be working right now not watching you poo so can you please hurry up so Mommy can get back to her desk and do some work?"

  
"Nope.  I'm still pooping"

"Fantastic ... please hurry up."

  
"But, but, like, can you just tell me why does the factory ... how does the factory make the poop?"

"Really?  We're back on the factory again?  Well ... lets say you eat four carrots but your body only needs two carrots for energy, it will use the energy from two carrots and store the energy from the other two and when the energy from the stored carrots is used later in the day your body will get rid of all the stuff from the carrots that it didn't need and I guess that will come out as either poo or pee."

"Yes.  And so your BODY doesn't like to eat all the carrots so it just eats the two carrots and then my tummy crunches up the other two carrots that it doesn't want to eat and then it makes it into poo and I poop it out JUST LIKE I AM RIGHT NOW (he says grunting as he gives another big push and I'm praying he's wrapping things up)."

"Yup ... you got it.  Basically.  Like I said, it's all very scientific but you seem to have the basic gist of how this whole process works.  Now ... Mommy really REALLY has to get back to work.  Are you finished?"

"Yup ... alllllll done."
 
Elliot hops off the toilet and has a long look at his poo.
 
"Mommy?"
 
"Yes, Elliot?"
 
"What is my poo made of?"

Trouble

I swear I can dance.

I used to go out dancing all the time.

Not in like mini skirts and tube tops and high heels or anything like that ... just good fun dancing at good fun clubs with my friends.  One summer my sister-in-law and I spent our entire summer dancing every night, laughing at anyone who tried to talk to us, and eating ice cream and cake for supper.  For real.

Don't even get me started on how much I miss that metabolism.

Anyway - that's not my point.

My point is that I was a REALLY good dancer.  I swear.

I had all the moves and always looked totally awesome.  Because ... well ... I just did.  It's just a fact.

And I've always reminded myself of that as the years have passed and age has set in.  I tell myself that at least at ONE point in my life I was hot stuff and could dance like crazy and the reason everyone always watched ME at clubs was because of my pure awesomeness.

So on days when the muffin top is puffier than usual or my tall boots are harder to pull up or my arms wave goodbye long after I've stopped ... I remind myself that I used to be ... well ... hot.

And I could dance.

Which is really something because not everyone can.

And Charlie - who is so much like her Mommy (and that warms me to my core) - loves to dance.

So this morning when she asked to dance I couldn't resist and switched from the morning news channel to a music channel and Taylor Swift was singing away about someone being trouble when they walked in (hey Taylor, love you, but they are always going to be trouble if you can't hold your cards a BIT closer, k?) and Charlie jumped up and started dancing.

And I was like wow ... whaaat is up with that dancing.

It was horrible, terrible dancing.  Feet stomping, arms doing some weird Biggest Loser meets Bollywood action, bum out, upper body convulsing and head flinging side to side ... smiling the whole time.

Now, before you mentally jump all over me for being critical of her dancing, know that I was only thinking these things ... inwardly ... outwardly I was smiling and dancing with her and saying the proper Mommy things like, "Charlie, what a great dancer you are ... you have all the moves."

And then I said "wow, Charlie, where did you learn to dance like this?"

And Charlie said, "I dancing"

And I said, "I know you are!!"

And Charlie said, "I like dancing Mommy."

And I said, "that's nice ... you like dancing? with Mommy?"

And she said, "No ... I dancing like Mommy."

WHAT?

I don't think so.

I said, "NOOOOO Charlie, Mommy doesn't look like that when she dances.  Don't be silly.  You're doing a funny dance.  Mommy doesn't dance like that!!!!"  

And Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan in perfect unison replied, "yes you do Mommy."

Killer.

At least I still have good memories of the cake and ice cream.

It's Time ...

It's time to get back into the swing of things and start blogging again.

I'm rusty.

And a little more arthritic in the fingers.

My thoughts are slow.  I have so many stories I should share - I just don't know where to begin.

The most recent addition to our crew is now almost 2 years old ... I'll call her Charlie.  Jackie Chan is 10 (and a half...) and Bruce Lee is a fresh new 5.

Life continues to be wonderful and complicated all at the same time.

As I fumbled around in the fridge for something to take for my lunch today I glanced again at all of the sweet Christmas pictures we received in the mail from much more "put together" and "organized" Mom's and it served as a reminder that I haven't got the foggiest idea what I'm doing as a mother of three children.

Are other kids in more organized, less frantic homes than ours happier?

More adjusted?

Do they fight with each other less?

Are they quieter?

Getting out of the house is as much as chore as ever - this morning no exception as Bruce Lee announced more than halfway to school that I'd forgotten his running shoes so he would have to have "hot feet" all day because he would be in his winter boots "in-SIIIIDE".  I sighed.  We'd already doubled back twice for other forgotten items and additional layers of winter clothing because it was COLD outside and my kids weren't dressed properly on our first attempt.  So I told him I was sorry but he'd be OK.  Then I remembered Charlie and Jackie Chan too ... no one had shoes.

It's a hot feet day.

I did remember all the papers I needed for my meeting.  But not Jackie Chan's permission slip to have more eye examinations done ...

I was angry at Jackie Chan for being "spacey" and almost walking into a jogger wearing fluorescent pink ... and he responded rudely and we fought about his attitude and he said he didn't want to talk about it and I said we were most definitely going to talk about it because I was the parent and he was the child and the fight ended with him saying "I didn't want to talk about this right now because I didn't want to start my first day back at school by walking into the schoolyard crying."

Wow.  Mother of the year.  Right here.

I remembered an apple for me but forgot diapers for Charlie.

So Bruce Lee has hot feet, Jackie Chan is crying and Charlie is in daycare diapers and daycare shoes and her teachers are having a grand old chat about my grotesque lack of parenting skills.

And I had to hear another lecture about how I should bring extra shoes and leave them at daycare so I don't forget to bring them which is less stress in the mornings for me ... like I don't know ... like this isn't my third time down this particular road.

But ... I can't direct my anger at the staff ... they're just trying to help me out.  I think.

Today I'm taking some comfort in the fact that some of the problem is because my mind is still a little fuzzy from stuff that happened last spring that I can't change.

My dad passed away.

He died.

He is no longer with us.  Any of us.

It's taking some getting used to.

It's hard saying we're going to my Mom's instead of to my parents.  It's hard seeing pictures of him and thinking that it's been awhile since I last talked to him.  It's hard at holidays.  It's hard on my Mom.  It's hard explaining to the kids - particularly Bruce Lee who is old enough to know but not totally understand - that Papa won't come back.

That it was all very final.

That the stress and sadness I felt when he was sick but still alive might not be as bad as the stress and sadness I'm starting to feel at the fact that he is indeed - gone.

Because who do I talk to about hanging pictures on a wall?

Or what tires to buy for the van?

Or if we should fix the van or drive it into a lake?

Or Jackie Chan's report cards?

Or ... ?

We didn't talk a lot, my dad and I.  But he was always there when I did need to talk.

He was good at right answers.

And I miss him.  And Curtis misses him.  And the kids miss him.

And I think he would have found the "hot feet" day kinda funny.  And then he would have told me I should probably just leave shoes for the kids at school and daycare so I don't forget.  And that if I could plan to have the kids pictures taken in October I could have Christmas cards done too ... and that Mom would like it if I did.

And in his gentle way he would let me know that I'm a great Mom who just needs to put a little effort into planning and organizing.

Miss you Dad.  If you're watching ... and I know you are ... I'm trying.  Really hard.  It's just some days are hard.  Some days you just have to have hot feet ...