Burnout

6:14am. I have listened to the Hubs exit the house and I drag myself out of bed. There appears to be sand in my eyes and my perpetual headache is whispering around my temples. Oh please. Oh please, my fervent prayer goes out, Let them sleep just a few more minutes.

I tiptoe downstairs, pulling on a sweatshirt and slippers. Coffee. Turn on the baby monitors. I have to eat breakfast despite the fact that I'm not hungry. If I don't eat it now, I won't get a chance until after I am low-blood-sugar grouchy.

I wake up every day just as exhausted as when I fell into bed. On Mondays I am no more rejuvenated that I was on Friday afternoon.

The baby wakes with a horrible screech that makes me grind my teeth and hunch up my shoulders. It suddenly feels like the ceiling is pressing down on me, and my stomach is rolling with the unwanted cereal I forced down. The big one is up now, too - having been wakened by the screecher. Thump Thump Thump he bangs his feet on the wall and the headache that had receded rises up again, washing into my forehead like waves at the shore.

The screecher screeches until I pluck him from his crib. The big boy wants to read books and cuddle in bed but the screecher wants breakfast so downstairs we go. He screeches until I set a pancake in front of him. He screeches because he has attempted to jam too many pieces into his mouth. He screeches as I try to help him. He screeches when I turn away.

Finally, I yell at him and he cries. I retreat to the bathroom, press the heels of my hands into my eyes to hold back the tears prickling there.

His screeching pushes a hot button inside me. I can feel the adrenaline pulsing through me as my pulse and blood pressure elevate. Hideous, shameful thoughts fill my mind. Too mean and ugly to write here, even to turn around into a joke. The urge to lash out is as inarticulate and strong as the urge was to push him out into the world. Unfortunately I can't give myself over to this urge. I have to fight it, tooth and nail, despite it's overwhelming strength.

While cowering in the bathroom I discover an article about anger and motherhood in Mothering magazine, I make a mental note to request the the book the author recommends Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames by Thich Nhat Hanh from the library. I've read lots of books about anger, mindfulness, and parenting. I hate to imagine where I'd be without some of the techniques I've learned, but I also hate where I am right now. I wish I could stay cool and level headed. That's what I want to teach my boys - how to stay in control, but it's hard to teach something you can't do yourself.

I go to the gym and run until my lungs burn and a pain crops up in my hip. I lean on a friend who makes me laugh. I feel guilty and exhausted, no closer to understanding than I was almost 3 years ago, when I started this journey.  I've come so far, but really gone no where. I used to be kind, patient, and understanding.  Now I'm miserable and irritable with a dash of murderous rage.  

To quote my yankee heritage, I "buck up," take the kids to Target and buy Christmas lights for the front yard.  We survive until naptime. I breathe. Relax. I promise myself, promise that I will do better next time. Though, I have no confidence in my ability to live up to my own word. Why is this so damn hard? Why can't I be better than this? Why isn't it getting any easier? Aren't things supposed to get easier with practice?

Thanksgiving, Part 2

Although Thanksgiving Part 1 was a tough act to follow, I think we managed to rock Part 2.

First, I sprayed the myself and entire kitchen with gingerbread batter.



Gray sweatpants make everyone look thin.

Note to self: break up the crisco lump before turning on the mixer.

Next, the culmination of A WEEK'S worth of effort in the sourdough bread department.  My beloved father brought me a sourdough kit as a gift from his trip to San Fransisco - and then kindly asked me to prepare it for Thanksgiving. I (being a kind-hearted sort of woman) complied with his wishes, and grew a tupperware full of creepy, bubbling, pancake batter material in my basement for a week. Then, I kneaded and measured, coaxed and prayed. And the result off all this arduous labor?



A 1 pound loaf, roughly the size of a dinner roll.

Hey, they can't all be winners.

The good news is, the bacon-wrapped-pork-tenderloin was a seriously awesome alternative to the traditional turkey.

And, I'll let you in on a little secret. There's a big, green, pine-scented item chillin' in our house, just waiting for the boys to wake up from nap. "Oh Christmas tree. Oh Christmas tree. La la la la la Christmas tree"

Thanksgiving, Part 1

There was so much fun, laughter and love on Thursday that I just don't know if this here blog can hold it. But, gang, we're gonna risk it.

First there were the holiday duds. Now, you know my boys are jeans-and-sweats kind of kids, but for the holidays, we rocked some stylish threads.



Oh, GQ, stop callin' me.




I know, I know. He's like a baby Zoolander.


Next, I learned the secret to my in-laws' FAMOUS gravy. Shh. Now don't go telling everyone - lest we have no one to stun with our gravy magnificence.

Okay, here it is. The secret ...



Garlic Power. Onion Power.

Who knew a label-making typo could make me laugh until I nearly developed a hernia.

Oh, and after the feast - there was the nog. Egg nog, that is.



Finally, the holidays have arrived.


You know what the best part is? We get to do it all again tomorrow. Unfortunately, the festivities are occurring here at my house so I better go scrub something. 

Giving thanks

I wanted to write a post about gratitude. Something about how transformative it can be to take note of all your blessings.  

Blessing one.

Blessing two.

I tried to write it. I really did.

But I just wasn't feeling it. Dirty dishes abound.  The laundry has become a crisis of epic proportions. I had to wear dirty shorts to the gym today because I couldn't find any clean ones. Our dinner (homemade pizza) stuck to the cookie sheet.The kids are testy. I am surly. No one's napping or eating vegetables.

As I attempted to mentally compose a post about gratitude I tried to remind myself how good I have it. I have healthy children. My husband and I are healthy, our household is stable.  I am reminded every day that these are not blessings that I should take for granted.  Everyone I know is facing some sort of serious crisis.

This attempt to drum up some gratitude backfired quite spectacularly. I began to compare myself to everyone else in my life, who all seem to be rising to life's challenges like a spectacular flock of phoenixes, while I can't even stay of top of the laundry without complaining.  

So I tried to start smaller. What exactly am I grateful for?



Fat baby hands.

I am so grateful that people come here to read. And the comments, Oh the comments - either here or on facebook - they brighten my day, ease my mind and happy-up my heart.



Binky's. Oh! And hats! A two-fer!

 
I am grateful for coffee. Oh ye nectar of the gods.



The power of toddler concentration - when used for good.

 
Let us not forget mashed potatoes and gravy in T minus 24 hours or so.



The wee one's ability to back-off a full grown man with just
the power of his voice, and threatening wee baby hands.

There you have it - Gratitude. Dug out from my somewhat dirty, smelly and frustrating life.  That sort of was going to be my point anyway. It's there if you look for it. Sometimes you have to start small, and look really hard - but it's there.

Happy Thanksgiving to you, and you, and you. Thank you for coming here and reading.


A short list of complaints

It has been a totally awesome day here!

And here's why:

He-who-can-swim-by-himself wanted to go outside at oh-dark-and-cold-thirty this morning. My request to "wait until it warms up a wee bit" went over like a lead balloon. It was so freakin cold out there that I put on snow pants, despite the clearly evident lack of snow. "For snowshoeing and skiing!" the tag on my pants enthusiastically tells me, "Oh no," I sheepishly tell the pants, "We're just going outside. And, umm, it's cold. No, no. There's no snow."




It's cold out here! Pick me up.
Yes, I am aware of how heavy I am.



***

I had to start next week's grocery list today,despite the fact that we just went shopping yesterday. Dude, who did such a bang-up job on the grocery list yesterday? Alas, me.

***

A cheery email from the library informs me the much-anticipated and long-awaited book that I haven't even opened is due back in two days and is not renewable because it has been requested by another patron. Leave me alone, mystery patron. Stop stalking my request list.

***

Chilled to the bone (despite the snow pants) I break out the duo at naptime to make butternut squash soup and bread. Sadly, when I break out the butternut squash - it is slimy, gross and bespeckled with mold. Chicken soup, anyone?



Someone looked like THIS after lunch.

***

I just finished giving the boys a bath, and while we were getting cleaned up, I kept smelling this yucky odor. I assumed it was dinner/milk remnant on some one's shirt, but once I was all alone I noticed it was still lingering. Cautiously, I sniffed my own shirt - bingo. Someone was obviously teething on my shoulder with a stinky baby mouth.

***

Just another day in mommy land. 

Surprised

We don't let the kids watch much TV. The exceptions being: a little bit of sports, and a few measly episodes of Dora.  Well, despite the extraordinarily limited exposure, someone has fallen head-over-heels in love with hockey - especially the Bruins.

He even has his own stick (liberated from the swap shop at the dump - sweet!).

"Just wike da bwoo-ins mama"

But, he doesn't need a hockey stick. He'll play hockey with a golf club

"Hit da puck" he says, just to be sure I know
it's hockey and not golf we're playing.

He'll play it with kitchen utensils and wooden blocks

"Hittin' da wooden puck."

He'll play it in his pj's with a roll of toilet paper

"Dis paypah is da puck."

He's even got the wee one in on the act.

Anything he can do, I can do better.

That's one of the good things about the motherhood business - the surprises. You just never know what will catch their eye, make them laugh, light them up. And life, it just can never be full enough of sweet surprises. Explosive poopy diapers? Certainly I've had more than enough of that, thank you. But surprises? You can just keep 'em coming.

Best Cookie Base

The Christmas cookie prep continues this weekend with my absolute favorite cookie base. This dough is perfect for adding in just about anything, and it's a great big batch that results in about 4 dozen cookies.

Here's the recipe for the dough:

1 cup butter
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp vanilla
3 cups all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups oats
approx 3 cups "add-ins" (see below)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream butter and sugars. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Mix the dry ingredients together in a separate bowl, then add to butter mixture, when the flour is almost completely incorporated, add the "add-ins". Mix until everything is evenly distributed. Drop by rounded tablespoons onto an ungreased cookie sheet (the cookies will spread to about 2 in across so spread the balls out) and bake 8-12 minutes. Or until golden brown and delicious.

The great thing about this dough is you can mix in just about anything from the pantry and come up with a great cookie. Here are some of our favorites

Hootie Cranks
2 cups white chocolate chips
1 cup craisins

Oatmeal Raisin
2 cups raisins
1 cup walnuts

Chocolate chip
2 cups chocolate chips
1 cup walnuts

Oatmeal Scotchies
3 cups butterscotch chips

Chocolate Peppermint
replace 1 tsp vanilla for 1 tsp peppermint extract
1 1/2 cups smashed up candy canes
1 1/2 cups white chocolate chips (or peppermint chips)

Oh gang, the options are endless. Hooray for cookies!




The wee one, last Christmas.



Christmas cards!

I am participating in Shutterfly's Holiday Card Promotion. Bloggity friends - you should participate too. Click here.

Last weekend we pulled the Christmas sweaters out of storage, gathered our courage, and attempted to take some presentable photos of the boys for our annual Christmas card.

Here are some of the outtakes:



Whoops, Hubs in the background.




Polar bear is ready for his close-up.




Mad lighting skills.

I can't show any of the good photos - it would ruin the surprise - but trust me, we did manage to get a few totally awesome ones. You'll just have to check your mailboxes.

We used Shutterfly again this year. This is our third year getting our Christmas photo card from Shutterfly and I love them. It took me about twenty minutes to upload, edit, and arrange my photos into an extremely festive holiday greeting, if I do say so myself.

I wish we could have rocked the palm tree motif, but alas, we live in New England and have already had our first flurries.

I have to admit I thought the gift tags and address labels were pretty sweet, not gonna lie. Next year, perhaps. I also have to give mad props to the photo mouse pad, which we ordered last year and totally rocked.

Now, go grab yourself a gingerbread latte or some other festive beverage and get with the merry-making, okay?

Swimming and the art of motherhood

For this session, both my  boys are in mommy-and-me swimming lessons. It's a little hectic, as the lessons are back-to-back and the drying, diapering, changing and child-watch swapping has to occur in about 7 minutes - but we're settling into a routine and I keep telling myself "It's only 8 weeks".

The next session, the big boy will be old enough to attend swimming lessons with me watching from the bench. I am thrilled to be avoiding the post-partum-bathing-suit-horror and the freezing cold pool, but I am also a wee bit sad. This is a big step for him, and for me. We've been in the pool together since he was 6 months old.



Betcha' never noticed how much he looks like his brother, eh?


Today, for the first time - I took my hands off him and he (buoyed by a bubble and styrofoam barbell) kicked his feet and swam to me. I always knew this was the point of swimming lessons, but I just never expected it to actually happen. Just like when I went into labor with him - I knew labor happens at the end of a pregnancy, I just never thought it would happen to me.



Dude, I am so glad that's over.

B has always been the kind of person who watches (i.e. obsessively analyzes) from the sidelines, and attempts a skill only when he has it mentally mastered.  For example, he never once "tried" to climb up on the furniture. One day, he just toddled over to the couch and climbed up. Period. To the utter shock of both his astounded parents.



Why hello there.



It was that way with swimming. Last week, he could not swim. This week, he did.

There was a tightening in my chest as he did it - laughing and kicking his way to my outstretched arms. It was sweet, but it hurt, too.  My heart felt pinched - squeezed by surprised pride, and aching with the knowledge of my empty hands. I could (and did) cheer him on (much too enthusiastically - gotta rein that in before the teenage years, mama) but my work here, is basically done.




Big boy.


It was such a silly thing - him taking his first solo kicks in the pool. I can't believe I could devote a whole blog post to it - but, nonetheless it was one of my first lessons in letting him go. Watching and supporting from the sidelines. I thought it would be such a relief for me to be "done" with swimming, but what I am left with is a sweet but painful ache in my heart.

I'm thankful for the ache though. So grateful it got my attention. I'll savor these last few weeks in the water with him, armed with the thorny knowledge that he doesn't really need me there anymore.

Thanks for the laugh

A few thank yous and some amusing photos

To the guy at the gym today who loudly dropped his weights, made a lot of grunting sounds, carried a gallon jug of Gatorade and stalked around breathing heavily, shrugging his shoulders and cracking his neck - I thank you. Your antics made my time on the hateful death machine treadmill pass much more quickly.



As far as protecting yourself from alien mind
control goes - I'd recommend tinfoil.



Another gym shout-out: To the lady who does an interpretive yoga dance while stretching - I thank you most heartily, it is your presence that brings me back to the stretching mat time and time again. PS - I totally think the dude with the gallon jug of Gatorade is checking you out.



The royal hand.



This one is sincere: To the lady in the grocery store who stopped me in my tracks to commend me as a mother because the big boy was happily gnawing a pear while we shopped - I sincerely thank you. Mothers never get raises or annual reviews - it's nice to get a pat on the back once in awhile. Even if it is from a somewhat intrusive weirdo in the baking aisle.



Totally awesome face.
This is why I am not a professional photographer

To myself: I put my cell phone in my back pocket and headed out to the yard to play with the kids. When the phone began to ring, the sound came from behind me so I ran back inside  - thinking I left it on the kitchen counter. When I got to the kitchen, the sound seemed to be coming from back out in the yard - so I dashed out through the garage, "What the heck? Where's that freakin' phone?". Twirling around in circles - the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere. Thanks for the laugh, dummy.

I get angry

This post will be difficult for me to publish, but here we go anyway. It's good for me.

It's difficult for me to put this out there, because I'm not supposed to feel this way. I shouldn't feel this, but I do.

I get angry.

Simmering just below the surface of my fifteenth cheery, "Don't hit your brother with a baseball bat, please!" churns a cauldron of sticky, viscous, red-hot rage.
It bubbles up when one of the boys hits me in the face with a toy, bites me, pushes a playmate, embarrasses me in public.
I swallow it. Breathe, Melissa. I command myself. I control myself, I manage it, but I do not eradicate it.

It is the result of about three years of subjugating my own wants, needs and basic human rights. It's three years of interrupted sleep, poor nutrition and backbreaking, unending labor. It's three years of feeling like I'm not doing a very good job here, and praying no one notices, but also sort of hoping someone would notice and step in to help me out.

Sometimes, when I am working on no sleep, when tempers are short and fevers are high, when someone is testing limits or working hard towards a major developmental milestone - my control wavers.

I snap at my children. My voice is too harsh, too loud. My  hands too rough as I escort someone to time-out or to bed.

Sometimes at 6:30 in the morning, I drop my head into my hands and do not know how we will get through the day.

I'd like to say that it is at these times that a deep, unwavering, powerful, maternal love is what gets me through. But, that's not even close to the truth. What lifts my head is a heavy, gritty, unmovable sense of responsibility.

These two are mine. No one can do this job but me. This was my choice. But, man - sometimes I just get so mad. The two year old inside me stomps her feet and cries out, "This isn't FAIR!" "I want a BREAK!" "Why won't they just leave me ALONE?"

I'd love to sweeten this post up by saying "Then they say 'I love you mama' and all of my anger dissipates" but that's not the truth. The truth is, I just carry on. I just change the diaper, get the snack, negotiate the exchange of toys. The anger simmers down, my voice softens, my hands are gentler, the guilt arrives, but inside - way down deep - it's still there. It's always there.

What I really want to know is, what I am most afraid to ask is: Is it there for anyone else?

My first completed project

A little under a year ago I decided, "Next Christmas, I'm going to have some handmade gifts to distribute."
And so, inspired (as always) by Soulemama I bought a kit from Michael's entitled "I taught myself knitting".

For the next eleven months I worked on this blanket, a gift intended for a beloved niece.

Finally, finally, it's finished.



It's nowhere near perfect, but I made it.
Every single stitch is mine.

It's composed of miles and miles and miles of garter stitch. Nothing else. 



Nothing but knit.

My engineer hubs would like me to tell you that he helped me arrange the squares into an appealing, well balanced pattern, with the larger squares opposite their smaller counterparts. Duly noted, Hubs.



Love that center square - a mix of all the others.

I am so proud of this project. It's the first thing I've ever made, and I am so happy to be wrapping it up and handing it off to a sweet girl in my life. I only wish I had something for all the other kids - maybe next year. It could happen. No seriously! It could.

Motherhood

What's motherhood like?

For me, it's finding a basting brush on the floor of my car.



That purple thing, behind/under the hat? That's a bowling pin.

It's losing my temper and becoming murderously outraged while searching the entire house, car and neighborhood for a binky. Only to find not one, but two stashed in my own purse, hours later.   



This one's for you, Liz - can you find the binkies in this photo?

It's eating macaroni and cheese (from the box) directly from the pan via a big blue serving spoon.

If I add peas and corn, this counts as a nutritionally balanced meal.

It's a sock on a hand



Instead of a foot.

It's learning to choose my battles.



Eh, who cares? It's non toxic.



And enjoy the moment.

It's chaos and frustration. It's smelly and dirty. It's exhausting.

It's nothing like I expected.



Photo by Auntie Kelly. Go Pats!



Gingersnaps

Tis the season - cookie season!
I know. I know. Christmas, Melissa? It's only November 13th for crying-out-loud!
Hear me out.
As the self-proclaimed "queen of the cookie" I take it upon myself to bombard my loved ones with cookies during the holidays.  However, now that I have my own team of elves skittering around my ankles, I can't devote long, leisurely days to holiday music, festive beverages, and hours of uninterrupted baking bliss.
Therefore, my new method of cookie-ing involves making and then freezing a batch or two of dough every week starting mid-November, followed by a two-day thawing, baking and delivering extravaganza the week of Christmas.
So - here we go! Cookie-making, week one!

Gingersnaps

These are my grandfather's favorite, and they require a little work - but are more than worth the effort. You're going to want to make two batches.

1 1/2 sticks room temperature, unsalted butter (3/4 cup)
1/4 cup molasses
1 egg
2 1/4 cup all purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar (plus more for rolling)
2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp each: cinnamon, ginger, cloves, nutmeg

Cream the butter, then beat in the molasses and egg until the mixture is light and fluffy. This takes a really long time and you are going to think something is wrong - then all of a sudden the gross brown mixture comes together and lightens up. Hang in there. If you have a stand mixer - use the beater instead of the paddle attachment.
In another bowl mix the flour, sugar, baking soda, salt and spices. Beat the dry ingredients into the molasses mixture until blended. Refrigerate 1 hour.
Shape dough into 1 inch balls and roll in sugar until coated. Set 2 inches apart on baking sheets. Bake 8-12 minutes at 350 degrees or until firm. They will puff and flatten during baking. Cool 1 minute then transfer to wire racks to cool completely.

To. Die. For. I'm not kidding.
Enjoy!

Listening

Tuesday evening was cold and rainy here. It had been cold and rainy for I don't know how many days - bad weather days just seem to blend together into a cranky blur of playing in the garage, going to the library and taking unnecessary trips to Target.
So, around 4:30 my pent-up two year old and I suited up with jackets, hats, and rubber boots and headed for the yard - despite the dark, dreariness, and rain.



My view from just inside the garage, trying (and failing) to stay dry.

I'm not gonna lie. I was cranky. I did NOT want to go out into the rain. I wanted to be curled up on the couch with a book and some tea, but my beloved toddler is a bit like a golden retriever (a BIT I said! Yeesh! Don't look at me like that. It's not like I make him sleep in a crate or anything.) He just really needs a lot of run-around time, that's all. So, out we went. One of us delightedly skipping, the other grumbling and muttering.
 

Not even the rain can get him down.


At one point while I am jumping up and down flapping my arms to entice the motion sensor light to turn back on, I notice he is literally running circles around me, playing "hockey" with a golf club and a whiffle ball, laughing maniacally and having the time of his life.



The kid has some serious stick-handling skills.

And suddenly, I catch myself (mid-jumping-jack) laughing, too.  I want to be miserable. I have every reason to be miserable, but instead I'm laughing. This kid, this funny, happy boy - he breaks through to me sometimes. This is fun Mom, if you'd stop your complaining long enough, you'd see it, too.



Proof - me, smiling in the rain.

I see it, Bud. It may take me a minute, but if you show it to me - I can see it, too. 

Things I hate (2)

I hate it when the rhyming scheme in a children's book doesn't work. The kids look at me like I'm the moron. Dude, I didn't write the book.

***

I hate it when you change the clocks (freakin' daylight savings time) and the children refuse to participate. "It's five AM." I calmly explain. "No." they disagree, "It's six AM. Good morning. Will there be pancakes?"

***

I hate it when you suffer a poopy-diaper blowout so severe your child must come home from your trip to the gym naked, save for his coat.



He's like a baby flasher!

and his entire outfit, right down to the shoes, has to come home in plastic, diaper-disposal baggies. 



It was not pretty, folks.



Reading: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

  I first heard of The Glass Castle: A Memoiras a "banned" book. And I, for one, simply can't resist a little controversy. (Too bad they never banned my high school geometry book).
The Glass Castle details the childhood of Jeannette Walls and her siblings.  They were dragged around the country by her brilliant-but-alcoholic father and wanna-be-artist mother, living according to bizarre ideas about freedom mixed with crazy antics and paranoia about the government.  It was hard to imagine children in America digging through the trash for food, living in a shack without running water, sleeping in cardboard boxes.
I found this book absolutely riveting, although it was at times difficult to read.
It was painful for me, as a mother, to imagine my own children forced to live with hunger, cold, and the innumerable other atrocities visited upon the Walls children by their selfish, absentee parents.
Of all the unbelievable occurrences in this book, the most astonishing for me was the undying love and devotion the author maintained for her parents. As an adult she has amazing insight into them and is somehow able to regard them with love and compassion.  Walls is also able to capture the heartbreaking way that children accept their circumstances, however awful, and find fun, laughter and light in the most dreadful situations.
In my humble opinion, this one is a must read - it clarified for me exactly what I would do to make sure my children are warm, well-fed, and happy.  I love anything that awakens the generally dormant mother lion that resides inside this suburban, stay-at-home-mama.

Bad Mama Moments: The stomach flu

Warning: this post is accurately titled. We had the stomach flu over the weekend. So, if you're squeamish, go check out one of those kinder, gentler mommy-blogs listed over on the right.

Over the course of about 12 hours, the Wee One went from happy-go-lucky, ruling-the-playground status



Awesome hat

To miserable, puking, diarrhea and fever status.

It was nasty, and I, being a kind hearted sort of woman, will spare you the gory details. 

However, I am going to share the following details - which aren't too gross.



The perfect diarrhea outfit

What in the world is that poor child wearing? I hear you thinking. Let me explain.

This is the perfect outfit for diarrhea. This outfit is a throwback to my extremely-dedicated-to-cloth-diapering days (i.e. when I only had 1 child).

Those things on his fat little legs are called babylegsand are basically, very long leg-warmers. They allow for much more rapid diaper changes, which is oh-so-vital when you are changing your horribly grouchy toddler-turned-poop-manufacturing-facility every five minutes.

I also hear you gasping in shock and horror that I would utilize a cloth diaper during a time such as this, but let me tell you fitted cloth diaperscontain the uncontainable. So I either clean up after a disposable blow-out, or deal with a dirty cloth diaper (a process with which I am very familiar - I even have a sprayer attached to the toilet for just this use! TMI? sorry).

Awesome hat - yet again.

So I had half of this flu situation licked, man - I mean on the ropes! Seconds away from tapping out. But, alas, then the puking began.

There just is no way to neatly manage this situation. There is no warning! One second he's fine, the next second we both need a new outfit. And paper towels. Drag the trashcan over here and grab the swiffer again, will ya Hubs?

At least we kept him off the carpets.