A Correction

I have to correct the previous post. M does not have chicken pox. He says he has "chicken foxes." At first he told me he had "chicken punks" but after trying to correct him, I decided I really liked fox better than pox too.

I love the little things they come up with!

A Rash Independence Celebration

We celebrated July 4th as we typically do each year. We spent the day with D's family, the kids played in the pool, and everyone complained about the oppressive heat. I vote we move July 4th to the Spring from here on out. I'm working on a plan for it. I'll have to get back to you on the details at a later date.

I love taking pictures of the kids in the pool. I have so many and after a while they start to all look the same. But as soon as I take one picture, the next scene/smile/dive/pout/whatever is better than the last. Or so it seems until I sit down at the computer and look at hundreds of pictures of a head floating in blue water. I'll show you what I mean.


Here's the best smile ever. It speaks to me. It tells me what a great time he's having. Keep on grinning, dear one. The braces go on in a few short weeks!


This picture screams to me that Daddy tickles while protecting. They love swimming together, if that's what you'd call it. It looks more like the bouncy baby--tired Daddy underwater shuffle. I'll stick with the word swimming for simplicity.


This picture shows the preteen angst/boredom look I'm seeing so much of lately. Will you make it go away, please?



So what does the title of this post have to do with swimming on the 4th? (Point, meet Stacie; Stacie, meet Point...) Back on track now, I've been fighting a nice little rash on M for almost a week. A week for a rash with no other symptoms is my limit before I turn it over to the professionals. I noticed it was worse after the weekend swim, so off we went this morning to the doctor.

His rash is actually three rashes. First, there's a nice uniform and bumpy heat rash. Then comes the longer lasting viral rash thingie (that's formal medical terminology--you can look up like I had to if you don't understand it). For the icing on the cake we have the red, bumpy, easily identifiable to everyone but me, and much hated Chicken Pox. The doctor politely but firmly made us exit the back door to prevent spreading and sharing the good fortune.

Now I'm tasked with calling everyone we've come in contact with the past few days and warn them to be on the lookout. There were a lot of kids in the pool. My nephew spent most of last week with us. We had friends from out of state over for a visit. We went bowling a lot. It's such a social time of year!

I've called most of them and not a single one has cursed me out...at least not to my face but my ears are really burning.

Now my next task is to run away. Far away. You see, I just realized there was something I forgot to do 30 years ago. I forgot to catch Chicken Pox myself!!


Stay tuned for the next episode of "As the Spot Emerges."

Boudreaux's

M loves Boudreaux's Butt Paste. Actually, he loves the name more than anything. The product doesn't really do much to help any rashes he has. He responds better to Desitin. But Desitin is called Boudreaux's at our house, to humor the Babiest of course.



I missed him for literally three minutes. It was probably more like four by the time I checked his usual haunts.



This is what I found when I discovered him. He told me "Mommy, we're all out of Boudreaux's. Will you go to the store and buy me some more?" Ummmm, NO!!!





In case you are not savvy in the diaper rash protection genre, Desitin is designed to stick to the skin and protect it, not wash away with a liquid. It doesn't easily come off furniture or little punks.

'Nuff Said

Holy Bats and Balls Batman, Did You Watch That Game?

Oh my, I still can't sleep! If you didn't watch it, I hope the recovery from the coma goes well. And I hope you had your DVR set up prior.

I have a confession. I was totally put out after the top of the 10th when my Tigers couldn't capitalize on the bases loaded and one out. I thought it was over and proceeded to fold a load of laundry. Totally off subject, but does that stuff ever stop? Anyway, I was thinking they just didn't seem to want it enough. But then it all came together. Whew! One down and one to go!! Way to go, boys.

I think we'll be eating some steaks while watching game two. Beef steaks. Longhorn beef, maybe? Ya got that, dear brother-in-law?

Hmmm, do you eat Longhorn or just laugh at them for looking so funny?

The Preparations are Under Way

Let me first provide you with some answers before proceeding. No, we do not know where he gets this stuff. To address the obvious, but unspoken assumption: No, we do not speak like this to each other so he did not get it from us.

Now that that's out of the way, on with why I'm making preparations, and what I am preparing for.


During the really dark times of M's regression I wondered if he'd ever develop the ability to verbally communicate his needs, wants, desires, intentions, etc. That wondering disappeared over the course of the last year...and boy did it disappear!!


He communicates his intentions quite clearly now.

Last week as I was dressing the little guy he smiled at me and said, "Butt." Just one word. And a big smile. It communicated all he needed to at the moment, and was intended to get a strong reaction.


I thought it best to ignore it. Next came "Butt. Butt. Butt." I still didn't bite. Finally after he was dressed and, I suppose able to adequately run from me, came the biggest challenge. "Buttbuttbuttbuttbuttbutt" while running around his room smiling. I'd let him win this round by not taking him on. I walked away thinking I was being a good mom by not reacting.


Not so.

Later as I was resting on the couch the following transpired:

M, walking up to me: I like to kick butts.

Me, thinking WHAT DID HE SAY?!?!: What did you say?

M, the smile is getting bigger: I like kickin' people's butts.

Me: Why do you say that?

M: It's fun to kick butts.

Me, trying not to explode in laughter and shock: You shouldn't say that. It's not nice.


M, eyes sparkling because he now has the upper hand, leans forward and points his crooked chubby little finger at me: I'm gonna to kick some butt...and I'm startin' wif you.

Me, oh never mind, I wasn't able to say anything. I was hyperventilating from the laughter I was unable to hold in any longer. He won round two, but the match wasn't over. I sought to compose myself while he ran around the room dancing.


Round three was beginning.

For his next move M pauses the dancing-running thing he's doing, looks over at me, points his two index fingers at me and pumps his hands back and forth. "Preeeepaaaarrrrre for ya butt-kickin'!"

The match is over and I've thrown in the towel. Let me again say we do NOT speak like this to each other at our home and I do NOT know where he comes up with these things. Promise.


But I'm preparing for my upcoming butt kicking with a sense of humor and a sense of dread.

Meet Nelson

This is Nelson. He's a member of our family. Unfortunately he's not the real Nelson. D and I were sincerely hoping he'd stand in for the real one. Apparently our brilliant idea of a pretend Nelson didn't work.

I know you're now thinking, "She's finally flipped her lid--we knew it would happen one day." I'm okay though. I did drop a lid this morning but I haven't flipped one yet. I do need to elaborate so you have an idea of who the real Nelson and who the substitute Nelson are.

This past Christmas we had the fortune (or misfortune, depending on how you look at it) of meeting a cat named Nelson. A few short days before Christmas we took the boys to the pet store to buy gifts for SissyDawg. As is the case with most people, we took a walk by the animals available for adoption. Mistake. Big Mistake.

M locked eyes with a very cute black cat named Nelson. The infatuation was reciprocal. M wanted to know everything he possibly could about the cat, and their eyes followed each other from one side of the store to the other. It was sweet, in a disturbing stalker-ish way. We visited Nelson several times that evening before leaving the store and leaving Nelson behind. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Not hardly.

The next morning I asked M what he wanted to do that day. He was very specific in his request: "I want to go back to the Dog Store and get that Nelson cat." This went on several times a day for several days, with increasingly pleading doe eyes. It didn't look good for getting out of this one, even with the long and detailed explanation of how Nelson would make him itch. We even had papers from the doctor to prove it. He still wasn't buying into that excuse.

Santa came up with the brilliant idea that Nelson moved to the computer and M could play with him via the Nelson Webkinz. It seemed to work. The Nelson/M connection was there, not as strong, but seemed to be there and it was especially fun for him to take care of Nelson on the computer. I had a false sense of security that Nelson was now and forever a stuffed cat, never a live one in his memory.


Fast forward to two days ago. A conversation takes place. It goes this way:

M, crawling sweetly into my lap: Do you want a pet, Mommy?

Me: I sure do. Will you be my pet?

M: No, I not a pet. I want a kitty.

Me, playing along: What is a kitty? And how do we get a kitty?

M: First we go to the Dog Store. Then we pick out a kitty. His name is Nelson and I want him.

Me, trying to keep a straight face: You can't have a kitty. They make you itch.

M, still not buying the itch excuse: I want to go to the Dog Store and get that Nelson cat!!!

That last bold phrase has been repeated multiple times since. The child has a memory like a steel trap. Unfortunately.






I wll not give in...I will not give in...I will not give in...I will not give in...