A Nice Day

A nice day...

A nice day...

 

 

...for a cuppa

...for a cuppa

 

mmmmmm, lapsang souchong

Hot topic

Me: So does she sleep through the night yet for you?

Her: Well, I don’t know.   She’ll sleep until 5 and then I have to get up and nurse her and she’ll sleep till 7 again. I don’t know if you call it sleeping through the night.  It sure doesn’t feel like it at 5!

Me:  …….. *sad face*…..

Witch Hazel and Other Tales of the World’s Most Negligent Mom

In the 45 seconds that it took to get some routine bloodwork done this morning at the doctor’s office, Miles managed to inflict bodily damage to the area of his forehead when the space he wanted to occupy was found to be previously occupied by a door frame.

Not half a second after the phlebotomist poked her head out into the hallway to check on him, a resounding thud had me up out of the chair, into the hallway and scooping up my son who was belly down crying in pain (it was a good thing she had just removed the needle!). He had seen some of the staff coming around the corner and, wanting to play chase with them, had quickly darted…but into, alas, a doorframe right outside where I was sitting.

There I was holding a gasping, crying, keening Miles, with blood dripping down my arm from where the needle had stuck me, the phlebotemist trying to bandage me, me trying to asses the damage and being a bit horror-struck by the indentation left in his little forehead from the impact and the staff running hither and thither for cold packs, which we tried to apply but to no avail even as I nursed him.

After about 5 minutes, Miles had calmed and Dr. Singh (no idea who he is but he was on call) came and, after observing Miles wiggling and wriggling about and wanting down, decided that the worst damage would be a big goose egg on his noggin.

After he left, the nurse said “you amazingly stupid woman who is unfit to parent a child next time you should come get a staff member to watch your child, you idiot.”

Those may not have been her exact words.

During the ride home, I spoke with my mom who reassured me that, if the Tiny Tyrant is anything like his uncle was when his uncle was a Tiny Tyrant, this injury will be only one of many cuts, scrapes, bruises, sprains, strains, breaks and trips to the emergency room.

She also advised me on the healing properties of witch hazel which, in her childhood home, was used for everything from bruises to hemorrhoids.

At the local drugstore, as I was picking up some witch hazel, I decided to ask the pharmacist exactly WHY witch hazel would work on bruises. Upon doing so, he looked at me as though I had sprouted and extra head and told me in no uncertain terms that while it wouldn’t HURT anything to apply witch hazel, witch hazel is only an astringent and so would have no effect.  Upon pressing him as to whether he had actually heard of witch hazel being used for bruises, he grudgingly admitted that he had, but was quick to add that it was a long time ago, the inference being that therefore it was a voodoo (because “witch” = “voodoo”) folkloric panacea of no value whatsoever (ie, it wasn’t a PILL that cost $30.95).

But, to make a long story EVEN LONGER, a quick Google search about witch hazel revealed that that silly man knew next to nothing about witch hazel, which has been used on this continent for forever for a VAST ASSORTMENT of skin ills.

And, not to say that it was the witch hazel per se, but, despite my overwhelming incompetence as a guardian watchdog of toddlers, the Tiny Tyrant’s bruise did not get nearly as bad as I thought it would.

Allow me to complain

Let’s just review the sleep thing, shall we?

Yesterday, Miles napped for about 5 minutes.

Last night:

I hear him at 1:35 (even though Troy is on call; gotta love that Mommy Radar)

1:50 Troy comes out to go potty (see that all adult use of the lexicon has disappeared along with the finer points of tact) and so i switch with him since Miles will probably want to eat soon

2:00 Miles wakes to eat

2:30 – 4:05 Instert 3-4 awakenings as Miles fusses and farts and tosses and turns and nurses a couple more times

5:00 Next rousing. decide to put Miles back into crib to see if he sleeps better there. Nurse Miles. Walk Miles. Put Miles in crib.  Pat Miles. Walk Miles. Nurse Miles. Put Miles in crib. Listen to repeated “mama, up” “all done” “down”

no dice.

by 6:24 am so angry want to spit nails so just decide to give in and get up.

throw pillows vigorously onto bed while making it, YELL at hubby when he gets up and DARES to peek into Miles’s room at 6:30. Hubby tactfully (since he has not lost his tact) takes Miles into bathroom while he readies for work while Mama brews, stews, steams and throws some more stuff before finally pulling up her Big Girl panties and going to make herself a tea latte. with a couple cookies to make her sweeter.

Lather, rinse, repeat the next night for 18 months and counting (w/ occasional variation*).

Feel free to volunteer your services as a night nurse. I won’t say no.

 

*to be completely honest, usually the TT goes back to sleep until 7:30 or so; hence the pillow throwing when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to be doing that today.

Sunday Edition, Konglish Style

I *heart* Pucca

I *heart* Pucca

 

Garu *hearts* Pucca 4 Ever

Garu *hearts* Pucca 4 Ever

Laundry Soap and Dirty Hippies

I have for several years now wanted to try my hand at making my own laundry soap. In the past, though, when I would mention it, T would be like “?” and mentally he’d be thinking “she’s such a dirty hippy, what with her homemade laundry soap and her huffing about water usage and her compost bin and all”.

But, motivated by the $10/box price tag on Seventh Generation Laundry soap springtime and fresh weather as well as by the awesome Riana at These Days in French Life, I decided to have a go myself after all this time.

The ingredients are absolutely easy-peasy:

1/3 bar of soap (I used Fels-Naptha, mostly because the name is so cool)
1/2 cup of Borax
1/2 cup of washing soda (in the laundry section of Kroger, NOT baking soda, people)

After a quick look at Crystal Miller’s instructions, I took her recommendation of adding some essential oil/fragrance as well, just for, you know, kicks.

Of course, the only essential fragrance I had on hand was patchouli. So I added it. So now all our laundry smells like patchouli.

Which I kind of find ironic, because now everyone else around us is going to think that our whole little family are dirty hippies.

Which is poetic justice for T thinking I’m a dirty hippy in the first place.

What goes around, comes around. Just keep it clean.

Loser

When Mrs Fussy Crankypants was gestating the Tiny Tyrant aka Master Fussy Crankypants packed on close to 40 pounds.  Granted, 9 lbs 7 oz of that was Tiny Tyrant (as the reader can see, the Tyrant was tyrannical even before he was born), an undetermined amount was attributable to water retention and the rest, thanks to the evolutionary (or God-given, as you will) design of maternal fat storage to ensure adequate survival of both mother and infant in the case of chocolate food shortages, was good old-fashioned, evolutionary (or God-given) weight.

HOWEVER, just as hope springs anew in, well, Spring, so too does fat eventually disappate where there is a sufficient amount of effort (and by “effort”, Mrs FC means “often not having enough time to eat”).  Mrs FC was happy (and by “happy” Mrs FC means “speechless in rapturous joy”) to discover that she has lost all the evolutionary/God-given fat storage that she had amassed (the emphasis being on “mass), that her pre-Tyrant pants now fit (albeit not in quite the same way, but they do not cut off circulation around her waist so that is something) and she has only 8 pounds to lose before she hits her normal weight (because she went and GAINED weight before gestation, which is, as we all know, extremely foolish).

Mrs FC attributes her weight loss success to  30 pounds of toddler constantly wanting up and down, the occasional missing of meals due to time constraints, and attendance at the Y several times a week during which she uses the treadmill as an excuse to watch TLC’s What Not to Wear while enjoying some Tyrant-free time puts all her effort into using the treadmill.

This is the one instance in which Mrs FC does not mind admitting she really is a loser.

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