Happy Thanksgiving To You

Thanksgiving was had at a relative’s house (Thanks Sue!), so I did not get to indulge in best of Thanksgiving traditions - leftovers. Also there no Green Giant corn niblets in butter sauce, which is just fucking nuts. And San Francisco, it is called a Rutabaga. I am Irish and if I spend another god forsaken Thanksgiving without sweet creamy stick of butter in it amazement that is mashed yellow turnips, I might have a breakdown. On Friday morning, in a mission for leftovers, I purchased a nineteen pound butterball turkey for half price. On Saturday, the beast was cooked and my somewhat immediate family dined upon the carcass. Maggie who never eats a ton of anything was shoving corn niblets in butter sauce and turkey down her gullet like a Nathan’s Hot Dog contestant. A very impressive display of gluttony for a girl who maybe eats every three days. Later that evening the kids were bathed and dressed for bed. The usual fall asleep in 20 seconds at 6:30 p.m. Maggie McCall did not. Instead she cried, then cried some more, then had a hissy fit, then decided just to shriek. My mind, incapable of dealing with her wails, did the only thing it could. It sent the appropriate message along synapses to drink repeated shots of whiskey. Finally at 8:30 p.m., after two hours of delirium inducing screeching, I took her in our room where she promptly fell asleep and I promptly passed out. The next morning, she seemed better. We figured she was either over stimulated, teething or possessed by the devil (my vote). Later that morning, John took her to be changed. Wherein I heard, “Cass, I think there is something up Maggie’s nose.” “WHAT?”. “I think there is something up her nose.” “Let me see.” As I tilted her head back to peer into her nostrils, there was something. “What the hell is that?” “I don’t know.” “Get the tweezers.” John holding her hands and me armed with the tweezers, we removed one, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN pieces of turkey. Out of her nose. She had not eaten like a champ, but instead put various sized turkey pieces up her nose. And all that crying the night before was probably related to the fact that 2 pounds of that 19 pound bird were up her left nostril. And this, my friends, is my daughter: a person who puts bits of food up her nose for fun. Help me.

Its Owen Time

Having an almost four year old is a bumpy life lesson in psychology. A tiny manic depressive who goes from happily excited for all things awesome to a whiny crazed person afraid “of everything”. But all in all, for the most part, and this is not the wine speaking, it is pretty fun. Today I bring a few “Owenisms”:

1. Owen - The Easy to Please. At bedtime, Owen and I indulge in Little Boy Stories wherein he picks the subject and I tell the tale. Although never spoken, it is understood that the “Little Boy” is Owen. These stories usually involve life lessons - the little boy who did not hit his sister, the little boy who stayed in bed even though he was scared, the little boy who learned how to make vodka from potatoes. Again, useful life lessons. Because his preschool class was going to the Boat Park today, that was the story’s focus. I began, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy, whose was going to the Boat Park with his classmates. They lined up, held hands and walked to the park - one block, two blocks, three blocks, four blocks, five blocks. Finally, they were at the Boat Park.” At this point, Owen turned to me and said “Mama, THAT IS UNBELIEVABLE.” Not really, but I like the enthusiasm.

2. Owen - The Ladies Man. Last Saturday while at the mall, Owen took the opportunity to greet every female mannequin with the following - “Pleased to me you. My name is Owen. What’s your name?” He did this twenty-two times. Not to actual people, or male mannequins, but mannequins of the female persuasion, meaning the ones with boobies. Yep. Obviously, his year of nursing proved quite impactful.

3. Owen - The Vocabulary Expert. While at Target, Owen come upon his Holy Grail: a Toy Story matchbox racing track. His two great loves (not sports related) combined. “I want Daddy.” “No, Owen.” “Why?”. “It is too expensive.” Flash forward to later in the evening where Owen on the toilet has finished pooping (parenthood is awesome!), and he reaches behind him for his toddler wipes taking about ten. John, living under my frugal ruling hand says to Owen “Owen, those are expensive, do you know what that means?” “Yes, Daddy. That means I don’t get that toy.” Ba Dam Dam.

4. Owen - The Ipad Dancer. Whenever he hears this song, this is what happens:

DST Is Not For Me.

There comes a day in the realm of parenthood that ever parent dreads. They look to their calendars in November to see it blatantly bolded and italicized on the first Saturday of November: the words, “Daylight Savings Time.” As a parent of young children, there is one thing to which I hold an almost maniacal fervor, the early bedtime complete with routine. This soothes the crazed toddler/preschooler. It sets the stage for you and your husband to gaze adoringly at each other not in the presence of someone asking “Why?” a thousand times or the obsession of a 19 month old to that bold dickhead, Caillou. But then Daylight Savings Time arrives to fuck it all up. There is only one thing to do, extend bedtimes by an hour and pray after a few days things even out. But this weekend, not so easy.

To back track, last Thursday John picked up Maggie from daycare bringing her home. She proceeded to vomit in the car, then on John (repeatedly), then on the floor, then on the couch. Later on it was her crib. But by morning, she was absolutely fine. We figured it was something she ate due to the quick onslaught and violence of attack. However, in the early hours of Saturday morning, I awoke to a funny feeling in my stomach. It continued for a while as I become more and more nauseated. So much so, that at 3:30 a.m. I bolted upright for the bathroom to hurl out the contents of my stomach.

Owen decided this would be the perfect time to wake up. “Owen, you can’t wake up. You need to go to sleep. You will be exhausted.” Its daylight savings day asshole, and you need to be awake until 8:30 (at the least). But my vomiting obviously excited the little guy, since he decided that 4:00 a.m. would be the perfect time to awake for the day. Due to the fact I was a blubbering idiot incapable of doing anything but lying in bed wailing, John did the solid and took the boy. Maggie McCall hearing her brother decided to wake up at 5:30 a.m. This was also the time after making another stomach turning approach to the bathroom, I fell to the kitchen floor crying for a quick and immediate death.

As the morning progressed, my trips to the bathroom lessened. By 2:00 p.m. I was able to hold down some water, then toast, and finally soup. At 4:30 p.m, it was as though a switch was flipped. I was completely better and absolutely starving. Owen then looked at me, and proceeded to vomit the metric ton of buttered pasta and carrots he had for lunch, and the two pieces of toast, and the Hershey’s bar. Not once, not twice, but three times. Covered in his submission to the McCall Stomach Virus Abstract Art Show 2010, we proceeded to the shower. As the evening passed, I was the recipient of Owen’s stomach contents an astounding six times. This just goes to show you the level of a mother’s love. Holding his vomit in my hands after he puked like a Eucharistic offering at church because I did not want it to hit the sheets. Or maybe that was just laziness. Whatever. The point is the kid was passed out into a feeble state at 6:15, on muther effin Turn the Clocks Back Night. Which means he would be up again sometime around 4:30 a.m.

But by some miracle, he was able to sleep until 6:00 a.m., and by some further miracle, this dastardly disease bypassed John. We were able to go to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, watch football and enjoy the rainy day. The kids went to bed immediately last night and both slept until 6:00 a.m. this morning. So DST, I still hate you. Why do we even have it? Seriously. Also, I need a drink.