The Health Nut

Much can happen while you are putting away laundry, and it’s never a good sign when you call poison control before 10:00am. Of course, my day started hours earlier when Nicholas started chirping away in his crib at 6:00 am this morning, a solid 1.5-2 hours ahead of schedule. I looked at the Mister and said, “Today is going to be a bitch.”

I should buy lotto tickets.

As expected, Nicholas has been a bear all day. Crying, refusing to eat, crying, wanting to eat, crying, not liking what I offered to eat, crying, still wanting to eat, and did I mention crying? I made the mistake of giving him the box of cereal to play with while I got him a bowl; he promptly emptied the box onto the floor.

He climbed the beds and tried to take apart the blinds to see how they worked.

He brushed his teeth for 45 minutes.

He colored at the table, but then got frustrated and swept everything to the floor.

He pulled a stool out of the bathroom for the sole purpose of dancing atop it in the middle of the kitchen.

He took the stop out of the third bathroom sink.

He tossed all the soap dishes in the sink.

He opened the refrigerator repeatedly, hoping to find something appetizing.

He climbed onto the dining room table and started chewing on the fake apples.

I was pulling him off the table (and only barely yelling at the top of my voice) when Mikey came up to me talking around an open mouth quickly collecting saliva.

Mikey: “Mu. I neh wa-uh.”

Jules: “What? What’s wrong with your mouth?

Mikey: “Wa-uh!” pointing furiously at his mouth.

Jules: “Water? You need water? Why? Did you eat something?”

Mikey: “Uh-huh. Eeese.”

Jules: “Cheese?” I did have some gruyere in the fridge.

Mikey: “No, EEESE.”

Jules: “Okay, I can’t understand you,” I said walking towards the cabinet with the glasses. “Let’s get you some water and…MIKEY! IS THIS WHAT YOU ATE?!”

Mikey: “Yeah. Eeese.”

Jules: “Mikey, THESE ARE NOT SEEDS!”

I spent the next five minutes instructing Mikey on how to rinse out his mouth with water. I tried to teach him how to swish, but he couldn’t get the hang of it so he shook his head from left to right. Effectiveness Rate: Absolutely None. One thousand raw lentil pieces later, Mikey looked at me calmly and asked for real seeds. I said no.

I called the pediatrician, who referred me to poison control. I explained the entire situation, and how Mikey mistook a bag of lentils for the seeds I often given him with nuts and raisins to snack on.

“That’s what I get for trying to raise a health nut,” {pause for chuckles from Poison Control operator.}

Still waiting.

After a brief time on hold we got the all clear. I decided staying in the house one minute longer would surely be dangerous for all of us (mainly because I was going to kill them), so I packed up the boys and went to the bookstore and then lunch, whereupon I realized one of those life truths you only realize after hitting bottom.

Everything is better with books and ketchup.

The Scholarly Suspect

On Monday the Mister and I were watching the Olympics and marveling at the 80 pound, 10-year-old Chinese gymnasts when we were suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable crack of gunfire. Mind you, I don’t live in the ghetto. I live in a nice, boring neighborhood from the 1950s filled predominately with original owners. Our neighbors to the left, Fred and Pam, are retired officers. Behind us is the ophthalmologist, Al, who recently lost his wife, Wanda, to a massive MI at the age of 83. With all the polyester around here, we were more likely to suffer a crime of fashion before a crime of passion. Or so we thought.

The first bullet to hit the air took us by surprise, and I daresay we thought it was Fred’s or Al’s or Eugene’s or Harve’s 1969 Buick LeSabre backfiring. The second, third, and fourth bullet had us ducking our heads as we ran towards the boys’ bedrooms. They were sawing logs, of course, because that’s what you do amidst gunfire. The Policy and Procedure Book for Children Aged 1-5 clearly states that one must wake up screaming (1) for no reason, (2) between the hours of 2:00am – 5:00am, (3) on the nights before deadlines, meetings, appointments, and school. They were off the clock in their minds.

But we were up and at attention. The Mister went outside to check on the neighbors while I stayed inside by the phone. As luck would have it, all the neighbors went outside to investigate at different times, so we all missed each other. The next day the street was abuzz with speculation and everyone recounted the story from their perspective. This was way bigger than the sale at Walgreens. In fact, this was up there with Medicare Part D. Fred swears he saw the suspect jump his fence and enter another neighbor’s yard. No one really believed Fred because of his reputation for embellishment, but tonight handed me some evidence that makes me think ol’ Fred may not have been spinning a yarn, after all.

We were outside playing with the boys. The Mister was checking the grass for doggie land minds, and I was his second set of eyes. I kept pointing out piles with my feet. Here’s one. Here’s another. You missed one right here. Oh, and here’s…a book?

Not two feet away, over by the boys’ slide, lay a book wrinkled and beaten from the sprinklers. A Stephen King book, no less. My mind raced with criminal possibilities as I shrieked and pointed it out to the Mister, who remained unconcerned. Maybe it belongs to Fred or Pam. Maybe their son, Kevin, accidentally dropped it over the fence. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I wasn’t convinced.

Then the Mister found the second book, this one about a foot away from the first. At this point I remembered every episode of CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, True Detective, and Medium I have ever watched. Any number of whackos could have left those books. Remember the Urban Legend about the life-sized clown statute that turned out to be an escaped criminal from the insane asylum? What if it was that guy?!

I handed over the evidence to Fred, who immediately instructed Pam to get her CSI kit, even though as waterlogged as the books were, fingerprints were unlikely. I could hear Fred’s retired wheels spinning. He is going to be up all night.

I am, too. Not just because the books suggest someone was in my backyard, most likely running. As shocked as I was 20 minutes ago, now I’m just flat confused. I’d love to speak with the suspect (behind bars) and ask about the books. Because, really? Books? Did he think he would get a break in the mayhem and madness and catch up on a few chapters? You know, in between stuffing silver candlesticks in his robber-bag he might like to read chapter 14 real fast because, let’s face it, when you hit the arc in a suspense novel you have to ride it to the end. Am I right?

Clearly, my criminal is a scholar. Maybe not of fine literature, but a reader nonetheless. Hey, if anyone can appreciate the call of a good book it’s me. But might I suggest that he put down the crime and suspense and read this:

Something tells me he could learn a thing or two that may be useful for his line of work.

Welcome Back, Mikey

Wednesday started with me cleaning up the results of a backed up toilet.  I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why it even backed up.  That is, until a few hours later when Mikey skipped out of a different bathroom and said, “Mama! I flushed the toilet and this time the water went doooooooown not uuuuuuuup!” Uh huh. Something tells me an entire roll of toilet paper preceded the aforementioned flush in question. After I cleaned up the toxic waste in the bathroom, I spent the rest of the morning mopping down the house, mainly because the wood floors needed the attention.

Later that afternoon, I was in the office replying to emails when Mikey’s proud voice called out to me like a siren’s song from the enclosed patio. “Mama, I cleaned the floor all by myself! It looks great!”

Huh?! What the? I was already getting up and heading towards the patio. “Why does the floor look great?” I said nonchalantly. “What was on the floor?” I’ve learned to never sound accusatory. They can smell a stint in time-out coming from a mile away. Cajole them into telling you what really happened and you might actually find out why the floor you just spent all morning mopping would need to be cleaned by a three year old.

“Nothing was on it, Mama. I just cleaned it to make it better!” I looked him up and down. No stains or wet spots and everything in order. I didn’t bother to look inside, because if he had spilled anything it would have been all over him. A rookie mistake.

“OK. No more cleaning the floor, alright? I already mopped them today.” A quick kiss and a hair tousle, and I’m off ten paces to the office.

Now, where was I? I started working on an email and a few minutes later gave Mikey a quick glance. “Mikey! I told you not to go through my drawers. Put that glitter back right now!”

“OK, Mama!” And off he went. All of a sudden, it hit me.

“MIKEY! WAS THE GLITTER ON THE FLOOR?”

“Yes, Mama! And I cleaned it ALLLLLLLLL UP! It looks GREAT!” I turned those 10 spaces into 5 and bounded up the stairs to the patio. There was Mikey, covered head to toe in gold glitter stirring what looked like gold soup in a miniature play-doh container. “Now I’m putting my chili in the bowl.” Not chili. And, not a bowl. It’s my white vase, which I keep on a tray table next to the picture windows.

Wild Animal Kingdom

I opened the slider, stepped onto my covered patio, and for the first time in my life remembered to close the door before heading off to our office in the backyard. No sooner did I sit down to my computer did I hear a huge crash in the covered patio. I looked up, waiting to see Mikey. Instead, I see this:

I’ll tell you what–that bird, when 10 feet from your face and tearing at wall screen, is the size of a beagle. And those talons? Yeah, they scared the crap out of me. Once I realized the slider was closed and the boys safe, I pretty much sat there with my head up my ass waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Lucky for me, Mr. Hawk didn’t around wait for my enlightenment. He left as quickly as he came, knocking over boxes in the process, no doubt off to disembowel some mouse or rat.

Come to think of it…why did he fly into my covered patio? Was he swooping in for said rat or mouse? Oh, crap. I think I’m going to pass out.