I have an urge to post and nothing to post about. Well, actually, I have stuff to post about, but I like to actually save that stuff for days that I really have nothing to post about. Does that make sense?

Carter and I spent the day home yesterday. After getting up and getting ready for work, I walked into his room to find him coated in dried and coagulated puke. The room wreaked of old milk, yet I still couldn’t figure out where the hell it was coming from. Until I walked up to the crib and saw his hair standing on end. THEN it all came together. Sick, sick, sickity, sick.

He was pretty out of it all day - probably didn’t help that I fed him anti-nausea medication so I wouldn’t have to deal with barf. I. hate. barf. (See how my needs are still the most important? Such a good parent. I manage to think about myself even with a sick child.)

After the medication knocked him out and he napped for about 3 hours (Hallelujah!) he woke with a high fever (about 103F) and rosy cheeks… kinda like I slapped him he was slapped.

My initial reaction being Fifth Disease I called my doctor (who was on vacation - go figure.) and Telehealth who is really no help except to freak you the hell out by telling you to go to the emergency room, or “Remember, don’t shake the baby!”. Being that there really is nothing you can do but wait it out, we stayed home. I didn’t bother with the emergency room, only to sit there for five hours and be told what I already know.

So we cuddled and watched a life time worth of Dora. No matter how sick, that bitch can always make my baby feel better.

Today? Up and running, talking, back talking. Back. to. Normal. NO spots, no nothing. You’d never even know that he was feel like crap yesterday. Resilient little buggers kids are.

Cuddles were nice while they lasted, I guess.

You know you need to laundry when….

pink and red strip pajama pants are the last thing you have to wear. The hotness is really almost unbearable.

:::

There are a BUNCH of you out there search for posts about farting in front of your husband. I can’t believe the number of hits resulting from this post. Either you’re as disgusting as me and fart in front of your husband all. the. time. - even challenging him outdo you (that’s hot!) … or you want to fart in front of him but need to muster up the courage. Come on admit it, you wanna squeak on out and you’re looking for a little encouragement.

I say DO IT! You’ll feel so liberated. I promise!

:::

My kid’s all of a sudden really big on this BreastfeeLing thing. Must be male. (yes, I actually took the time to photograph it. Sad. I know.)

(Click for a larger view)

Growing up, it was instilled in me that material objects and money do not reflect the type of person you are. No matter how rich or pretty, manners and respect will get you so much further then the what name brand you’re wearing and whether or not you make six figures.

So why is it that so many teenagers, and even young children, have no manners whatsoever? Why do they behave like uncontrollable monkeys swinging in trees, flinging shit at one another? There is practically no control over this generation of children. Have they seriously been given so much freedom (by disassociated parents) and protection (from ass whoppin’s) that they have no fear of repercussions for their actions?

I was far from a model child. I was crude and wild; I beat on my younger brother, I was kicked out at 16 (but begged to return home in less then a week), drank, smoked, etc. BUT I never ever treated those in authoritative positions with disrespect. I was taught at least that much.

So many kids now verbally, if not physically, abuse their parents and teachers. Why is this tolerated?

Where am I going with this?

Discipline.

I do agree with re-directing and none-violent approaches to disciplining a child, but in some cases a good ol’ fashion beating may be in order. Seriously.

Hold on, don’t be calling Child Services yet. Hear me out.

Have you not seen the results of re-directing and no hitting? Wild shit flinging monkeys!
One thing that Mike and I do agree on - spankings should make a comeback (sadly enough, the only thing that we agree on is the fact that we should be able to beat our child if we see fit).

I remember when I was little and did something wrong, I would sob uncontrollably even at the thought of my mom bearing my ass for a good spanking. Sometimes I even gave it some consideration prior to smashing my brother over the head with a hockey stick or pushing him down the stairs. Striking the fear of Jay-seus into a child can work just as well because it causes them to think about their actions and *gasp* re-direct! See… it works dammit! And I turned out alright!

Carter is too young for the spanking approach. He doesn’t quite understand “Kid, I’m gonna beat your ass if you hit that dog one more time!” . Know what I love though? When he does something he’s not supposed to and I re-direct him; when he does the RIGHT thing, we clap and yell “Hooooorrrayy!” as we throw our arms up in the air. He gets this HUGE sly grin on his face and is gleaming with pride because he’s completed a task as asked. Makes my heart swell with pride and love.

Guess this re-direction thing works a’ight too.

So Happy Mother’s Day and all that jazz. Day late and a buck short I think the saying is. I’m not really all about the gifts for Mother’s Day, all I want is a little recognition for carrying, birthing and nursing our son. Mike, is by far the least romantic person, but I knew that going in. He’s lovable and wonderful is so many other ways, besides I got what I really wanted. A day of the three of us doing stuff together! Wanna know what we did for Mother’s Day? Sure you do.

One reason I love shopping at WalMrt so much? They never have what we’re looking for, and when they do it’s either the wrong size, doesn’t match or some douche tried it on and got it all funky with deodourant or something. Hopefully deodourant.

A Saturday morning trip resulted in a weekend long escapade trying to find The Perfect Pair of Sandals for Capitan Pooypants (Carter). Poor kid’s been sweating his little piggers off in runners that are a size too small for the past week, so it seemed only fitting to diminish the magnitude of torture sooner then later - you know, since we hope to have him pick us a nice retirement home in the future; maybe change a few shitty diapers. Frankly, I say he owes me that much.

ANY-way. The Perfect Sandals were found at the local WalMrt on Saturday morning. Carter loved them (”shoooooooe”) and daddy picked them out, so they were a winner all.the.way.
Show sizes match? Check. Home we go.
Carter wanted his new shoes on to play in the backyard. Fine. Put the shoes on. Only to notice that they are the same damn foot. Two right shoes. Fuck! Back to the store first thing Sunday morning.

Do you think we could find the same pair of sandals again? Nope. They’re there, but not the same size. There’s no left of these shoes in a 7 anywhere. Jay-seus.
I was ready to just pick another pair and go home. But No. Can’t do that.

Me: Ok, grab the Diego sandals, let’s go.
Carter: Go-Go (read: Diego)!! *arms outstretched* GOOOO-GOOOO!
Mike: No, I’m sick of settling. We’re getting these damn sandals.
Me: Sick of settling? It’s fuckin’ WalMrt, can’t settle more then that Mike.
Mike: Fuck off, we’re getting these sandals.

Thinking this was going to be a short in and out trip I agreed to just go. No shower, just head out the door. I think I even had dried crusty drool on my chin. Think he cared? Nah. Off to the next not-so-local WalMrt.

Would they have them in stock? Nope! Would they have anyone remotely interested in seeing if they have anything in the back? Ha! It’s bloody WalMrt; they wouldn’t check the back if he’d a offered a million dollars to do it.
By this point Mike’s now on a mission for The Perfect Sandal. He will not give up until he has this tiny coveted pair of sandals in his hand; fuck, you’d almost think they were made of gold. Our adventure to find the Holy Grail a pair of The Perfect Sandals hit a small snag; Carter was miserable since snack time had come and gone and I wanted another coffee. Mike was easily convinced to stop and get my coffee so I could logically (read: coherently) think up our next plan of attack on our quest for The Perfect Sandal at the really-not-local WalMrt. *roll eyes*

Lunch time soon approaching, I haven’t dressed, Carter doesn’t have a diaper bag, I possibly have crusty drool on my face along with ratty messed up unwashed hair and Mike is driving us 20 minutes away to the really-not-local WalMrt. Just to prove a point. He’s sick of settling. Fuck! I get it already!

So the really-not-local store had the shoes. The quest for The Perfect Sandal was completed in a mere 3 hours, 3 stores, 2 coffees, 1 blueberry muffin, 4 McDonny’s cheeseburgers, 2 small fries, 1 diaper change, 2 fights and 2 tantrums.

Successful day in my books.