This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful we’re feeling better! One of the tough things about Bode when he’s sick is his expectation that I need to hold him all the time. While this was exhausting, I didn’t mind doing it because the poor kid needed sympathy as he coped with his first bout of the evil suffering of this world (at least that’s how he worded it, intermingled with a few expletives).

However now that he’s on the mend, it’s been rough trying to get him to stop being so clingy and needy. Since his sleep patterns have recently become so grisly, I had stopped rocking him to sleep in an effort to teach him to self-soothe on his own. And for the most part, it was working. Until he got sick, of course.

When Bode started to feel better, we knew it was time to start training him again. After he was fed, changed and ready for bed, we waited until he started dozing off and put him down. And then the flood works were unleashed because how DARE we put him down in his crib. By himself.

“Just let him cry,” Jamie advised.

“But what if something’s wrong?”

“We both know nothing’s wrong. He’s just tired and is demanding to be held.”

Though I’m not an advocate for the extreme “crying it out methods,” I am a staunch advocate for getting more than three hours of sleep. Something that hasn’t happened for more than a month and was probably the leading cause for getting me sick.

And so we let him cry. And cry. He never got to the hysterical stage (at which point I would’ve cracked) but simply voiced his displeasure. Over and over again.

But when he finally dozed off, he slept the longest block of time he’s done in a month (four hours straight). But not without frazzling us during the whole thing. When all was finally silent, Jamie leaned over to me and whispered:

“We’ve won!”

Because we need the occasional reinforcement that these children don’t rule us. At least not always.

That night, I had feverish dreams that I got knocked up at BYU with Bode and that Jamie abandoned us. I have this dream (and the one where I’m in my final semester of college and realize I’ve forgotten to go to class all semester) at least weekly.

I called Jamie the next morning to commiserate our cry-it-out evening. I ended our conversation with, “And you calloused jerk. How dare you?”

“Huh?”

I then relayed the knocked-up dream. You know: that same one I have had over and over.

Jamie paused and I waited for his reassurance I am indeed psycho and that he would never dump us off at BYU, a.k.a. the sappiest…errr happiest place on earth. But instead, his response:

“Well, after last night can you blame me?”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Bode and I are sick. Dog sick. If it sounds like I am sick a lot, you are correct. I go through a six-week cycle of wellness until The Plague resurfaces. As bad as I feel, it’s even worse having to take care of a little one who is suffering so much. The whimpers (and particularly the screeches) are enough to break your heart (and ears).

The other day was so bad that Grandma had to rescue Hadley and quarantine her from us. Funny, but I always envisioned quarantine to be a dismal place, not one full of sugar, countless toys and Grandma snuggles. She got the better end of that deal.

Once free from the Hurricane (just watching her is enough to wear me out), The Boder and I laid around like slugs. Occasionally, he would make requests: “Hey woman–I need some boob.” Or “Hey woman–I’ve got snot dripping down to my navel.” And I would generously help the little guy out. Because that’s what mothers who infect their young do.

Part of what makes me an absolute misery to be around when I’m sick is the already dysfunctional nose problems I have (see No. 82 and 87). In the last few days I have gone through four Kleenex boxes and am still going strong. Do you know how many snotty-nosed kids in Africa my over-consumption would service?

I must say I am glad for drugs. Lots of them. When I was sick during my pregnancy, I was an absolute wreck. Jamie is my druggist because the guy knows everything about every supplement on the earth. This turned out to be detrimental because he also knew all the things I couldn’t have at that time.

Whilst suffering with Bronchitis mere weeks before having Bode, Jamie discovered a bottle of nose drops sitting on my nightstand

“Amber, you haven’t been using these, have you?”

“Of course I have. It’s the only thing that helps me breathe since you’ve banned all the decongestants from me.”

“You’re not supposed to have nose drops. They are BAD.”

“Why would they be bad? It’s not like they’re going into my system to harm the baby. They’re just staying and floating around in my nose.”

“Not going into your system? Are you nuts? Maybe you’ve never heard of a little high called snorting cocaine. Also ingested through the nasal passages.”

Touché….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Like many kids, I obsessed over my Santa list every year even though the whole story never really added up. I mean, how could a fat guy in a red suit hit every house in the world in a matter of hours? Kids today need not doubt; they have living proof via Norad, which gives a play-by-play of Santa’s tracks.

My parents could also never provide me with a convincing answer as to why he magically appeared at every mall during the season (and always at the same time) or why he couldn’t remember what he brought me the year prior. Yes, I tested him and he always flunked. I couldn’t really hold it against him though, because he always overlooked those years when I ranked as more naughty than nice.

Despite being unable to logically justify his existence, I still believed and would write him long gluttonous letters detailing why I (not my brother) needed that Grease 8-track. I never mailed the letters. I couldn’t. I didn’t have an address. Had I only known I could send my hallowed list to the North Pole, Alaska 99705. Or that there is also an equal-opportunity Santa in Canada, who can be reached at the postal code HOH OHO. Ingenious, I know.

One of the highlights of our sleepless weekend was hitting the North Pole of the lower 48 in Cascade, CO. There we found a child’s wonderland: a Christmas-themed amusement park, complete with The Man in Red, whimsical toy shops, festive rides, entertaining shows and yummy food.

We extensively prepped The Hurricane prior to her Santa encounter. I didn’t want to relate some woosy story about how she freaked out when she saw him but she I had no reason to worry. Like a kid on a mission, she plopped herself down on his lap, recited her list as if her life depended on it, posed obligingly for a photo and jumped down.

She meant business when it came to the rides as well. That fearless little thing not only hit the candy cane slide and the Christmas tree ride, but she also went on every adult ride that she qualified for, some of which even her father wouldn’t go on. We had to grab Bode to accompany her in those instances. Isn’t that what baby brothers are for?

We have long suspected Haddie is a tomboy due to her obsession with sports, trains and the fact that she uses her dolls as speed bumps with her stroller. She has a few girly interests such as make-up and clothes but we figured the test would be when we entered the girl’s toys shop and then the boy’s.

Sure enough, she grew quickly bored in the former but as soon as we entered the latter, she screeched “COOOOL!” and raced over to a huge Thomas the Train track. I won’t go into our sordid history with this evil train but just know our last encounter with him at Toys R Us resulted in drawing her father’s blood as he attempted to drag her away kicking and screaming. Oh, and then she had to be accompanied out of the store with a balloon by the manager. I wonder if this means she’s been banned?

When it came time to leave the toy shop, I stealthily made my way towards the door leaving Jamie in charge. This time was no different. Again, she screamed, kicked and went for his jugular. He eventually dragged her out of there, leaving us incredulous because we’ve never seen her react that way over any toy.

Rest assured, this very train track was at the top of her Santa list. And because she’s my obsessive daughter and recites this list in her sleep, I think I even saw her slip him a $20….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

P.S. Good thing Jamie buckled up. I’d hate to witness the humilation of falling off a miniature reindeer….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

What a Weekend Part II will be forthcoming. Just as soon as I have the time and energy to relive it all.

In the meantime, Jamie called me on his way home from work yesterday with some pertinent information. At least according to him.

“Hey Amber. I was listening to the radio and they had some gender wars regarding what it takes to get a man to help around the house.”

“I am listening. Impatiently.”

“Well, one caller said his wife dresses up in a sexy little maid outfit and asks him to clean. With expected rewards at the end, of course, but it works every time.”

“Yeah, right.” I turn my attention to Bode. “You’re not ever going to be a man like that, right?”

“Amber, he already is. Just look at how he reacts when you nurse him.”

Jamie had a point. The moment I whip it out, a big grin emerges on Bode’s face. He immediately dives in, only to detach several times absolutely beaming. Like he’s in newborn nooky nirvana.

“And so you see Amber, from day one there is a positive association for men with breasts.”

“But what about those baby boys who aren’t breastfed?”

“Well, there are a lot of homosexuals out there…”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Dear DoubleTree Neighbors,

This is a letter to apologize for the sleepless night you endured at the DoubleTree Hotel on Saturday. If it is any consolation to you, we received even less sleep (as my husband noted on his blog.)

We knew we were in trouble when we attempted to nap earlier in the day. As my sweetie and I laid there on the cushy bed with fluffy pillows, we couldn’t help but marvel about our perfect little getaway weekend. I mean, what could be better than a trip to the North Pole (details forthcoming), surrounded by the splendor of the Rocky Mountains?

Then we were jolted out of our reverie by the two children who screamed and wailed around us. The funny thing was when one would finally fall asleep, they’d get woken up by the other. Hilarious, right? It made me marvel at all those poor people in the world who live in a one-bedroom home. Either they never get any sleep or they are the deepest sleepers in the world.

The evening didn’t start too badly, dear neighbors. As you will recall, The Children went down with only minor fussing. Until 11:30 p.m. when the Hurricane was aroused and delirium ensued for an hour as she wailed that every part on her body hurt. Imagine that! Enduring such a horrific condition when only two years old.

And then The Slug awoke an hour later, thus beginning our memorable all-nighter. Aren’t you glad you forked over $136/night to be reminded why you 1) don’t have children 2) have children who sleep or 3) were smart enough to leave them at home.

Again my dear neighbors, please accept our deepest apologies. In the end, we had to tag team as my dear husband calmed the Hurricane in his corner and I battled the slug in mine. Rest assured (or more like an extreme lack thereof), we will think twice before taking the children with us again. Be comforted in knowing that absolutely no hanky panky occurred with the children present. Because the last thing on our minds was a desire to make anymore.

Sincerely,

She-Who-Wishes-To-Remain-Anonymous-For-Fear-Of-Retribution

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

After Jamie got Bode ready for bed the other night, I noticed that the tag to his PJs was on the front.

“Jamie, you put his PJs on backwards.”

“They’re not backwards. I just think out-of-the-box while you think in.”

*********

Haddie has an obsession with fruit leather and loves toting it around the house as she gnaws away. One day, Jamie came up to me and commented, “Look what I just found stuck to my butt,” and he showed me the fruit leather.

“Ohhh, that is sooo gross!”

He nodded in affirmation. And then proceeded to peel it off and shove it into his mouth.

I’m still curious to know what flavor it was….

******

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

We recently had some folks over for dinner with their little boy, Larry. He’s only a month and a half older than Bode yet is double his weight. At five months, the cute little porker already weighs over 25 POUNDS and costs his parents more than $100 in formula a week (he’s goes through a can and a half a day). I haven’t seen such over-indulgence since my stint on the Sumo wrestling circuit.

Photo caption: the day Bode almost died when Larry rolled over on him after we snapped the picture.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Living on Wisteria Lane ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, it looks purdy on the surface but dig a little deeper and all our sordid secrets are revealed: underage driving, abuse, child neglect, etc.

Thus describes hanging out with our Latina neighbors on Monday. With our version of red-hot Gabrielle (minus the slutty part) at the helm and her two bilingual toddler boys, anything is possible. Hadley has a love-hate relationship with these kids. Namely, she sometimes hates playing with them because she gets beat up but loves their toys. No kid should ever have to be so conflicted.

At 3, Gabe is already a gifted athlete and excels at every sport. He is also the most intense and aggressive little guy I’ve ever seen who rarely smiles. He can’t. We might find weakness. His 18-month-old brother Luke, on the other hand, is smiley, affectionate and sweet. And is often the unfortunate recipient of The Hurricane’s wrath as retribution for his brother’s sins.

So, we’re hanging out yesterday in Monica’s garage discussing Wisteria-esque subjects such as vasectomies and circumcisions (because we’re just that red-hot.) All the while, the kids are fighting over driving their motorized Jeep and every toy in sight. When little Luke decides to go in the house…and lock the door behind him. Funny thing was, all the other doors were locked as well. And Monica didn’t have a spare key.

Thus began the saga of trying to get the little fella out. If it would have been Gabe, he would have simply knocked the door down from his sheer animal strength. But remember poor Luke is the sensitive type and when he realized he was away from his mama, the flood gates were unleashed. Monica’s husband worked a half hour away and immediately headed home.

In the interim, we tried to coax Luke to unlock the door but to no avail. All he could do was stand in the corner, stare at the door knob, and cry. We eventually persuaded him to the back screen door and did a very convincing game of charades as we showed him how he needed to lift the bar to open the door.

By now, he’d stopped crying and it didn’t take long before we saw the humor in the whole thing. Two desperate moms trying to describe to a 1-year-old how to open a complicated sliding door. Yeah, right.

“You really need to get a picture of him looking out at you,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
“Yep. It may only seem a little bit funny now but it’ll seem really funny later.”

And so she snapped away. I’m an evil influence like that. Monica continued to cajole Luke. A few minutes later, I announced:

“Monica, I know what the problem is!”
Excited, she looked at me expectedly. Finally, I had solution?!
“What is it?”
“You’re describing how to open this door in Spanish. How the crap is the poor kid supposed to understand?”

Because what would any crisis situation be without a smart ass around?

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I have never been one to discuss my bathroom habits with anyone, nor do I get particularly enthusiastic about the subject.

Until I had The Hurricane and suddenly the motivation to get her out of diapers has turned me into a non-stop potty mouth. Initially, it was disconcerting to have my own audience for every grimace, wipe and flush I made but now I perform like a pro.

“Ohhhh, I just LOOOOVE going on the big-girl potty! Look how FUN this is!”

The flushing part is truly the climax of my performance and fills me with such joy each and every time. I mean, to see it swirl around and around in circles? What could be more rewarding?!

Perhaps I’m overdoing it but believe me, if you had to change one of The Hurricane’s diapers, you’d understand. She takes after Jamie’s side of the family and has what I call explosive loose-bowel syndrome: where every crappy diaper brings tears to my eyes from the mere stench, texture and volume. A friend recently watched Haddie and had the misfortune of changing one of these diapers. She later announced that I owed her an extra half hour of babysitting her daughter in exchange for the traumatic experience.

Until last week, Hadley has shown very little interest in using the potty. A couple of her friends have recently been trained, including her friend Adde who has an affinity towards pooping in the woods when we hike (a concept that fascinated Haddie and she has talked about it for weeks: “See Adde? Poop in woods? COOOOOOL!”)

But out of the blue last week, Hadley announced she wanted to use the potty. Of course, she’s done this before but nothing has happened besides some impressive grunts and the occasional fart. When she came out this time, she demanded a sucker (her reward) but after surveying her efforts, I told her she needed to actually go and not just try.

Determined, she went back in. A few minutes later, she announced she was done. Sure enough, there was a little strain of urine in the potty. Welp, given the party we threw, you’d think it was the freakin’ Mardi Gras (complete with the debauchery of one half-naked kid). She got her sucker, got her accolades and we called Jamie and Linda (his mom) with the good news.

Haddie then demanded to wear her “big-girl Dora panties.” I figured Jamie wouldn’t be home until late so this would be a good opportunity to do some training. I put her in them, loaded her up with beverages and told her she’d better not pee on Dora. She adamantly concurred that Dora would be “sad” if she peed on her face and I felt confident we had an understanding. And I couldn’t help but think “Holy crap, this is gonna be EASY.”

Until I went to give her a bath soon thereafter. Not only had she desecrated poor Dora but she then proceeded to crap in the tub, something she has only ever done one other time. One step forward, two steps waaaay back, right?

And so, I’m stumped if she’s really ready and kinda dreading the whole experience. Jamie’s mom told me a while ago about a woman she saw on “Good Morning America” who touted her book on potty training in a day. This has actually gave me my new strategy.

Me: “They seriously said it can be done in a day?”
Linda: “Yes, and it’s not that difficult to do if you think Haddie is ready.”
Me: “Well, I’ll tell you what. Since it’s not that tough and you’re watching her next Monday, why don’t you just take care of it?”

Brilliant, yes? “Potty Training By Grandma.” It’ll be my new best-selling book. Lemme know if you’d be interested in pre-ordering a copy today….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog