Feb
1
I wouldn’t have guessed it was possible to overdose on bread to the point of needing a full-body detox and possibly a carefully orchestrated therapy session complete with that rabbity-toothed motherfucker from Intervention, but here I am after a weekend of bingeing on baked goods: doughy, puffy, and possibly forming my own yeasty crust.
Oh, is it grossing you out to hear about my personal yeasty crust? Well too bad, because where were YOU when I decided that making pizza, naan, and oat bread in the same 24-hour period would be a good idea? Where were you when I learned that while Indian food is all fine and good, fresh naan with peanut butter and jelly is something akin to a taste receptor orgasm? Where were you when I shoveled half a loaf of bread in my mouth at 11 PM last night, even though I was stuffed beyond reason, reasoning that it was easier to simply eat the slices rather than put them away?
I’m going to die of gluten poisoning—distended and bloated on the side of the road like a decomposing raccoon—and it’s all your fault.
In other food ridiculousness, I engaged in an epic battle with Riley on Sunday morning over a waffle. The same damn waffle he eats every day, except this time I snuck some butter—not margarine, mind you, but delicious, drool-triggering butter—on top of it and a tiny microscopic bit hadn’t melted enough and he was all WHAT IS THIS WHITE STUFF I DON’T LIKE IT. And then he refused to take one more bite of his 100% inoffensive WAFFLE coated in SYRUP and I pretty much lost my shit, because while I am used to his obnoxious pickiness when it comes to food apparently I draw the line at barely visible butter freakouts, and then his father and I did the thing I swore I would never do as a parent: we forced him to sit at the table and finish his breakfast.
Naturally it was wholly unpleasant for all parties and by the time the last bite reluctantly slid down his gripe-hole the morning was pretty much lying in ruins. Everyone was mad at each other with the exception of Dylan, who was oblivious to the drama since he was so busy eating his own waffle and about fifteen maple sausages to boot, what the hell. (“MO SASSAGE PEEZ. MO SASSAGE PEEZE. TANK YOU.”)
It seems I have to re-learn this lesson every now and then: fighting about food isn’t worth it. Not to me, anyway. JB and I don’t put up with a lot of bullshit when it comes to disciplinary issues, but food is generally off the list of things I’m willing to do battle over.
Except for Wafflegate, apparently, and if nothing else that certainly served to remind me that in the grand scheme of things, who cares if the kid won’t eat his Eggo? God knows it’s not like a bread product will ever go to waste in my house.
Jan
28
Last week Dylan caught one of those daycare colds that makes the rounds like a scene from Outbreak, where one child coughs and their nearest playmate instantly starts rubbing their eyes and after .07 seconds have elapsed the kid across the room has green slime jetting from both nostrils.
Woe.
He was mostly okay during the day, but for two nights his lying-down cough seemed to worsen into croupy territory and as a result no one got any sleep. Most of you are probably all too familiar with the wee-hour croup routine, which involves steamy baths and lots of hours logged sitting bolt upright in the rocking chair, hoping against hope that the next gap between chest-racking coughs will be long enough for both of you to pass out for an entire restful minute or so.
He’s fine now, but all that nighttime intervention seems to have set us into one butt-fucker of a sleep regression, for I have no other explanation as to why he is continuing to wake throughout the night. I mentioned a while ago that Dylan predictably wakes up once, and as it turns out once is exactly my limit. Anything more than that and I’m plunged into a spiraling well of frustration and self-pity, and as JB can attest, when my bedmate snores peacefully through Cryfest #4, 3:27 AM Edition, I don’t just get kicky, I start aiming for the balls.
(“ZzzzzOw. What the hell?”
“IT IS YOUR TURN. THE TIME OF YOUR TURN IS NOW. GET THE FUCK UP AND DEAL WITH THAT BLATTING CHILD BEFORE I LOSE WHAT’S LEFT OF MY SANITY. YOU WILL NOTE MY HEAD HAS SPUN 180 DEGREES AND I AM SPEAKING WITH THE VOICE OF SATAN. THAT INDICATES YOU SHOULD HURRY.”)
I hope to hell Dylan gets back to his usual routine on his own, because I have completely given up on the idea of sleep training. It didn’t really work when he was younger, and I highly doubt it will work now that he’s in possession of a steel will that cannot be broken no matter what lengths his desperate parents go to. In addition to being funny, smart, and downright adorable, my youngest son is—and I’m not saying this lightly—the most obstinate child on the face of the planet. I’ve never known stubbornness like his, and I’m including my own inability to concede when it comes to certain matters about which I am correct and you are not.
I’m sure it’s a trait that will eventually serve him well in life, unless he chooses a career in the military, but what I’m saying is if he refuses to sleep we are pretty much all fucked until 1) he chooses otherwise, or 2) the Benadryl kicks in, and don’t even think I won’t go there.
Anyway, in the midst of the sleep deprivation and resentment and all, I sort of suddenly realized that his 2-year birthday is coming right up. Two years! (OF NOT SLEEPING OH MY GOD.) It’s both hard to believe he’ll be two already—wasn’t he just a tiny redheaded baby?—and impossible to remember a time when he wasn’t part of our lives.
We aren’t having some big party or anything, but I would like to think of something creative to do with his cake. Specifically, I would like it to be horse-themed, and really, that’s the sort of thing they should mention in that otherwise horrifically comprehensive What to Expect series: enjoy your adult interests while you can, sucker, because someday you will spend your spare time surfing photos of horse-shaped cakes and buying novelty cookie cutters. And staring at this photo with both terror and admiration.
Of course, knowing Dylan I will probably drive myself batty to come up with a perfect equine-pastry and he will refuse to eat it or possibly hurl it across the room in disgust. Then he’ll wake up at 12, 2:30, and 4:05 AM chirping “CAKE? CAKE? CAKE? CAKE?”
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