Curing the Common Cold

I figured out how to cure the common cold.

Step 1: Find a Very Wealthy Person
(You need funding if you want to cure anything.)

Step 2: Find a Toddler With a Cold
(Why look!  My daughter Audrey has a nasty one!)

Step 3: Bring These People Together to Create a Bond
(I'll drop Audrey at the rich person's house and they will become best friends)

Step 4: Keep Them Together Until the Wealthy Person Understands the Need for the Cure
(It won't take long: This week, I watched Audrey wipe her walrus tusk-looking nose on her arm, then use the same arm to push her hair out of her face, slicking her hair back into a snot helmet.  DONE.  I couldn't eat for the rest of the day.  She needs to just repeat that performance in front of the wealthier person who can do something about it.)
(NOTE TO SELF - Before we cure the cold, could drop her off at a high school health class to solve teen pregnancy)

Step 5: Take Pictures of the Wealthy Person and the Kid to Market the Cure
(Make sure the kid looks CUTE and HAPPY)

Step 6: NEVER SUFFER AGAIN

Sure, there's more money in treating a cold than there is in curing the cold - otherwise NyQuil would have figured it out by now.  Once someone sees a child go from adorable little girl to snot-walrus to snot-helmet, they'll understand why the treatment money isn't worth the suffering of parents everywhere.  For every child who gets a cold, there's a family who cannot stomach dinner.
(NOTE TO SELF - Before we cure the cold, could use child to cure obesity in families)

No!  As many ailments as this can prevent, I cannot live in disgusted fear anymore.  I've been stashing toilet paper rolls in various places around the house because I keep seeing that disgusting creature walk towards me with her yucky face.  I'm always backed into a corner, saying "Oh!  Oh!  Oh Honey!  Just a minute!  Don't move!  ONE Second..." and then I finally find something to wipe her nose and I have to wrestle her while she tosses her head side to side with all her strength.

The common cold destroys family relationships.  It's time for a cure.  I think people would be too disgusted for the Light Green Ribbon campaign, so this is the only way.

I'm off to find a Texas Oil Millionaire to make this happen!

Robbed

"Maggie, where is my iPod?"

I searched my fuzzy Monday morning brain.  Aaron was driving to his appointment, talking to me on the car speakers that normally blast his playlist.  We keep the iPod in the center console.  Why would I take it out?  Wait, did I take it out?

"... The car was open and I know I didn't leave it open.  I wasn't going to mention it, but I can't find my iPod anywhere."

Ohhhhhhh CRAP...

Someone stole the iPod out of our car in the middle of the night.  The van was also unlocked, the glove compartment was open, and some papers had been gone through.  Aside from the open glove compartment, I wouldn't have known the difference from its normal state of disarray.  I've been meaning to clean the van, but I didn't get around to it - sadly, the vandals were not disgusted enough to toss an empty Jamba Juice cup.

I called the police, and two young guys showed up within 15 minutes, after I was dressed (win!) but before I could clean the house (whoops!).  It's always great to have police in your house when you have two empty bottles of wine on the counter and folded laundry all over the couch.  Plus, Audrey immediately hugged one of them around the legs and smiled ("My Friend!") so they got to see that I haven't quite covered Stranger Danger.  At least Sebastian was wearing pants.

Toddlergeist

I decided to bake some banana bread, since I had let some bananas sit a little too long on the counter.  As everyone knows, when your bananas turn brown, God is telling you to make banana bread.  Or you should just not buy so many bananas, even if both your kids suddenly like them.  Plus, I was feeling all domestic since realizing that I'm way behind my neighbors in that category.

I'm kind of a banana bread pro, considering I've spent years repurposing brown bananas that Sebastian didn't eat, so I grabbed the mixer and made it happen.  I was already ahead of the game: the bananas weren't frozen and I had every single ingredient in the recipe, which was a first.  I substituted the oil with applesauce, because I'm all about a moist banana bread without the fat <*wink*> and acted like I meant to throw the cinnamon and nutmeg in the banana mix instead of the flour because who doesn't like a bolder cinnamony-nutmeggy-banana flavor?

It was a little hectic with the kids running around, so I preheated the oven after I'd already mixed the bread and before I greased the loaf pans.  Then I mixed in the walnuts after the batter was already in the pans.  WHATever, I thought as I set the time and left the room, It's going to be fine.

The timer went off and I went to get the bread out of the oven.  Only one problem: there were no oven mitts or potholders, anywhere.  Maybe God wanted me to bake some banana bread, but something in my house did not want me to actually retrieve that banana bread from the oven.

Cultures throughout history have recorded this problem.  A well-meaning person is trying to do something, but some tiny purveyor of mischief must make its presence known by throwing obstacles in the way.  Certainly I did not have elves cobbling shoes or gnomes weeding the garden in the  night.  A leprechaun would too busy collecting and guarding his gold (or nursing his St. Patrick's Day hangover) to mess with my banana bread, so my Irish heritage wasn't getting in my way here.  The obvious solution: a poltergeist.  It had taken my usual ove mitts to cause some havoc - maybe it wanted to see if I would use my shirt sleeve - but we just started grilling, so HA!  I have a THIRD oven mitt that is readily available!  I put the big black thing on my arm - it hits just amove the elbow, and tried to hide my smug smile lest the creature cause a small fire as I opened the oven.

I checked the bread.  It needed five more minutes.  I set the oven mitt on the counter and left the room, knowing full-well that I may have just frustrated a supernatural being intent on my destruction.  I thought of non-flammable alternatives in case the poltergeist attacked again while I was distracted in the living room.

Just as I sat down, I noted an Audrey-sized blur zooming out of the kitchen.  One arm was completely covered in a big black grilling oven mitt.  She screamed "My titchen!  My titchen!" and smiled delightedly as she ran down the hall toward her playroom, where she has an Audrey-sized kitchen that lacks oven mitts.

So......... it's NOT a poltergeist? I thought with relief and confusion, walking slowly down the hall and confiscating her stash before I burned the banana bread.

Cultures throughout history have recorded the problem of little people, of tiny purveyors of mischief who must make their presence known by throwing obstacles in the way of well-meaning people.  They are called "elves" or "gnomes" or "fairies" or "leprechauns."  Some cultures call these unseen supernatural creatures "poltergeists."  My culture calls them "toddlers," and I seem to have an infestation.

Should Have Left it At Shoo

Okay, I may have mentioned how much I dislike these horrible Satan Birds who have come back to town after their winter retreat to wherever abominable birds terrorists go for training.  I don't normally talk about those things, especially to the nice-looking potential friends who have moved into the neighborhood.  Their tiny backyard faces our tiny backyard and they are the proud owners of an awesome looking mutt who will be friends with Madigan once her spay scars heal and I can take off the Cone of Shame.

I don't really know the neighbors, but when I met them last week, they seemed like a nice couple.  Had I spoken to them in the last three days, maybe I could have articulated my dislike for the birds, warned them of the neighborhood menace in a deliberate and delicate manner.  Nah...

The Birds

Our backyard is full of birds.  They were here when we arrived in November, left their nests for a few months, and recently returned with the warm weather.  These aren't just birds: these are the mutated descendants of extras from The Birds.  Not even.  Their ancestors got booted from production for being too scary.  They're shiny black, with super long beaks built for pulling human brains out of ears, about the size of a really fat house cat.  Where other birds sing, these monsters screech so loud you can hear them inside with all the windows closed, sitting under four blankets with earplugs in.  To my knowledge, they have not developed a method of melting human brains with their song, though they're close.  They travel in gangs of at least ten, so they descend on a poor defenseless 70-pound dog like a black curtain of death.

Then they eat her dog food.  Because these birds eat dog food.

"Ma'am? MA'AM! Your daughter..."

I took the dog to get spayed yesterday.  It's done.  No puppies ever from my perfect mutt specimen, but we're in compliance with neighborhood regulations and we reduced her risk of cancer and now the neighbor's chihuahua won't dig under our fence or something.

People get their dogs spayed all the time and it's no big deal.  They drop them off at the local vet in the morning, then pick them up in the afternoon.  They also probably go early enough and late enough so they can leave the kids at home with the other parent because it'll be really quick.  That's the smart way to do it.  That's not the way I did it.

Grocery Adventures

I took the kids to the grocery store today.  It was the best of times (in terms of lack of crowds at the store), it was the worst of times (in terms of the kids' nap routine), but at the end of the day, we have food and the cats have litter.  And some poor boy is probably vowing revenge somewhere and training for a grocery cart rematch, but no big deal.

We'd had a big day.  We spent the morning around the house, coloring and cleaning, then went to the post office to ship out some hand-me-downs, then to the store to buy Audrey's Big Girl Carseat (and a candle or two), and then to the grocery store.  Small snack, no nap.  This was a bad plan, and it would surely lead to a meltdown or some serious shenanigans.

I always expect a grocery shopping trip to take 30-45 minutes.  I used to shop every other day on my way home from work, stop in for 10-30 minutes, get what we needed plus maybe a bottle of wine for dinner, and then get home.  Big trips to stock-up on necessities maxed out at 45 minutes.  Now, I walk in with a list, try to keep to the list, and then I'm sucked into the windowless, clockless vortex that is the grocery store and I emerge 1.5 to 2 hours later.  I awake in the sunshine, confused like Dorothy returning from Oz, seeing each item clearly for the first time like "You were there! And you! And the ground beef too!"

When I'm with the kids, I decide to keep it under an hour, on-list, plus one small treat (recently, a cake).  I'm racing against tantrums, and I'm in charge.  I'm the Mom.  I'm in charge.  I'm the Mom.  I'm in charge...

...No I'm not.

Alea Iacta Est

Alea iacta est - "The die is cast."

These are the words that Julius Caesar said as he crossed the River Rubicon on January 10, 49 BC, officially leading his army into the civil war over control of Rome.

Today, I crossed the Rubicon.  Firs,t I bought a large Yankee Candle without consulting Aaron.  Then, I came home and lit it.

This is what a lit jar candle looks like on a cell phone camera.  I had to capture the moment.
Look at those high-def apples though.

Our house doesn't quite smell right.  It's an old duplex, with industrial tile floors, white walls, and almost-Soviet windows that don't let much light in.  When I light candles or spray air freshener, there's not much for the scent to cling to, so it goes back to a cold musty smell.  Any cooking scents stay in the closed-off kitchen and they mostly disappear within a little while.  

The only scent that does seem to linger is cigarettes.  Each morning, we get to smoke breakfast with the people on the other side of the duplex, who have a well-established routine.  Once the smoke clears and I can go back into my kitchen, they have another cigarette or two.  I imagine they gather their chairs directly under the vent, toss their heads back, and exhale directly into our wrongfully-shared ventilation system.  It's a service they provide.

The housing office came by to re-seal the outlets and the cabinets.  They fixed a door-sized hole in the duplex firewall, so at least we don't have a full-on cloud in the house.  We still get to smoke every meal, snack, and social event with the people next door.  

We don't eat in the kitchen much.

So this is what led me here, to the Rubicon.

Aaron likes things to smell good.  I like things to smell good.  He wants things to smell like beachy, rainy, men's deodorant, and laundry detergent stuff.  Or vanilla.  And pumpkin or pine trees when the seasons call for it.  That's cool and all, but I think kitchens should smell like apples or pears and bedrooms should smell like lavender.  We go into Yankee Candle every once in a while, because we want to buy something for the house, but the conversation goes like this:

One of Us: "Mmmmm, this one!  I like this one!  Here, smell this." (sticks jar top under the other's nose to get a less obnoxious scent of the candle)

The Other: (breathes deeply) "What IS that?  Ugh, that's just... wrong.  Here, smell THIS one!"

The First: (checks jar) "You've got to be kidding me.  That's just... ugh..."

And then we don't buy anything.  We walk out into the mall and we don't talk about Yankee Candle anymore.  We go back when they have a sale, but we just repeat this process.  

Every single time, I bring up Macintosh apple, because it is the best scent in the world and I think my kitchen should smell like that.  Every single time, Aaron gamely smells the Macintosh candle and then shows me some blue or tan candle that smells like men's soap.  Smelling that Macintosh candle each time really means "I love you."  He just would never buy one or, you know, drive me home from the mall if I decided to buy one.  

Today, my dumb tail took the kids to the post office.  Then, we went to a store to get Audrey's big girl booster seat.  After that, we were planning to go to the grocery store where I planned to stay as close to the list I hadn't really created, or at least just get the essentials.  The kids were so excited to be out of the house, but were getting into Dangerous We Haven't Napped Territory before we finished dropping off boxes at the post office.  I had already shared at least three cigarettes while cleaning the kitchen this morning and was dutifully repeating my basic list to avoid any major grocery mishaps.  This felt like enough suffering/self-sacrifice that I felt perfectly entitled to a little trip to the Yankee Candle display, toting a booster seat and two grumpy kids.

I searched for some blue/white/tan/sand/rain/grass/soap BS, I really did.  I debated each one while Audrey made towers out of the little floaty candles on the floor, shifting my feet and chewing my lip while I narrowed down the choices, stopping to put Audrey's candles away and convince Sebastian that he didn't need an energy drink.  I settled on one, changed my mind, tried to figure out what was Aaron-approved and good for the kitchen and the cigarette smell, started the process over.  

Then it hit me: two people, two candles.  I picked Macintosh.  Aaron got the green Meadow Showers.  We'll light that in our room and the rest of the dang house if he wants, but so help me, my kitchen is going to smell like a Macintosh apple.  

And I'll burn it right under the vent so the neighbors can share it with me at every meal, snack, or social event.  And if Aaron wants to fight me, Julius Caesar, for smell-control of this little half-duplex Roman Empire - well, we'll just see how that turns out.

I mean, I already lit the candle.

The die is cast.

How to Finish an Awesome Day

So let's say you had a really great day.

You got up in the morning - still 4 years old, still a big boy - got to play with Mommy's iPad (yes!) and watched Wreck-it Ralph (awesome!) while snacking on some just-because cake from yesterday.  Then, you went to the doctor where you skipped in the puddles and did NOT get a shot (double awesome!), then took all the paperwork over to the preschool registration office so you can start school soon with all your new friends.

Later, much to your surprise, your parents set you up on a Spiderman blanket for a picnic in the middle of the living room (how GREAT!) and you got to watch The Avengers all night (supercool!!)!  After your little sister fell asleep from all the Avengers excitement - cheering for Hulk and Iron Man while decked out in some Cinderella shirt and pull-up ensemble - you still got to stay up an hour past your bedtime and eat a Daddy-sized piece of the just-because cake!  ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?

After allllll that awesomeness, your mom is going to read a book to you and YOU get to pick the book, so it can even be a long one!

You run to your room - super-fast, like Iron Man - and pick The Lion King.

You dance back into the living room and shake your little groove thing as you place the book in her hands, crawl on her lap, and give her a belly-flop hug.  And then...

Because you love her...

And because you are both smiling and laughing...

You punch her in the throat.

...

Why did you just do that?

...

You probably don't know, that's why you're crying now, asking for Daddy and saying "I made a bad choice" over and over.

...

Give up?  It's because you're a 4-year-old boy.  And it's only going to get worse.

And now, your mom is buying a real Hulk costume... With throat protection...

Fixing the Dog

I just finally made an appointment to have my dog spayed and I'm feeling really weird about it.  On the one hand, she won't be able to have puppies, which is a good thing.  On the other hand, she won't be able to have puppies, which is a disservice to the universe.

We got Madigan on a whim while hanging out at a friend's farm on St. Patrick's Day.  I've woken up with some weird post-St Patrick's Day mornings (most involving green stain on my neck from a full day of wearing green beads and drinking), but the puppy the next morning was bizarre.  Especially since we hadn't been drinking much the day before.  I blame my friend's cooking: he makes these huge amazing burgers and I think I fell asleep at the table twice.  Meanwhile, this perfect little puppy is sitting calmly with us for 45 minutes.

She's a mutt and she's perfect, so when we were like "We'll take her for a two-week trial period and see if the cats like her," I think everyone in the room knew how that trial period would end.  Now we have 70 pounds of love.

We haven't gotten her spayed because we moved, she was in heat, there was a waiting period at the vet, she was in heat again and... basically, we procrastinated.  Plus, one of our neighbors has a beautiful yellow lab and Madigan would have beautiful mutt/lab puppies.  They neutered their dog, but I still hold out hope.

Spaying my dog is the end of an era, for all the good it will do.  It's better for the dog, who will have a lower risk of some cancers.  It's better for us because she'll stop going through heat and will supposedly calm down a bit.  And I guess it's better in some ways because, to paraphrase Gone With the Wind, I don't know nothing about birthin' no puppies.

Plus, there's no guarantee on puppies.  Madigan's a mutt, and a beautiful copper/brown color, so I think she would definitely have some adorable mutt-labs or mutt-hounds or mutt-golden retrievers, and maybe if I gave myself more time, I could set that up.

SHE'S SO PRETTY

Then I look out back and see her communicating with the dog next door.  He's a pure-bred Chihuahua.  He dug holes on his side the last time she was in heat.  I don't like Chihuahuas.  They just kind of creep me out.

So as I take my dog to the vet at the crack of dawn on Tuesday, March 19, I'm going to feel a sadness for the adorable, perfect mutt-lab puppies that will never be.

Then, I will go treat myself to some ice cream for saving the world from the mutt-Chihuahuas that could have been.  Here are some examples of what I've avoided:

Kind of ugly but awwww... PUPPY!!

All right, it's not too bad...

DEAR GOD I NEED TO FIX MY DOG!

Decision is made.  You're all welcome.

The Princess and the Throne

No matter how many times as you tell your kids not to wear a potty training seat as a hat, they always seem to disappoint.

This week, the hardest parenting decision happened after Audrey decided to try just that, again.  She screamed, cried, and struggled so I figured she was just changing her clothes for the fifth time.  The screams got louder as she walked into the living room wearing the potty seat around her neck and her head was totally stuck.  I kept no semblance of a straight face, but reminded her that this is why we don't try to wear our potty seat on our head.  

I then wasted a little more precious time trying to determine whether I should take this picture before realizing that my phone was in another room.  At that point, she was puppy-dog-eyeing me, so Aaron and I delicately removed the potty seat from her head.

The fact that I lack that picture is going to haunt me through her teenage years.  Son of a biscuit eater...

Don't worry, there's hope!  My dear little two-year-old princess didn't seem to learn her lesson: this morning I pulled her head out of the leg of her shorts and this afternoon I yelled her into the bathroom when she came out wearing the potty seat on her shoulder, calling it a purse.  YEAH, that happened.

Next time, I won't remove it until she smiles for the camera.  Or cries for the camera, I don't even care.

The Neverending Clean

It feels really satisfying to do a load of laundry - clean, folded, put away.  The dishes are similarly satisfying and actually really easy: I can unload a completely full dishwasher in under two minutes!  And we have heavy plates.  When you're done, you're like "Wow!  That was easy!"  Then you look at the sink and realize you already have dishes to go in the next load and the dryer is just now finishing up and those feelings of productivity turn quickly into a cry to the heavens: "DEAR GOD WILL IT NEVER END?"

I am never going to clean my house once and for all.  I'm also never going to eat or sleep once and for all, but those are at least pleasurable activities.  Imagine if, after every meal you ate, you had to eat another meal followed by a snack followed by a meal.  It's kind of like working at the post office: you can sort mail all day, set little goals for yourself, but once you clear a box of letters, someone's going to drop another through that stupid little slot.  Sorting random pieces of paper... every day... forever...

That kind of dread is how I feel about dishes and laundry.

I cannot be the only person who arrived at adulthood and went "Wait, you mean I have to do this every DAY?"  It wasn't bad when I was single and childless - I worked so much, I did laundry maybe every other week and I rarely even ate at home, which reduced the dishes.  I basically bought clothes if I couldn't find the clean ones.  One more adult wasn't bad, nor was one baby.  We had so many clothes for Sebastian that we probably could have done laundry once a month.  His clothes were so small, putting them away consisted of dumping them in a single drawer - shirts on one side, pants on the other.  Somewhere in the last few years, the laundry situation exploded.

When I was working, I would go on laundry binges, which has kind of been a lifelong habit.  On Saturday, I'll start about six loads of laundry in the morning and then fold them all day.  It's kind of a waste of half of my weekend.  It also creates a huge mountain of laundry, so I got in the "better" habit of doing one load a day.  

This system works because it's also how we manage the dishes.  I forgot that my dish system makes me miserable: once I empty the sink, start the dishwasher, and feel accomplished, some jerk gulps down the last of his milk and puts the glass back in my clean sink.  Now, I get that feeling in the kitchen AND by the laundry where, right after I start a load of kids' clothes, Audrey walks by with juice down the front of her shirt.  When this happens, I walk away and create a pro/con list about drinking all afternoon.  Oh my gosh it's happening AGAIN...

In general, cleaning makes you feel productive: you improve the house, put things where they belong, and step on fewer Legos, which always helps the day go better.  There's a book called Throw Out 50 Things and a motivational blog by the same name.  I haven't read either, honestly, but I like to go through my house with a grocery bag and see if I can find 50 things.  It's kind of like an adult Easter egg hunt.  But now, while I'm hunting and feeling all productive, I'll find a coffee mug or a juice cup or a pair of the kids' pants on the floor of the bathroom.  WHEN WILL IT STOP???

Now imagine if I worked at the post office with this mentality: If I had to do dishes in the morning (here comes another milk glass), then sort all the mail all day (here comes another bunch of letters), and then end my day with laundry (juice on the shirt), I would flip my crap.  If I had to do that for 30 years, I would probably mark every day on the wall, pull my own teeth, and make friends with a volleyball.  Of course, I know that Tom Hanks' character worked for FedEx in that movie, and not sorting packages, but I now think Castaway was really the story of a FedEx guy getting to a situation where he went postal. 

Supposedly, the kids will start helping as they get older, and this "happens so fast."  Then, my dish and laundry dread will turn into a daily reminder to them with a few battles about whether a person should be allowed to play outside before the laundry is done.  I recall being on the other side of this conversation - my mom always seemed a lot more serious about the dishes and laundry than I was.  What's one load of laundry?  You do it like once a week, it's not a big deal!

As a mom, I realize that part of ushering my kids to adulthood is hiding certain little inevitabilities, like dishes and laundry.  I've got to work on my stern looks and keep to certain talking points if I'm going to keep that help.  Like right now, I'm watching Audrey change her shirt again - picking a new one from a pile of freshly-laundered, but not-yet-folded clothes.  On the one hand, I want to crawl across the floor, grab the front of her shirt, and cry into her shoulder while I scream "Please, I beg of you, MAKE IT STOP!"

Instead, I'm going to smile, admire her new shirt, remind her to put the old one in the hamper, and then send her on a treasure hunt for her lunch dishes.

Then I might have a glass of wine while I fold all... that... laundry...

Supervision

Aaron's back on a work schedule where he can come home for lunch most days.  I love these times, because we get to spend time as a family and it breaks up the day.  Then there are days like today, when it does all that and I get to hear special words like:

"I think Audrey just drank the dog water."

It's good to have a second set of eyes.

PLEASE Pick The Movie!

Is it wrong that I keep trying to make my kids watch movies based on what they call them?  I lose the battle every time because I'm not sneaky/convincing enough and when the kids gang up and protest, I just can't compete.  We keep the kids' movies in a little CD case that's convenient for travel in the minivan (don't hate), and Sebastian likes to flip through the case and read each movie title to me so we can make the decision "together."  I don't know what will stick out to him on a particular day - the color of the DVD, a letter in the title, a picture.  Once he's decided, he'll ask to watch the same movie for days.

The kids give each movie a name, based on a character (Lightning McQueen, Alex the Lion) or their rendition of a song.  For example, The Lion King is often called "NAAAAAA, duh BET YAAAA!" or just NaduhBetya, one word.  

Recently, Sebastian has been making a commitment to saying the correct movie name, which reduces the need for my awesome decoding skills.  He goes through and reads the movies - Mulan, Treasure Planet, Kung Fu Panda, Up - and I just wait until he screams "HEY!  The LORAX!" and frantically tries to pull out the DVD.  That's the only reason I have to be present in the movie picking.  He doesn't want my opinion, and even though he doesn't want my help, I'd rather be there to avoid moments like this morning's Oliver & Company/Chocolate Pudding Incident.  

NOTE: DVD players can't read chocolate pudding-coated fingerprints.

In the last few days, as he's been reading and I've been quasi-zoning out, one movie keeps catching my attention, and I'm rooting for it every time.  He doesn't always get all the way to it in his searches, so I really really really need Sebastian to rediscover this movie and ask me for it every day.

You've seen it: the minions are adorable, Steve Carell's accent is hysterical, the music is really awesome for a kids' movie, but I'm not even going to get to watch Despicable Me with them.  I keep trying to direct both of the kids to it because I so desperately want to hear these four magical words:

"Let's watch Spickital Mean!"

Shots. Plural.

It's been two days, and I knew I needed to write about this, but I really also needed to sit and have a glass of wine and be sure that Sebastian has actually forgiven me.  I also may have blocked out the experience, and only now do I feel like I'm at a point that I can talk about it.

Sebastian got his four-year-old shots the other day.  It was horrible.

Holding kids down for shots is, bar-none, the worst experience for a parent.  It's just wrong.  You bring your kid to the doctor, talk about his development, strip him down for the physical, hold him tight because it's cold in there, and then you hold his hands and look directly in his face as some nurse sticks a big needle in his thigh, right there in the fatty part.  Or several big needles.  And then at the end you're all like "Hey look!  A sticker!" to distract him from the wave of betrayal that is taking over his entire being.

The worst for both of the kids were the first shots, when they were infants.  Aaron and I were their entire world, and we had to hold them on this cold paper-covered table, watching the little baby eyes fill with love and relax to fall asleep.  The nurse took her sweet time - enough time for me to look at her, watch her stick in the needle and think "That's not so bad, he didn't even make a sound!'  Then I looked back at his face and saw the terror and the pain, frozen in silence before that horrible scream filled the office.  In my memory, all the windows shattered from the force of it and car alarms went off three parking lots away and the nurse's devil horns broke free as she pursed her lips and shook her head.  Happened with both kids if I recall, and I think Aaron and I both attended this first horrid act of torture.

If you want to keep teenagers from having kids, make them hold down a baby while it gets a shot.  It will scare them straight.

Aaron took Sebastian for his shots for his first year, then I did for his second, and then we traded off for Audrey.  Whenever one of us attends a shot, we come home and say "You owe me."