Taking it back Tuesday?

That’s a thing, right? No? Well, it is now. I just watched a really cute video of two little boys who had emptied the contents of a bean bag chair so that their dinosaurs could frolic. In the video their mum asks how she’ll clean it and I thought, “at least it’s not Desitin…” 

The “whoops” at the end kills me every time. Watch the video here!

This leads me to share a blog post I made nearly 5 years ago. I’m no longer active on that blog, but here’s the text for your enjoyment:

In the past week the east coast has survived a 5.8 earthquake and hurricane Irene. I have survived the twinadoes and the Desitin massacre of 2011.

We were having a quiet day lazing around the house Sunday while the wind and the rains howled outside. It was around 1:30, 2:00 when the babes started to fall, fuss, fight, and become all around cranky. I suggested we put them down for a nap. They screamed and cried for a couple minutes, then became quiet. We falsely assumed they had gone to sleep.

Recently the two have become proficient at opening drawers and such, but the worst they’ve done is to empty out a clothes drawer or remove all the baby wipes from the container. Today was different. 

Barry and I were relaxing in the living room, I reading, he watching tv, when we heard Devi’s bloodcurdling scream. 

Barry made it to the room before me, I had tripped on the dogs. Before I reached the hallway I heard Barry yell, “What the hell did you do?!?!” I figured they had rearranged their furniture again, or maybe emptied out their diaper pail (again); my wildest imaginings couldn’t have prepared me for what I saw.

“Hi Mommy!” Kayleigh exclaimed when she saw me. Barry had already pushed his way into the room to get to Devi. If Barry hadn’t been so upset, worked up, and worried about it, I would have been in hysterics laughing. And I certainly would have gotten pictures, for not having taken any, I apologize.

I had just bought the tub, not tube, tub, of Desitin two days before. It was completely empty, cleaned out better than the container I had just thrown away. It was smeared on the changing table, the door, up and down the floor lamp, Devin’s crib-on every slat, and all over his sheets and blankets. For some reason they had not touched Kayleigh’s bed; thank God for small blessings. 

Kayleigh looked like one of the warriors from “Braveheart,” only in white paint instead of blue. It streaked up her nose following the lines of her eyebrows, and covering her forehead. She had a few “highlights” in her hair, of course her hands were covered too, but that was not all. She had also lifted up her pant legs and thoroughly rubbed her feet and legs. She paid special attention to her belly. Her clothes were covered as well, but nothing could compare to Devin. 

He looked like “Powder.” He was balling, probably because some of the Desitin had gotten in his eyes. His entire head, save the very top, was covered. It was up his nose, in his ears, and down his neck. His hands and feet were covered, but he had the decency not to lift his shirt. The sweatsuit he was wearing was well coated in a layer of the creamy spackle from hell.

I didn’t even know where to start with clean up. Barry had taken off his own shirt to wipe away Devin’s eyes, but Devi kept trying to rub them with his hands (which were still covered) and was reapplying the cream. Barry was now sporting a nice coating of white. I didn’t want to be in the same predicament, it’s such a pain to clean off.

I stripped Kayleigh’s shirt and pants off, lifted her at arm’s length and placed her into the tub. I hooked up the spray hose that I use to bathe the dogs and attempted to hose her off, to no avail. The Desitin, made to repel moisture, was doing its job.

I grabbed a washcloth and began to wipe away the cream, starting from her head down. I had to rinse the cloth frequently as it was getting clogged with the greasy ointment. Johnson and Johnson hadn’t prepared their shampoo to handle such a mess, so I had to use my shampoo to get her hair clean.

We went through two more washcloths with Devi. With as well as he had rubbed it into his hair, not even my shampoo could wash it out, even after 3 tries. Barry ended up using his bar of Irish Springs to clean poor Devi’s head.

We wiped and rinsed, and scrubbed and fought as his patience (and Barry’s) wore thin. Finally, we had him mostly clean, save what we had to get with a Q-tip from his ears and nose.

The was no need to put lotion on them post bath, as their skin was well lubricated. They both still had creases of white around their cuticles, hands, and feet, but overall were fairly clean.

I sent them out to the living room with their frustrated father while I set to work cleaning their room. It took probably an hour to clean the furniture, walls, etc. The clothes on the other hand….. If you ever have such a nightmare, I hope you can just pitch the clothing. These were brand new outfits, so I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I’ve washed them 5 or 6 times, the last few times in hot water with Dawn dish detergent, which seems to have done the trick.

Devin still has a bit of Desitin in his eyelashes. You can’t really see it unless you’re looking closely, but it’s there.

We now keep the jar of Desitin up on the shelf, and I would ask for prayers that they catch on to the potty training soon.

Good times! My biggest regret in life is that I didn’t take pictures that day. I had to use baby wipes to clean it off the walls and furniture, my normal cleaning cloths were just getting clogged and smearing it around. I had to use a bucket of hot soapy water and a bristled brush to get the Desitin out of the woodgrain on the door. I remember scrubbing my hands raw afterward and still having Desitin around my cuticles and under my nails. It was all I could smell when I ate.

Although I reported that I thought I’d saved the clothing and sheets, it only fully came out of Devin’s sweats and the sheets, I think because they were cotton? Kayleigh’s pink, Baby Phat velour refused to release the Desitin and had to be thrown out. I was so upset.

This was posted in August of 2011 just after their second birthday, and they were fully potty trained by the beginning of the following January. I was motivated! 

Here they are the following Halloween; you can assume their expressions were similar when we saw the mess they’d made! (Couldn’t you just eat them up? I miss them being that age!!!)

The smell of Desitin still makes me ill, leading me to assume I have a mild form of PTSD, and Barry can now almost laugh about it. So don’t worry parents everywhere! All of our kids make a terrible mess (or many messess) at some point. Even though you may want to scream/cry/die/sell your children on the black market at that moment, that moment will pass. It doesn’t make you an awful parent, and one day (hopefully sooner than later!) you’ll be able to look back on it and laugh. (So take a moment and take the pictures!)

Giving UpĀ 

I’m tired. All the time. If you’ve been following you know it’s because I had hurtle cell carcinoma in my thyroid, so I had a complete thyroidectomy. Your thyroid produces all kinds of hormones and without those your body basically just slowly dies. 

They make replacement hormones to help with that, but apparently my body doesn’t think the synthetics are good enough. And so far none of my doctors have wanted to prescribe a naturally desiccated thyroid medicine. 

The last doctor I saw in May refused to believe the synthetics weren’t working, accused me of being noncompliant, and then sent me for celiac testing (it was negative!) I was sick of not being listened to, and then being told I was wrong about the naturally desiccated thyroid and being accused of noncompliance… I rage quit. Yep, I just stopped going. I felt like garbage anyway, so what was the difference? The difference is being more tired, more depressed, more achy, gaining more weight, and losing the feeling in my fingers or having them feel like they’re on fire. Good times.

I started to not be able to hold my embroidery needles or crochet hooks. The only reason I was getting up in the mornings was because it was easier to get kids on the bus and have them at school than to have them home all day. And I even debated that with myself. I called a new doctor when one morning I didn’t even have the energy to get them off to school. They didn’t mind having a movie and snuggle day with Mama, but I minded the reasons for it.  They deserve better. 

The new endocrinologist couldn’t get me in until February, but I could see his Nurse Practitioner in December, so I took it. I saw the NP, and after talking to me about my symptoms and history she spoke with him and he’s seeing me next Friday. Hooray. 

I’m hoping this is the doctor that can help me feel like a person again. I’m tired and I hurt, but I’m not giving up; I have too many that need me still.

Strange thoughts…

So I saw a picture of a little boy holding a guinea pig and thought, “I wonder how animals like that really feel about us? ”

Guinea pig 1: What’s up with the human always picking us up and smooshing their lips on us? 

Guinea pig 2: I don’t know, it’s weird, but sometimes they give us celery and scratch that spot I can’t reach, so I guess it’s OK.

I bet most people don’t even consider how weird it is. 

Then I thought, “Can you imagine if an animal tried to do that with a human?” And then I remembered Harambe. He was probably just like an unsupervised toddler with a kitten. He didn’t mean to hurt that little boy, he was just never taught appropriate handling of a human, and he died for it. 

I’m sorry for making you think about this…and for being a freak…..but not sorry enough to change.

No one cares about my breakfast…

I was going to post on Facebook that I was making myself a ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast. Then I thought, maybe I should clarify that I’m making it on a bagel, so it sounds more breakfasty… but then I thought, why? 

Why would I have to justify what I’m eating for breakfast? We eat pancakes and bacon for dinner and everyone thinks it’s a fantastic thing. Woo, brinner! But mention you’re having fried spaghetti for breakfast and some people look at you weird. 

It doesn’t make sense. If that’s what you’re hungry for and you’re eating it at breakfast, it’s a breakfast food! I say, eat what you want, when you want! Unless it’s babies, please don’t eat babies. 

So after my internal rant about breakfast foods I thought, why would I even post this on Facebook? No one cares that I’m eating a ham and cheese sandwich. No one cares about my breakfast, period. How do I know? Because I don’t care about anyone else’s breakfast… unless it’s babies. Seriously, please don’t eat babies. 

Medicinal DogsĀ 

Today was not a great day health-wise. I was sick last night, and again this morning when I tried to eat a bagel. Then I didn’t eat and ended up with a crazy headache, but later managed a banana, which helped. The dogs comfort me though, lots of snuggles. 

Since I wasn’t feeling up to anything I threw in a load of laundry and started scrolling through Facebook more than I’ve allowed myself to in months…

It’s been decent for my mental health, distancing myself from Facebook and the people there. I like them, but they’re just not usually good for me because I empathize with everyone, and then find myself worrying about them, then stressing about problems I can’t help, and then I’m in an anxiety ridden, depressive spiral of doom.

Anywho, many of my friends work and/or volunteer in animal rescue, so I see a lot of posts for dogs and cats that need homes. Because we’re near Manhattan I see a lot of them that will be euthanized if not pulled by a rescue from the public shelters. 

Today I came across a 5 year old Cane Corso set to be killed at noon. I sent his picture to my husband (Bear) and told him the dog was set to die. Then when I popped back to Facebook there was a 1 year old blue and white Staffordshire terrier that was also set to die at noon, so I sent Bear his picture too.

Bear wrote me back, “He’s beautiful; I’d love to have another Bruce, but we just can’t right now.”in response to the picture of the Corso.

I never heard back about the Staffy, and it was getting closer to noon. I checked on the pups and the Corso had been pulled by rescue, but the Staffy was still in danger. He was so young, and had such a good temperament evaluation, I just couldn’t bear it. So I called Linda Kane, who runs Orange County Barkers Rescue, and asked her to pull him for us. I did not tell Bear.

Later, I received confirmation that he was safe and would be headed up tomorrow or Friday, so I posted his picture on my Facebook page to take a poll on names. I enjoy ridiculous names, and my animals reflect that. 

Bear came home to change before going to poker. I told him about the kids’ dance class, he told me about his day, and then he asked me if I would make golabkis for dinner Friday since he had the day off. I said yes, (how could I deny him that when I was springing a dog on him?!?!)

Then it happened…

Bear: So that Corso really got pulled, he’s safe?

Me: Yes, a rescue pulled him.

Bear: Good, we just can’t with another dog that big right now. It’s not like Bruce who was 11 and had cancer. That dog was young and we would have had him a long time. He’s just too big until we have less dogs. We can’t do the young pittie either, he’d be too much.

Me: Ok. *Takes bite of pizza*

Bear: We’re NOT getting him, right?

Me: *stuffs entire pizza crust into mouth* Mo…

Bear: You’re lying, aren’t you?

Me: Mo…….

Bear: Why?!?! I told you we couldn’t!

Me: You didn’t tell me no to that one…

Bear: I said no to the other one, why would you think this one is OK???

Me: You said no because the other one was too big, this one is smaller…

Bear: I fucking hate you. We’re not keeping him.

Me: I’m taking a poll, do you think he’s more of a Mr. Picklesworth or a Baron Von Porkchop?

H: I hate you. We’re not keeping him! *Leaves, comes back in, kisses me* We’re not keeping him! *leaves*

Some people have retail therapy, I have medicinal dogs. I also have the best husband, who loves me in spite of all my flaws.

Oh, and in case you were wondering:

The poll on my Facebook page has Baron Von Porkchop winning by a landslide…

*Wink, wink*

I’ve started winking. I’m not sure why, or exactly how it started, but I’m blaming Selena Gomez.

It’s probably not her fault entirely, but I was singing one of her songs the first time I caught myself doing it, so she’s getting the blame. 

It seems to be subconscious, I don’t purposefully wink. Hopefully if I’m caught doing it people will just think I have Tourette’s or that I’m in the middle of a stroke, not that I’m some creepy weirdo that goes around winking at people. 

I assume that’s what will happen though…

“You’ll never believe the creeper I saw at Target today! She winked at me.”

Either that or I’ll be drawn into some sort of espionage. I won’t know the code after the wink though, so I’ll have to be discretely “taken care of.” I can’t imagine I’d make a good spy. I’d need a Morocco Mole to my Secret Squirrel.

I should figure out how to stop…

I mean I could, but why would I want to. 

Don’t drink and get tattooed…

There are so many reasons as to why you shouldn’t get a tattoo while under the influence. There are probably hundreds of horror stories from other people on the internet about the terrible things they had happen to them, or requested, and of course regretted. Goodness knows how many Buzzfeed and other lists of terrible tattoo photos there are. Do we really need to hear about more? Probably not, but here is my story anyway!

First, let me preface, I do not have any tattoos (relax mom.) This story is about why you shouldn’t tell someone what you want tattooed on you when you’re drunk!

Scene: Bear and I are at a wedding reception in 2011. Despite being at the furthest distance available from the DJ, the music was still so loud we had to yell to the person next to us to be heard. (It was super obnoxious.) Bear and his friend Rich were both fairly inebriated, and Bear tends to stumble on his words a bit when he’s drinking. Having to yell didn’t help.

Bear had just gotten his first tattoos: our twins’ footprints, names, and the date of their birth on his back. He was talking about his tattoos to Rich, was telling him that he’d eventually like to get full sleeves, that he’d never get a woman’s name on him regardless of how long he’d been with her, and what he was planning on getting next.

I still wasn’t sold on the idea of the tattoos, so what I heard him say he wanted next really threw me for a loop…

Rich: SO WHAT DO YOU WANT TO GET NEXT?
Bear: PRAYING MANTIS WITH A COWBOY HAT, FOR MY GRANDPARENTS.*
Me (horrified): WHAT?!?!
Bear: A PAIR OF PRAYING HANDS WITH A ROSARY AND A COWBOY HAT, FOR MY GRANDPARENTS.
Me (relieved beyond belief): OH! HAHAHAHAHA, THAT MAKES WAY MORE SENSE!
Bear: WHAT DID YOU THINK I SAID?
Me: A PRAYING MANTIS WITH A COWBOY HAT.
*Everyone that can hear laughs uncomfortably while looking at me, judging me as a lunatic, I’m certain.*
Bear: WHAT? THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE! WHO WOULD EVEN THINK OF THAT? WHY WOULD I GET THAT FOR MY GRANDPARENTS???
Me: I DON’T KNOW! THAT’S WHY I WAS SO CONFUSED!

Who would even think of that? No one. My weird brain. If Bear had misspoke that to an unethical tattoo artist, he could have ended up with a very terrible tattoo! He could have been on an internet list or a Milkyway commercial…

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We have laughed about it for years.

I’ve been thinking about Father’s Day approaching, and thought he’d be happy with a tattoo as a gift. Bear still hasn’t gotten his praying hands, and is still adamant that he would never get my name tattooed on him anywhere. I’m good with that, even telling him that I didn’t want him to get a wedding band tattoo either. But I did decide that if he wants to get full sleeves he should have to get something to represent me, even if it was something that only we would understand. He agreed, and told me that I could pick the start of his sleeve, he was even willing to get it before he got the praying hands.

Naturally, there could be only one choice…

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