Honey Bucket

Stephanie from Where In the World Am I is hosting this week's State Department Blog Roundup. This week's "optional talking point" is overseas/international bathrooms. I have nothing to say about that, since we have yet to be posted overseas. I do have a bathroom story, though. And it ain't pretty.

Let me start out by acknowledging that I am a germaphobe (I know this is no surprise to anyone who has ever met me). I always carry hand santizer, try to never touch railings or door handles in public places, and turn water off/on in public bathrooms with a paper towel. I know! I'm going to be awesome in a developing country. Anyway, my story takes place on a ratty old baseball field on Whidbey Island. Mitch was coaching Henry's t-ball team and I was there cheering them on with my then-four year-old girls. Now, whenever we go anywhere, I make sure everyone uses the bathroom at home before we leave to minimize the possibility that we'll have to enter a public restroom. I am aware that this is a ridiculous fantasy when dealing with children. Grace started whining that she really, really had to go potty. I looked around the only thing I saw was a dirty old Honey Bucket.

We were only a five minute drive from home, so I tried to convince Grace that she could hold it and I would zip her home in the car to pee in the comfort of her own bathroom, but no, she had to go. Now.  So, after a stern lecture outside the Honey Bucket instructing the girls NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING, we slipped inside. Olivia was hiding behind my legs while I was held Grace up so her skin wouldn't come in contact with anything. The tension inside that box was crackling. The girls could sense this was a Serious Event and were appropriately solemn. As Grace finished her business, I slipped a bottle of hand sanitizer out of my pocket and handed it behind me, not daring to take my eyes off Grace lest she fall in or touch something. "Clean your hands really well, Olivia." I said. I kept waiting for her to take the bottle, but she didn't. Finally, I turned around to see what the deal was. There was my daughter, rubbing a dirty urinal cake (which happened to look just like a bar of soap) all over her hands and arms, making sure to do a really good job.  And then I died.

Miss Scarlet

Raise your hand if you're tired of hearing about our various illnesses! I'm happy to report that Henry and Olivia trotted off to school today with a spring in their steps and pb&j in their lunch boxes. Grace, however, was covered from head to toe in a sandpapery rash, accompanied by a fairly high temp. I was pretty sure I knew what it was, and a quick trip to the doc confirmed it. Leave it to my little drama queen to get scarlet fever (Relax, Nana, it's basically strep with a rash and she won't die a slow and agonizing death on the back of Pa's wagon). 

While we were waiting at the pharmacy for her antibiotics, she spied the DVD "Tangled", which she hasn't seen yet. "I'm sure Daddy would want me to have that if he knew I had scah-let fevah." Indeed. She also figured popsicles would be necessary.  Seeing as she has scarlet fever and all. And one cannot possibly survive scarlet fever without bunny crackers. Apparently.

The only problem is that now I have to figure out how to make the DVD play in one of the machines, in addition to figuring out which machine is currently hooked up to the tv. Or, I could stall until Jack gets home. Aren't you supposed to rest your eyes for three hours after you take antibiotics when you have scahlet fevah?  I think yes.



Update:
I am awesome.

Sparkle.

So, after I recovered from my Man Cold I picked up whatever the kids had, unless it's the same, really long crud and it just comes in waves. Alas, there's no laying around in my heavenly bed for me, because three things have been in my way for the past 48 hours:

Somehow I have to figure out how to get to the library (25 cents a book per day! 18 books overdue!) and dry cleaners today.  Mitch is out of shirts, and the only thing I hate more than ironing is glitter.  Speaking of glitter, I would really like to thank Aimee and Christi for the gift that arrived in my mailbox yesterday. These lovely ladies work at my kids' previous elementary school, where, apparently my love of shoes and hand sanitizer was as well known as my hatred of glitter.

It was this:


I Love Shoes hand sanitizer filled with glitter

 Wrapped with this:

The picture doesn't show the amount of glitter than spilled out when I opened the envelope, but the painting by Christi's daughter is a masterpiece. When my kids would come home from preschool with stuff like that we'd go in the house through the garage and I'd tell them I was just going to put their projects into a special box to keep forever, but really I put them in a plastic garbage bag and stuck them into the trash. Mother of the Year!

The McSickersons

No Cherry Blossom Festival for us.  I am enjoying washing chunks of barf out of the girls' hair, though, which is almost as good as blossom gazing.

Hot dog

The movers came and packed up all of our stuff a few days after school got out on Whidbey Island last spring, then we moved briefly back to Seattle into a rental until we headed to DC, not bothering to unpack most of the boxes. On the last day of school, apparently they gave the kids hot dogs. Oliva gets severe migraines from nitrates, so she's not allowed to eat hot dogs. Therefore, it makes sense that she put it in her jacket pocket rather than not accepting it or throwing it away, right? I finally unpacked that last box of rain gear and guess what I found, still in her jacket pocket?

When I pulled it out, horrified, she said, "Oh! I was saving that for Seamus!" Our dog. He didn't want it.

Tooth

I heard sobbing from behind the girls' closed bedroom door yesterday. I dragged my 'woman-cold'-ed ass out of bed and went in. Olivia was crying because her tooth was "really, really looth". Now, Olivia is terrified of anything but vomit leaving her body. She won't even get a haircut. I'm not kidding. Imagine what poop-training was like. Wait, don't do that. She is also terrified of things that don't belong on her body, like moles, bug bites, scrapes, or ponytails. So, I was trying to comfort her while at the same time trying to gauge if she'd notice if I just yanked the sucker, when Jack walks in to see what the commotion is.

Jack and Olivia have an interesting relationship, which is punctuated by their desire to out-torture each other. However, as soon as Jack sees her vulnerable state, he sits on the other side of her, puts his arm across her shoulders and offers her words of comfort. 

"Don't worry, Olivia. Losing your canine teeth is really good news. It's a sign that your tail is getting ready to grow in."

Isn't he darling? He babysits, you know.

Cue the tiny violin...

So. I've caught the Man Cold, but since it's a Woman Cold now, I was able to make eggs and smoothies for the kids' breakfast, pack the lunches, buy a couple of gifts, shop for shoes (look, I might be getting  a job one of these days and it's not every day a pair of comfy but cute black heels falls into your lap cart), and clean the kitchen today. I feel like someone's poking tiny little knives in my throat and I dread every swallow. And seriously, why does daytime TV suck so much? We have 300 channels of nothing to watch and I don't know how to make Netflix work without a kid to help me. In fact, I have to have Henry set up my exercise DVDs for me before he goes to school because there's so many consoles to plug/unplug. I would read, but my eyes are too burny (pretty sure that's a word).  Now I want some cheese to go with my whine. Except that I wouldn't be able to swallow it.

The kids have just finished their two hours of homework (does that seem like a lot for second grade? I mean, taking away giggling, snacking and chatting it probably boils down to about half an hour, but still...) and I sent the girls to clean their room.  I checked on their progress after about 45 minutes:

See, why should I watch "Hoarders" all day when I'm sick in bed when I can just walk a few steps and peek in the girls' room?

A Match Made in Fairfax

I snapped this with my phone before the girls left for Twins Day at school today. Photographic evidence that my daughters matched one March day in 2011. The twin on the left weighed 4lb 9oz at birth. The twin on the right weighed a whopping 5lb 9oz (born at 34 weeks). Now the twin on the left is 2 inches taller and 12 lbs heavier.

Man Cold

I've got to make this quick, Mitch is home with a Man Cold and I need to run out and get a bunch of drugs to numb the misery. I'll probably pick up some drugs for Mitch, as well.  I haven't had the house to myself in weeks, what with Jack being sick, Henry's little surgery, and now the Man Cold. Mitch is a pretty manly guy. I've seen him ripping out walls and slinging a sledgehammer while ignoring bloody wounds. He's hiked through Africa and lived through postpartum psychosis (mine). He's killed and butchered poultry, 'disposed' of live rodents, changed horrible diapers, and cleaned up countless piles of barf. One kid has even barfed in his mouth. His body was mangled in a car wreck and he went through several surgeries to fix himself.  All without complaint.  But this sniffle he has is taking him DOWN.

This video has been around forever, but if you haven't seen it, it's a pretty good idea of what's going on around here:



I caught Henry looking longingly at the XBox before school today, then saw him run upstairs and lick Mitch's used coffee mug.  So, yeah, send Nyquil.

Twins?

Sometimes I forget that my girls are actually twins. We never call them "the twins", we usually just use their names or refer to them as "the girls". They don't play with the same toys or read the same books. Olivia is into stuffed animals, plastic animals, video games about animals, and books about animals. Grace spends most of her time crafting and performing in front of a mirror and she reads Harry Potter or classics like Alice in Wonderland or the dictionary (!). Olivia is athletic, Grace is, uh, not.  Olivia eats mostly vegetables, Grace prefers meat and potatoes (hmmm. I think Grace is MY twin). Olivia listens Pink and ABBA and  Hammerbox (don't worry if you've never heard of them-they were around briefly in the Seattle grunge-era), Grace loves Lady Gaga and Lady Gaga. Olivia is a slob, leaving a trail of clothes and trash wherever she goes. Grace is neat and orderly. Olivia would wear the same ratty Corn Palace t-shirt and too-short corduroy pants every day if I let her. I don't think Grace has worn the same outfit more than once in her life--she switches things out because she thinks people will remember that she wore her black jeggings with her white sparkle top three weeks ago.

That's not to say they aren't tight. Their teachers tell us that they are rarely apart at recess and they hug whenever they see each other at lunch or in the halls.  At home they like to be in the same room with each other, if not necessarily doing the same thing. Anyway, I do have a point to all this. Friday is Twins Day at their school.  They've decided to be twins with each other (a first, actually-usually they pick a friend), and they don't have even one matching article of clothing. I had to go to Target this morning to buy them each the same shirt, and I'm positive it will be the only time they ever wear the shirts on the same day. They want me to do their hair the same, too. How am I supposed to make Olivia's 'Medusa' waist-length curly hair look like Grace's shoulder length straight hair? Keeping in mind that Olivia HATES to have her hair done unless it's super-tight Laura Ingalls braids (and if they aren't tight enough, I have to do them over).