An Adoption, A New Mom and Dad

It was such a great day yesterday.  My sister’s (Jess) husband, Eric, officially adopted her two children; Holden and Adam.  You see, Eric has been their Dad for quite a few years already, but yesterday it was legal in terms of the court system.  Nothing will really change with their day-to-day lives because Eric stepped up to the plate years ago but now the family gets to share the same last name and have the peace of mind that they will forever be a family.

On a side note: The judge asked Holden if he wanted to change his last name.  He said yes, and also said that he wanted to change his first name to Jeff. (F*cking Jeff, really?)

Of course, after a big day like this, we had to celebrate at the only place acceptable for a day like that- at Chuck-E-Cheese.  On the way there, Holden wanted to bring in his new Lego set but Jess told him that he couldn’t because the pieces would get lost.  Holden was quite upset and let her know that he was upset.  Meanwhile, Chase was in the backseat, observed the conversation, leaned over to Holden and whispered (not quietly), “Don’t you wish you got a new Mom today, too?”

So Holden and Adam were very happy to get a new Dad, but kinda wished they got a new Mom, too.   

Also, my kids really know how to ruin a moment for my sister's family.  Ryder refused to smile and kept repeating, "I will not smile. I will not be happy."  And he stuck to his words. Honest little man he is.


My kids also ruined their wedding photos.

Piss, Left Eye, 4 Ankles

I’m not quite sure I’m equipt to deal with a toddler.  Like mentally. And physically.

So we have been doing the whole bedtime song and dance at our house.  Ryder needs to go potty, and then he needs a drink, and then he needs to cry about something completely irrational. And then I need a glass of wine.

The other night, we put Ryder to bed.  We did our usual prayers, our usual family hug, our usual bedtime song and our usual routine of covering him up with all 1,900 blankets that we own (in a specific order- that is different every single night so of course we can never get it right on the first try).  Then we tell him that we love him and exit his room.  And secretly hope that we don’t have any more interactions with him until morning (but never mention that out loud because it makes you seem like a gigantic a**hole and apparently when you say things like that out lout to other parents they think you are the devil and hate your child.  And that’s only 50% true).

So anyways, after Ry was supposed to be sleeping, we hear him wailing from his bedroom.  We go into his room and ask him why he is crying and he says in-between sobs, “Because I have an ankle.” And continues to cry.  We calm him down showing him our ankles to reassure him that he is, in fact okay.  After a couple more minutes we hear him sobbing again and he yells from his crib. “I have four ankles.”  We, again, calm him down.  A minute later we hear him crying and yelling, “My toe is wiggly.”  This time, with less patience, Cory yells from the couch while sipping a beer, “Then stop wiggling it,” and continues watching tv.  Because you can only give a shit for so long.

Speaking of Ryder and bedtime- the other night after we put Ryder to bed he said that he had to go potty.  But this was the 17^th time I had taken him to the bathroom since laying him in his crib so I was a little less than impressed with his potty needs. And this bathroom trip was a complete shit show.  Like for real.  Ryder likes our master bathroom the most, but it is across the house so I made him use his own bathroom (God forbid).  So he was already crying about that and not being helpful.  Once we got into his bathroom I realized his stool wasn’t in there so I would have to hold him up in the air while he hovered facing the toilet and urinated.  But of course I wanted to save time and didn’t pull his pj pants or pull up all of the way down to his ankles- but just enough for his tiny little man jewels to hang out.  But then, when he was mid-stream, he wiggled.  Wiggled enough to somehow face his penis upward all while spraying into my left eye.  And apparently, when I am being shot in the eye with urine, I freeze and don’t think to move said penis out of my eye range.  I just stood there until he was out of pee.  I then set him down, wiped off my eye with toilet paper and looked to the bathroom door as if making a silent cry for help.  And there stands Cory and Chase trying hard not to laugh, but failing miserable.  All Cory said was, “You could have moved.” 

And so here I am, in my 30s at 8:30pm getting shot in the left eye with piss.  And I did absolutely nothing about it. What does that say about me? What does that say about my life goals?  Have I given up?        

But who wouldn't take a pee shot to the eye for this little nugget in red? (And then there is Chase, sitting there, not giving a damn. Story of his life.)