Homeless Man In My Bed

First and foremost, I apologize for my blog laziness. I have had mono and have become a huge bump on a log. I’m starting to think the fabric of my couch is starting to stain my skin a delightful olive green color as a result of laying on it so much.  Although, who would have thought that having mono is the best way to get back down to your ideal weight?  Mono is doing wonders for my self-esteem. 

Any who...

This week I have learned something about my child; he is very passionate and loves to share.  Well not share his things of course, but my only offspring is certainly quick to offer up my belongings. 

The other day Chase and I were driving down the road to the grocery store.  There is a stoplight in our town that is on the way to the grocery store.  I usually try to avoid at all costs.  Not because I dislike stoplights, but because I dislike being stopped for a grueling 4 minutes in front of a man holding a sign that reads, “Homeless, anything helps.”  

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike people who are experiencing homelessness, I have worked at a homeless shelter for 7 years now, but I would rather the sign say, “Homeless, Can I get someone loan me $2 for a bus ticket to go to the local homeless shelter where I can get connected with a social worker there to help me find a job, save money and secure stable housing?”  But I guess this gentleman’s sign was too small for that.  

So, of course, as I pull up to the stoplight it turns red.  Not just regular red but a red that screams, “ha-ha” (of course in the voice of Nelson from the Simpsons) as I put on my brakes to come to a complete stop. 

All was going well until Chase locked eyes with the man holding the sign.  Of course this peaked his curiosities, which lead to him asking, “Mom, what does hims sign say?”  So I read the sign (or the interpretation that I thought Chase would understand), “I don’t have anywhere to live.  Can someone help me?”  Chase was quiet for a minute as if deciding where he stands on this matter. 

Chase then asked, “Can he live with his family?”  I thought this was a completely logical question and answered, “The sign doesn't talk about his family, but I would guess probably not.  Maybe his family lives far, far away.”  Chase paused for a few seconds then said, “He’s a boy.  He can sleep in your bed.  Boys can always sleep in your bed.”  (Um, come again?  It’s not like my bedroom has a revolving door, but apparently my child thinks that.)  Now this time, I paused for a second to process what he just said and try to piece together my dignity before I answered.  So I replied, “Chase, honey, only you and daddy can sleep in my bed.  We don’t let strangers sleep in our bed.  Please remember that when you are away at college.”  (Okay, so I totally could have left out the college part, but as a parent it’s my duty to throw my parenting plugs in whenever possible.  I saw an opportunity and took it). 

At this point Chase started to become upset and said (quite loudly while flailing his arms in the air), “We have to share our stuff.  We have lots to share.”  (Well, the kid had a point and I have been trying to stress sharing for the last few weeks and I didn't want to be a hypocrite, so the homeless gentleman got in our car and we headed home so I could share my bed.  Haha just kidding.  Do you think I’m that crazy?). 

Trying to get Chase off of the topic of mom and bed sharing, I asked him if we should buy the homeless gentleman some food.  Chase asked, “Where is he going to eat?  We have another chair at our table in the kitchen by Daddy’s spot.” (This is the one time I’m regretting not having a second child to fill that empty seat in the kitchen).  I replied (trying everything I could to distract my child from the fact that he so desperately wants this homeless man to come to our house), “What food should we buy the man at the grocery story?”  Chase replies, in typical three year old fashion, “Well, not the cookies with sprinkles I want.”  (And there it is ,back to reality).

As we passed the corner on our way home from the grocery store, where the homeless man was previously standing, he was no longer there.  I wonder if another 3 year old convinced his mother to bring the gentleman home.

Anatomy 101

Well, the time has come.  I have been dreading this for years, but in no way did I expect it to come this quickly and without warning… 

Last week while Chase and I were in the bathtub, Chased asked where my “pee-pee” was.  (I was simply blind-sided. I always knew the conversation would come up eventually but I thought I would at least have had 2 more years to prepare my speech or find an appropriate YouTube video to have him watch that would alleviate any responsibility that I have regarding this topic.) In a panicked state I blurted out the first thing that came to mind (which actually was correct), “Mommy doesn’t have a penis like you.”  And of course Chase had another question, “Then what do you have?”  So, I told him the anatomically correct parts that allow society (and medical experts) to decipher between a male and female.  (I have never been one to hide things from my child and I am very honest with him, but I do have to say, I cringed after saying, “Vagina” out loud to my three year old child.  Although it wasn’t intended to sound dirty, it did send a chill down my spine.)

A few seconds after Chase and I finished our conversation (right when I was patting myself on the back for thinking quickly on my feet), I heard Cory pipe in from outside the bathroom door (apparently he was listening to the entire anatomy lesson), “I'm glad I wasn't part of that conversation.” 

So, Chase let this conversation settle in his brain for a few days.  Until...

Last Friday, my Mom was over and her and Chase were having an afternoon snack at the table.  Chase looked at her and said, “Boys have a penis and girls have a gina.”  My mom, a little taken back by the blunt statement said, “You are right.”  My mom looked at me with big eyes, hoping I would interject into the conversation, but I did what any parent would do; I shrugged my shoulders to indicate she was on her own.  After all, I was on my own with round one of our conversation. 

But of course my chatty Chasey couldn’t just leave the conversation at that (like me, he always has follow-up questions- I must have passed down my journalistic gene).  He looked, ever so somberly at his Grandmother and asked, “Can you take off your clothes so I can see your gina?”  This is when I exited the room so I could laugh out loud.

Chase totally had a legitimate question but he shouldn’t get into the habit of asking others to see their “private areas.”

(Side note: My mother didn’t agree to Chase's request.)  J

I Swear- At Home, It Isn't Creepy

Have you ever thought that you are turning your child into a creep? Well, this weekend I had an epiphany.... a parenting epiphany. (Of course I would never intentionally turn my child into a creeper, but I think it may have happened, on pure accident.) 

Chase and I often play a game we have named, "Paddle butt." (Well, I guess now when I say it out loud it sounds a bit creepy already).  This game consists of me pretending to "paddle" Chase's butt when he is walking and then he starts running to get away from the "paddle" (Side note: To anyone associated with Child Protective Services: Despite the misleading name, this doesn't actually inflict any pain and I don't use an actual paddle).  We may yell, "Paddle Butt," every now and then while we do this activity.  Well, at home, this game isn't alarming.  But in public (as it turns out) it sounds tremendously creepy.  Here is how I know that.....

The other day, we were standing in line at a local restaurant waiting to place our order when out of no where, Chase starts paddling my butt with all of his might (he even added in some grunting sounds to prove that he is strong).  I quickly turned around and asked him to stop as people were beginning to notice my child touching my derriere.  Then chase asked, completely innocently, in front of everyone, "Why? You like when I do this at home in my bedroom."  (Chase had a totally legit question, but I didn't want the strangers to know that we play games involving others touching our butts at home. (Okay, again that sounds a tad creepy.)

(Insert the sound of my facing turning beat red- if there is a sound for that.)

I literally felt the teller judging me (and I'm pretty sure I saw him fumbling to text social services to report me) with his disapproving eyes and greasy hair (okay, I don't remember for a fact that he was greasy, but to make me feel a tad bit better I am believing that he was).

I turned to Cory (who was clearly pretending he wasn't associated with us) and all I could mutter out was, "I swear, it isn't that creepy at home."  I am very surprised that we are still aloud to eat anywhere in St. Cloud (Although, I'm pretty sure I can't come within 10 yards of any elementary schools anymore). 

I guess now that Chase is getting older, I need to revisit the games we used to play, mainly for the fact that he doesn't quite understand yet what is appropriate to say or do in public (for instance, it's not appropriate to pick both of your nostrils so deep in public that you get two nose bleeds- learned that one the hard (and gross) way.  I wonder at what age he will learn that the most appropriate place to pick your nose at is clearly in your car at a stoplight.)

I don't know about you, but when I think of my great parenting skills I always think......."Nailed it!"

Uncle John the Squirrel

While driving home from daycare (which is when Chase and I have our best conversations) yesterday, our conversation went a little like this:

Chase: “Mommy, my Uncle John is dead.”

Me: “How did he die?”

Chase: “He got hit by a car.  His head broke. His neck broke and his arms fell off.”

Me:  “That’s sad. I bet it hurt. Wait, you don’t have an Uncle John.” (I can’t believe it took this long into the conversation for me to realize that Chase doesn't have an Uncle John.) In an attempt to try and figure out where he heard this (on television, a book, an episode of Criminal Minds?), I started to ask follow-up questions….

Me: “Where does Uncle John live?” (Hoping he would give a sweet answer that wouldn't make me feel that he has a creepy, dead, imaginary friend- but knowing Chase, I wouldn't put it past him.)

Chase: “Outside.”

Me: “Where does he sleep?”

Chase: “He’s not a squirrel mom.  He doesn't sleep.” (Not quite sure where he pulled squirrel from, but hey I’ll go along with it.)

Me: “Ok. What does he do when you are sleeping?”

Chase: “He’s outside, being a wood chopper.” (Hmm, I still got nothing.)

Me: “Buddy, I have no idea who you are talking about.”

Chase: “Mom (in an annoyed tone of course), Uncle John is a squirrel and he’s dead. That’s what I was talkin' about.” (He then let out a loud huff and started gazing out of the car window, as if he couldn't believe that I couldn't follow his story and was just choosing to give up at this point.)

I don’t know how I can’t get with the picture sometimes, and frankly, I’m sure it is quite frustrating for my child.  Next time he talks about a fictitious, deceased Uncle John, I will know he is talking about a squirrel who is a wood chopper.     

Church and a Dead Witch

One of my goals for 2014 is to get involved with a church in our community.  But Chase is causing some barriers to this goal.  Who would have thought a 3 year old wouldn’t want to sit in a pew for an hour listening to others speak, not being able to speak himself?  Below are two of the reasons our last two trips to church have been painful- for me.

Trip #1:  As we walked into church we could hear the gorgeous church bells singing their joyful chimes.  This sound melts my heart and brings me back to my childhood.  But what does my child do?  He starts yelling, “Ding, dong the witch is dead!”  And as quickly as we walked into the church…. We walked out.

Trip #2:  This last attempt at going to church was a little bit more successful than the first.  Although, my child didn’t sing about a witch being dead, he did follow up each “Amen” with a “Poopy Butt.”  After the first couple times of this happening, I caught onto what he was doing.  So each time I heard the congregation say “Amen.”  I started coughing loudly hoping to mask my child singing, “Amen, poopy butt.  Amen poopy butt.” This didn’t work.  Everyone heard my child's chants and probably thought I had emphysema.  We may be choosing to go to another church, if we aren’t asked to leave first.    

I do know, that my child is going to cause some sort of commotion at church every time we go, so in preparation, I dress him in kakis and a sweater vest. Because honestly, who can get upset with a curly haired tot in an 80 year old man’s sweater vest?  Certainly, not me. 

You Lose.

It is no secret that my child is strong willed and I admire this quality in him (most of the time), but come on buddy… sometimes I would like to win.  Just once.

The other week we were at the mall in the food court.  We were with Cory’s family so we fought the crowds to secure a table for our group. I decided Chase and I would stay at the table while everyone else got their food (and food for Chase), then when they came back; I would go up and get my food while Chase and everyone else started eating. 

Great thinking, right?

Well, I guess not. 

The plan was going off without a hitch until everyone was back at the table and it was my turn to go up and get food.  Cory laid out Chase’s food for him so he could start chomping on it while I stood in the gruelingly long line for my food at Panda Express (yum, yum!).  As I stood up, Chase realized I would be leaving the table for a while and apparently, that wasn't acceptable.  Chase started screaming and threw a huge tantrum (I mean… tears, yelling, trying to leap out of his chair, kind of a fit (On a side note: it turns out  my child isn't very graceful when trying to leap).  So finally, after I was beat red from the stares of strangers and trying to pry my tot off of my arm, I swooped Chase up and brought him with me in line.  At that point, I would have rather held him for 15 minutes in the buffet line than continue to fight off the disapproving looks of foodies chowing down on their overly priced meals, getting their free entertainment at my expense. 

Instantly when we got in line, Chase calmed down.  He glanced at the table where our family was eating, kissed me on the check and said, “You lose,” as if trying his hardest not to gloat.

I couldn't even respond because he was, in fact, correct.   I did lose.        

3 year old check-up

So, I took Chase to his 3 year check-up.  Despite my efforts (such as reading the book “Corduroy Goes to the Doctor” and playing doctor with Chase ad nauseam for a week prior hoping to calm his nerves), this was not a good (or even mediocre) experience. 

Chase cried the entire way to the appointment (and we live a grueling 20 minute away from the clinic, by the end of the drive there I kind of wanted to put in ear plugs but thought the doctor may think that was insensitive).  Chase then cried while at the reception desk checking into the appointment, he then cried while playing with puzzles in the waiting room (are you sensing a pattern?).

The nurse greeted him with a cheerful, “Good Morning Chase” in the waiting room.  Chase greeted her with an, “I don’t even like you.”  But I can’t really blame him; his appointment was at 7:30am.  The nurse took us back to a tiny room.  She asked Chase to stand on the scale to get his weight.  He screamed at her and bolted out of the room, cheetah style.  And anyone who knows my child knows he isn’t a runner.  He usually sticks as close to me as possible when strangers are around.  His fight of flight reflux must have kicked in and he knew he wouldn’t win a fight against a 6 foot, 180 pound nurse.  (It was actually a wise choice; I would rather chase after my Chasey then apologize to a grown woman for a bruise on her shin caused by my tot's Monsters University moon boots).

I did manage to grab my child after he weaved his way through offices and a hallway (which is similar to a corn maze- I can’t even manage to find my way out without reading signs) right before he made it out of the front door.  Luckily, he pushed the handicap button to try to escape and had to wait a few seconds for the door to open, which became my opportunity to snatch him.  So into the nurse’s room we went again, for a second attempt.  Chase continued to scream so the nurse said that we could be “excused from the appointment” due to his uncooperativeness. 

As I was gathering our belongings from the room, the nurse asked Chase if she could help him put his coat on (I think she just wanted us out as soon as possible).  He replied, “Don’t touch it.  Only my mom puts my coat on.”  The nurse put her hands in front of her chest with her palms facing outwards as if my child was holding her at gun point.  I think she felt verbally assaulted.  As we walked out, there was a line of nurses chucking at my child (of course they could hear what was going on.  I’m sure everyone in St. Cloud heard my child, and they wanted to check out the action). As we parted ways with the nurse, I heard her say to herself, "I love three year olds."  For some reason I think she may have been using sarcasm.      

  

After this fiasco, Chase and I left.  He walked out cheerful and I walked out hanging my head.  So what did we do?  We went to McDonald's.  While we were sitting at the table enjoying our McGriddle breakfast sandwiches, Chase leans over to me (Yes, we sit on the same side of the table like we’re on a date.  No it’s not creepy, it’s cute.) and sweetly asks, “What was your favorite part of the day?”  Feeling defeated, I answered, “I think my favorite part is still to come today, buddy.”  I then asked Chase, “What was your favorite part of the day?”  He answers with a gigantic smile on his face, “Going to the doctors.”

Just as I was about to raise my white flag to surrender, the doctor’s office called and said that the nurse shouldn't have excused us from the appointment and the doctor still wanted to meet with us. So, I reluctantly grabbed my tot and off we went, back to the clinic. This time around, my child was great (I wonder if it had anything to do with my stern talk about how his behaviors were unacceptable.  The talk went a little something like this:

Me (to Chase): “Chase, I am sad at your behaviors at the doctor’s office.  Your behaviors that I didn’t like were: screaming, kicking and running away.”

Chase (to Me): “Mommy, I’m not playing with you anymore.”)

This time around Chase let the doctor look in his eyes, ears and mouth.  All was great, until he got a flu shot.  Chase let out a huge scream, but quickly calmed down after the nurse blew some bubbles (Bubbles are like crack for kids.  They can’t get enough of them and crave them when they're gone). 

Although he calmed down, it doesn't mean he was any less pissed that he got a shot.  On our way out, Chase felt the need to let everyone know he wasn't pleased with getting a shot.  He stopped at the reception desk and spoke with not one, but three receptionists about this.  He told the first receptionist, “This shot hurt ya know.”  He hobbled over to the second receptionist and said, “I’m mad this hurt,” pointing to his leg where his Dora Band-Aid laid under his sweat pants and where the shot had pierced his leg.  He told the third receptionist, “This really hurt, ya know.”  They all just sweetly smiled at him and said, “We’ll see you next year.”      

On a side note:  Chase picked both of his nostrils so deep at the doctor’s office that he had blood running out of both nostrils.  Cute, huh?