Big A, Little A, What the - Why You Gotta Be Like That?

Hey, any idea how to convince my son that this letter:
is the same as this letter:
Because I've tried, and he just ain't buying it. He calls the second example "g" and looks at me like I'm nuts when I try to tell him it's an A.

We already messed with his status quo by introducing lowercase letters to him when he was perfectly happy with capitals. Now we're trying to tell him that the above two shapes are the same letter.

I'm expecting him to throw up his hands in frustration and tell us we can keep this "literacy" bullshit, he doesn't need it.

Maybe we should just move on to math. Or coloring.

They're Reading Your Blog. Yes, Yours.

They were about to leave a snarky comment,
but that blasted word verification foils them every time.

Not Guilty by Reason of Rental Disease or Defect

When we went to see the rental house, the woman who posted the Craigslist ad couldn't be there. "Just go in the back door," she told me. This gave me some pause. She was going to leave her back door unlocked? For complete strangers who answered an ad on the internet? What if we stole all her electronics and silver?

We had spoken a couple of times on the phone. Mrs. Butterfield talked a LOT. She warned me about the mess; she was not expecting anyone on such short notice, and she was sure her twins had not made their beds. She said I had a nice voice, and she could tell a lot from people's voices. This prompted Bump to immediately label her a nut. The whole unlocked door thing only confirmed his suspicions.

We drove to the house at the end of a cul-de-sac, in a neighborhood where we couldn't afford to buy. The backyard was huge, with an old but sturdy little swingset and lots of mature shade trees. The back door was flanked by potted plants and opened onto a small kitchen. There on the stove was half a frozen pizza, burnt to a crisp. "These," I said to myself, "are my people."

The house was small, with only one bathroom on the upper level. But the circumstances were ideal - we could rent short term and move out whenever we needed to.

Bump and I went back a couple of days later, to talk with Mrs. Butterfield in person and see the house one more time. We brought the tormentors, who spent the entire visit running in the backyard and playing on the swingset. She was a lovely woman - who talked nonstop - a teacher who was hoping to take a leave of absence. She was looking to sublet for the month of August while she went overseas, then things got a little murky. Her leave had not yet been approved, but she thought she would hear in a couple of days. Even if it wasn't approved, she assured us, she had a place to stay in the area, so we could live in the house as long as we needed. She would talk to her landlord and realtor, and should have firm answers in a couple of days. "If this is meant to be, it is meant to be," she told me. "I have a good feeling about you." Bump managed not to roll his eyes.

So we waited.

There were several points of nagging concern, despite how darn nice Mrs. Butterfield was. There was the whole "Bump thinks she's crazy" aspect. He didn't think she was a knife-wielding psychopath, just a little flaky. We started calling her Mrs. Nutterfield.

Then there was the odd fact the Mrs. Nutterfield wasn't the owner of the house, but a tenant. A tenant who didn't have a lease. Her landlord lived in Arizona somewhere, and Bump and I got the distinct impression we would be paying much more in rent than she was - with the extra amount split between Mrs. Nutterfield and her absentee landlord.

The whole sublet thing seemed like an awful lot of trouble to avoid paying one month of rent, but I guess if you're turning a profit from it, it makes a bit more sense. A family of police officers lived next door, which meant a cop car was parked semipermanently out front. Mrs. Nutterfield said she had never locked her house or car as long as she'd lived there. Mrs. Nutterfield loved the neighborhood and the house, and didn't want to risk losing it over the one month she wasn't going to be there.

Most of the points of weirdness could be explained away, but we were still . . . uneasy. How do you sublet from a woman with no lease? What protection did we have - other than the word of a nice but possibly crazy lady - from being thrown out after one month? Why did they have DirecTV but only one 13" television?

We waited for a few more days, then decided to secure a backup plan that didn't involve long-term squatting at Aunt Bob's or a tent. I started combing Craigslist regular rentals, asking owners if they would consider less-than-year-long leases. When Mrs. Nutterfield called to check back in - with no real news other than her landlord and realtor were talking things over and she thought we were an adorable family - we decided not to tell her we were looking for other options.

Out of an original list over 20 places long, one owner was willing to offer a two-month lease, month-to-month thereafter. We would pay $200 more than the listed monthly rent for the convenience.

Bump went to see the place and came back convinced it was a better option. It had three bathrooms, two on the main level, so we wouldn't have to race up stairs with Lumpyhead when he announced he needed to use the potty. It had a nice yard and a screened porch and an open floor plan. It had five bedrooms; we would even have a room for guests. Most importantly, it had a lease and a rental application and a real estate agent from a reputable company.

With the short-term premium, it was $90 more per month than Mrs. Nutterfield's house.

We filled out the application and paid a deposit. All that was left to do was break the news to nice Mrs. Nutterfield. I went over some possibilities in my head, eventually settling on lying to her. I would tell her some friends were renting their place (which is actually true, unfortunately we wouldn't fit in their 2BR 1BA townhouse), and we felt obligated to take it.

Before I could work up the nerve to call her, she phoned the next day. She said had terrible news; her landlord was not willing to sublet.

We move in less than two weeks.

Illustrating the Point

One of the side effects of letting Lumpyhead watch Monsters, Inc all the time, in addition to the underpants thing, is that he is constantly slamming doors. Often while reciting lines from the movie.

We're always yelling at him to knock it off, because OH MY GOD STOP SLAMMING THAT DOOR ALREADY, but also because we are certain he is going to smash Lula's hand at some point. She follows him around like a puppy, and has gotten trapped alone in rooms as a result of all the door action. We've put the child-proof doorknob covers back on most of the doors to stop all the slamming and protect Lula's fingers.

So imagine my embarrassment - and horror - when I shut the bathroom door this morning, firmly pinching the baby's fingers. She's fine now, although there was much howling immediately following the incident and I spent a lot of time wondering how you could tell if an 18-month-old's fingers were broken. Maybe I wouldn't have this problem if I slammed every door shut like Lumpyhead.

Verbal Reprimand

A couple of weeks ago Lumpyhead was trying to kill himself by climbing the 4' high rail of his bed. My repeated requests for him to stop trying to kill himself were roundly ignored.

I finally shouted. "Lumpyhead. GET! DOWN!"

Lumpyhead stopped and looked at me, one leg high in the air. "Mama," he said sternly, "you are being very loud."

Sigh.

I raised my voice at my son, and he scolded me for it.

--

Last night, Lumpyhead asked for some crackers. I couldn't find them, so I stood on a chair to look in a different location.

"Mama!" he said sharply, "Get. DOWN."

I meekly obeyed. What else could I do?

That kid can get his own damn crackers from now on.

Phase 1: Collect Underpants. Phase 3: Profit.

For a stay-home dad who has spent the last three years immersed in bodily fluids, Bump is remarkably squeamish about the thought of being peed on. Or cleaning up pee. Or pee being anywhere but a bladder or a diaper or a toilet.

I'm not saying I'm a big fan of misplaced urine (Gidge's post has an Ew Factor that I still can't shake) (Bump, for the love of god, do NOT click that link!) but I can't say I'm afraid of a little pee. It's mostly water. It's not radioactive.

Bump's discomfort has become relevant because we've moved past the stage of "appropriate" and into the stage of "high time" for Lumpyhead to be toilet trained. Lumpyhead seems to understand the process, and is certainly physically ready to be trained. Problem is, diapers and even the "cool-feel" pull-ups don't provide the sensation Lumpyhead needs to reliably use the potty. He needs to be in underwear.

My problems are two-fold. First, see above regarding Bump not being all that excited about puddles in the living room. Originally there was the "new carpet" and "on the market" excuse to not let Lumpyhead pee on the floor. Now there's the "decent thing to do" reason for not saddling the new owner with recently laid urine-scented carpet. My suggestion of covering the floor with a layer of newspaper was met with the withering reaction it probably deserved.

Second, Lumpyhead has requested Monsters, Inc. underpants. Mr. Bile underpants, specifically. Mr. Bile - his friends call him Phlegm - would be the first monster in the movie, who fails miserably at scaring the trainee child. I can't find Monsters, Inc. underpants, period. I'm fairly certain that if there is a company out there making Monsters, Inc. underpants, Mr. Bile is not among the featured characters.

I'm going to have to buy plain underwear and iron on pirated screen captures of Mr. Bile, aren't I? You may remember how well my last iron-on experience went (see pictures 6 and 7).

Lumpyhead's second request, after Bump told him we probably couldn't find Mr. Bile underpants, was for Mr. Waternoose underpants. Sigh.

No one's making those, either, Buddy. I think your father wants you to wait and pee on the floor of the rental house anyway. When I'll be home to clean it up.

Rental Retardation

After a few fast-paced days last week of looking wildly about for a rental that might suit our needs and not cost a bazillion dollars, things have slowed down a bit. We're waiting for confirmation about a 3 bedroom, 1 bath house with a lovely backyard and a flexible move-out date. We hope to move in on August 1.

I feel like I should be doing something, but I'm not sure what it is.

Us in SC

Photo courtesy of Aunt Bob's Uncle Herb. Not that he's a professional or anything, he snapped this with my camera, I just liked typing "Aunt Bob's Uncle Herb."

(And yes, I'm standing on a step. Bump is on the ground. Shut up.)

Dress courtesy of the fabulous Xiobhan. When I complained that I didn't have anything to wear, she stepped up and lent me this. Nice of her, huh?

More on Bedrest

As awesome as bedrest sounds, it's really not as cool as one might think. Although I'm starting to feel like a prisoner, most of the time I feel crappy enough that the bedrest doesn't bother me. I remember being really miserable for the last month of my prior pregnancies; it's sort of nice to have the doctor's excuse to be lazy.

I'm really regretting that staging the condo meant getting rid of the bedroom television though.

Bedrest is a lot like watching your family on reality TV - or maybe listening to them on reality radio, if there was such a thing. I hear the daily goings-on of the house, things I would miss if I were at work. The entertaining little incidents not notable enough for Bump to report at the end of the day.

Like when Bump answered the phone and Lumpyhead immediately began running around the house yelling "I wanna hock a loogie! I wanna hock a loogie." I don't know who Bump was talking to, or how the other party interpreted the rumpus. Also, I'm pretty sure Lumpyhead doesn't know what a loogie is, and has no idea how to go about hocking one.

While the noise is often entertaining, sometimes it's difficult not to get out of bed and step in. For example, when you hear "I'm putting things in the toilet!" but the response "Do NOT put things in the toilet" comes from too far away. It tests one's will, really.

But every once in awhile I get little visitors who drink my water and jump on the bed. They giggle and tell me stories and put their heads down on the pillow next to me to pretend sleep. They crawl all over me and shove knees and elbows into their little brother until their father comes in and shoos them away.

Placeholder

Every time I start a post it becomes some rambling diatribe on how much bedrest sucks or how I'm trying not to panic about our housing situation.

Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Bedrest
Sucks.

Housing
Condo sold.
Offer on new place didn't work out.

The closing date and our move-out deadline is fast approaching. I thought we had a brilliant short-term rental option lined up, but Bump is worried the place is not workable for us.

So here's our status: we need to move - probably twice - into places yet to be determined.

Then there's the small matter of another baby arriving soon-ish. I can't fill out the hospital pre-registration form because I'm not sure what our address will be. I'm contracting every once in awhile and really grumpy. Everything just kind of hurts.

Well, that was a real downer. Here's a picture of the tormentors in South Carolina.