Bodily malFunctions

Well, I finally got to connect with Amy today. We have had a hard time even finding time to talk on the phone between her adjusting to newborn twins and my, um... tornado. So she called me this morning right about the time Robben went down for his morning nap. Perfect. Or so one would think.

When the phone rang, he fussed a bit, so I assumed it roused him from his almost-slumber. The whole time I was on the phone, Robben was in his room off-and-on fussing/crying. I figured he was just fighting sleep. Oh how wrong I was.

After Amy and I hung up, I went in to check on him and lay him back down and settle him in for his nap. As I entered my room (an antechamber, of sorts, to his), a stench hung in the air that suggested something was terribly amiss. How odd that a poopie diaper would be so strong. Ahhh, not odd at all... at first glance, I realized the root of the problem. Sure, Robben had a poopie diapy, but then he proceeded to remove it and fingerpaint on his crib with the contents. Poo covered the entire bed. Sheets, blankets, stuffed animals, bed, baby: all poo-covered. He had done some pretty innovative fingerpainting on the slats of the crib, but what was most impressive was the creativity applied in the work of art that was his sheets. I think he might be trying to break into the art world of "butt-stamping". His poo-covered bootie had left uncountable marks: I suspect this first "piece" was actually an artist's rendition of his family. I'm not sure if we should be flattered or not.

Robben and I just stared at each other, both of us undoubtedly wondering where to begin. I'm so thankful his mouth-region was not tainted. He held his hands out, fingers splayed, and gave me the look that says, "yeah, probably wasn't a good idea, huh? Can you fix it?" I removed the rest of his clothes, which at this point consisted of a shirt, hosed him off in the shower, and re-diapered him. I then strapped him down to his changing table and went to work on the bed. Luckily, it's laundry day anyway. He waited ever-so-patiently while I worked. Certainly, he knew this situation was his doing, so thought better of complaining about being in bondage. At long last, the bed was fit for a nap, so Robben took one with nary a wimper.

After his trip to dreamland, he donned his second outfit of the day and we joined Daddy for lunch. He was far too interested in the "crrr-uck" (truck), the cows, and of course Daddy, to eat anything, so afterwards I took him to a Starbucks where we could enjoy a light breeze on the patio and he could have his lunch.

All was going well until the coughing started. If you've read some of my previous posts, you know that this is a precursor to puking. He coughs pretty hard and gets a little purple mark on his forehead, sorta like Gorbechev. This is my warning to get out of the way. Yep. I was right. Out came all that I had put in + a few morsels from earlier in the day. The tray of his stroller was full to overflowing, and the seat, his shirt, shorts and bib, and the patio were puke-covered. Twice in one day Robben and I looked at each other wondering, "hmmm, exactly how do we handle this one?" First things first. I removed the tray and dumped it in the bushes before Robben could get any artistic impulses. Then I stripped him and went to fetch lots of napkins. As I was cleaning up the expelled contents of my baby's tummy, Bernie, my instructor at the gym, came round the corner having recognized Robben's voice. Unusual circumstances aside, we enjoyed a nice little chat as she soaked up some rays and I wrestled a naked babe.

Once home, I gave up on the clothes. Why push it, you know? I did put him in his bed for a little "quiet time" - that's sort of an oxymoron at this point, but we're working towards a goal - and when I returned he was again naked. Luckily the diaper was empty this time. But I think I need to come up with a way to baby-proof his diapers. Maybe I'll start giving him a duct tape belt!

Now that Robben is safely with the Sand Man for the night, I am pleased to report that the third outfit of the day remained relatively unsoiled... drool doesn't count.

Robben Carey Strikes Again

As my faithful followers (that makes me sound famous... or insane) have read, Robben Carey is a busy little boy. I have further evidence to present henceforth.

Yesterday I had an appointment with my ob/gyn. (Lucky for me, I got to stay fully clothed.) Little Robben gets to go everywhere with Mommy... even places that are simply not meant for little boys. Thankfully, Dr. Mason has a 3-year-old boy, so he is immune to their antics. Robben toddled about the room, looking for devices to amuse him. Unfortunately, his search was successful...

Stirrups.

I'm not sure there's anything more to say.

Oh Snap! : A Hiester Classic

One night when Wesley was probably oh, 14 or 15, he was sitting on our bed playing absently with an elastic string. Apparently the string had come from the waistband of his boxers. He had wrapped one end of it around his big toe and had the other end between his teeth and was pulling to and fro with his leg. Don't ask why such a thing was even happening... this is Wesley we're talking about, after all. I mean really, who puts discarded portions of their underpants in their mouth???

Well, as one might imagine, there came a breaking point... literally. The end of the elastic that was wrapped around his toe broke free, snapping his lip with surprising force. Sadly for him, the reaction was similar to a burn-reflex... it happened before his pride had time to jump in and censor it for him. His hand flew to his mouth almost as quickly as the string had. And then his eyes darted about to check for witnesses. My self-control is terrible in these situations: I was already on the floor in a fit of laughter.

Wesley thinks it's hilarious, too, though he still insists that the pain was incredible. He actually asked me to tell this story for your entertainment now. If you enjoyed it, you can thank him... for the content as well as for the permission to exploit his regrettable, however self-inflicted, mishaps.