The Mrs. Yoy Blog: The Quarantine Coronacles

When we arrived home from our playground jaunt this afternoon, an entire ant colony had taken up residency on top of the Yoys' little table they use for meals. Coincidence, I think not. I sent the boys upstairs to strip down for a bath, grabbed the ant spray, and went out back to spray around the patio door and windows. They were upstairs for ~ 5 minutes.  I could hear them in the bathroom, but I figured they were brushing their teeth or playing with their bath toys, sans bath water. I walked upstairs and the bathroom door burst open.  Out ran Big E soaking wet.  Out ran Little E, laughing maniacally, and also soaking wet.  His shoes were water logged.  I gulped.  And then peaked into the bathroom. The drain to Little E's sink was closed up and water was flowing freely from the faucet, into the full sink, onto the counter, down and into the cabinets, and finally settling in about an inch of water all throughout the bathroom. Their rug...

This sums up my evening. You're intrigued, I know. I picked up my nephew this afternoon and brought him back here to spend the night with us. I spent approximately three hours alone with the boys before relief arrived in the form of our trusted babysitter, Miss L. I always semi-jokingly try to convince Mr. Yoy to have another baby.  For the record, it ain't happening, but I'd like to say after spending the afternoon with the three boys, I'll NEVER bring it up again. My nephew was an angel.  Little E was mad jealous. As I was feeding Baby M, Little E performed a strip show which included his diaper.  I thought he was going to go on the toilet as he's been using it sporadically. What I didn't know, was that Little E went into his playroom sprayed the pile of learning books with urine and then crouched down and took a deuce on the floor.  F*cking awesome, I know.  Except I didn't know he did that, because I didn't enter the playroom until much...

T-Ball on Mondays. Swim on Tuesdays. Gymnastics on Wednesdays. Karate on Thursdays. Soccer on Fridays. By the weekend, your child is a zombie version of his former self. Why do parents continue to do this to their kids (and themselves)? I often ask myself that question.  I roll my eyes at the moms that have their kids enrolled in every activity imaginable. DON'T THEY KNOW THAT BECOMING A TWO SPORT PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE IS NEAR IMPOSSIBLE? But as I watched Big E run wild around the house this evening before finally dropping dead (only after Mr. Yoy threatened to delete Fruit Ninja from his iPad) at 10PM did I have an epiphany. I was quick to judge the overscheduling moms, but now I get it. They are just trying to wear their children out so bedtime lasts approximately 15 minutes,  instead of tonight's running time of 150 minutes (and possibly counting...). Well done, moms, well done. I'm off to troll the internet to look for every activity I can cram into...

This afternoon, I took advantage of a few Yoy-free hours to return some stuff at the mall and stock up on toilet paper and other sexy stuff at Costco. Somewhere around the produce department I heard the screams and cries of a very unhappy little boy around Big E's age.  His mother was hightailing it to the check out lane. This boy was inconsolable.  The mother was amazing.  She was staying composed, which I don't think I could have done.  A mere hour before, I had experienced a Big E mega-balls-to-the-wall tantrum.  They are soul shattering, trust me.  I am still recovering. For the second time in a week, I wanted to hug a random mom .  She was doing her best. CAN YOU BELIEVE HER?  SHE IS JUST IGNORING HER SON WHILE HE SCREAMS? And there she was.  The lady I just LOVE encountering.  MRS. I-HAVE-AN-OPINION-ON-YOUR-MOTHERING-SKILLS-AND-I'M-GOING-TO-LET-ALL-OF-COSTCO-KNOW-IT. I have encountered this woman before. Have you? ...

After months of talking it up, bribery, and cheerleading, Little E finally caved under the pressure. He parked his adorable, squishy bottom on the singing potty and urine actually came out. Even better, Big E sat on the regular toilet and they went in unison, side-by-side.  (I took a photo, but I want my kids to love me when they grow up, so I won't post it here.) Quite possibly my finest mommy moment to date. I'm not patting myself on the back just yet.  I, in no way, believe Little E is ready to make the transition from heavenly diapers to every-public-restroom-on-the-planet hell. I'm just saying he acknowledged that toilets do exist.  This gives me a nugget of hope. This toilet haunts my dreams.

This afternoon I enjoyed a Yoy-free trip to Publix, courtesy of my amazing mom. I did not have to stop by the bakery.  I did not have to run past the candy aisle.  I did not have to take an emergency bathroom break. It was EPIC. As I leisurely strolled the candy aisle (just eating with my eyes, I swear), I watched two brothers, approximate ages of 9 and 7, bickering about which size marshmallows to buy.  After a few quips back and forth, the boys took their argument up a notch to the supreme court of sibling arguments, their mom. As I swung up the next aisle, the boys closed in on their mom, who was studying jars of pasta sauce. MOM!  SO AND SO SAID THIS! NO MOM!  SO AND SO DID THIS!  IT'S NOT FAIR! And on and on. She sucked in a deep breath and looked up.  We locked eyes.  I could see the frustration over what is probably a lifelong bickering match between these boys.  I smiled faintly at her. For a second, I wanted to aban...

Can we all take a moment to clear the air about a topic near and dear to my heart?  Seriously, no bullsh*tting, people, this is a safe and honest place: Bubbles. I hate bubbles.  We have accumulated a stockpile of cheap, birthday party take aways, that mask themselves as bubbles.  They are composed of one part soap and ninety-nine parts water.  In the history of mankind, no one has ever successfully blown two consecutive bubbles from a single wand dip.  I dare you to prove me wrong. It triggers frustration for the Yoys.  Little E always concedes and takes to drinking the bubble mixture.  I'm not even a little bit concerned about that, as I know what is labeled as bubbles is really just dirty water. The Yoy arms are quickly covered in a sticky film which then attracts every speck of dirt within a three mile radius.  Thus, transforming my kids into dirty street peddlers, with the exception of their crisp polo shirts. Bubbles done right is ...

Mr. Yoy called to check up on us around 6:30. The boys were getting bubbly in the tub.  I had finished cleaning up for the cleaning people and was looking forward to a quiet evening of reading and watching The Mindy Project. I closed Big E's bedroom door at 7:30.  I was now an evil, snarling witch. Sixty minutes isn't all that much time.  But it is just enough time to script a meaty blog entry. I pulled the boys out of the tub shortly after I hung up with Mr. Yoy.  As I was diapering and dressing Little E.  Big E parked himself on the computer and put on his playlist.  After a few rounds of Doctor, Doctor, I heard Flo-Rida come on.  He clearly had switched playlists. Whenever "Low" comes on the radio, Big E is immediately mesmerized. MOM!  CAN YOU PUT THIS SONG ON MY PLAYLIST? Look, I make a lot of subpar parenting decisions, but this was not going to be one of them. I put my foot down. NO WAY! As Big E tried to argue the merits ...

Death has been a hot topic at our house as of late. We live close to a cemetery and yesterday we were fortunate to drive by as they were preparing to lower a casket into the ground. This generated a flurry of Big E questions. I don't want to lie to him about death, but also don't want to scare him.  It's such a fine line to walk. My response so far has been pretty neutral. ALL LIVING THINGS DIE. This pacified him initially, but then he began to process the statement. ARE WE LIVING THINGS? WHAT HAPPENS AFTER YOU DIE? ARE YOU GOING TO DIE MOM? I told him I was, but not for a very, very long time. WHEN YOU ARE A 100? Sure, that sounded good to me.  He seemed ok with that. But he brought it up again today and he seemed more upset about it. Now I'm worried I messed Big E up by being honest. I know there is a book about this, but I may have missed the boat. Any suggestions on fielding questions on this sensitive subject?  Thanks, readers!

I scooped Little E out of his crib this morning. He was smiley and happy and hi mommy-ing himself silly. I hugged him close to me. Wetness.   Ugh, he peed through his diaper. I quickly hoisted him up to his changing table.  He refused to lay down so I stripped him as he stood there, precariously balanced with his arms death hugging my neck. As I released the tabs of his diaper, the weight of a night of urine caused a dramatic thud of his diaper. Something blue caught my eye. IS THAT SOME SORT OF WEIRD BLUEBERRY SH*T? Upon further examination, I was able to determine the specimen. It was a matchbox car. I laughed.  He laughed. Don't worry.  I don't think Little E ate a car and then gracefully and painlessly pooped it out. His crib is full of all sorts of goodies, including a rogue car or train. I'm just interested in how the car made its way into the bowels of his tightly closed diaper. I guess I'll never know...