The Mrs. Yoy Blog: The Quarantine Coronacles

On Friday, I left the Yoys with their dad and grandma, and took a trip to visit my bestie for the weekend. As I (im)patiently waited at Atlanta airport for my delayed flight to depart, I dove into a fresh Sudoku puzzle book.  I had no kids to distract me.  I had nothing but time, according to the AirTran departure screen. I love working on Sudoku puzzles.  As a math nerd, this is my crack rock.  I love the challenge.  The thinking.  The brain sweats.  I need it to stay sharp. Halfway through my second puzzle, I found myself stuck.  Around this time, I felt a presence hovering over my left shoulder.  It was a curious young boy I guessed to be around nine. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I then tried to explain how to complete a Sudoku puzzle to a child.  I can barely pronounce it, but now I'm going to explain it?  After my wordy and lengthy synopsis I looked over my shoulder at the young boy. Crickets.  Blank stare.  Flat line.  I shrugged my shoulders and went back to m

Yesterday was the Yoys' dental checkup.  Big E was super amped to go, as he could not wait to tell Dr. H that he had finally stopped sucking his thumb.  Cue the hallelujah music now.  At our last visit, Dr. H made it clear that it had to stop ASAP, as his teeth were flaring out and his mouth was narrowing. Deterrents included an apparatus he wore at night covering his thumb, bitter paste to put on his thumb, and finally, threatened amputation (my personal favorite).  I showed him pictures of people with messed up teeth to illustrate what he was doing to his beautiful smile.  It turned out, all I needed to do was put away his baby blanket, which was the trigger.  Game over. Dr. H walked into the room and I could see Big E puff out his chest to relay his big announcement. DR. H., I STOPPED SUCKING MY THUMB! The dentist made a huge deal about it, which I greatly appreciated.  Big E received extra prizes when we left. Not to be outdone, Little E, or should I call him Ralph Wi

Let's discuss the awkward time between when your plane touches down and when you actually reach the gate and deplane. You always have that person who immediately powers up their cell phone only to engage in a deeply personal and completely inappropriate conversation.  Loudly. I leave the plane wondering if the girl in 23D and her loser boyfriend (inferred through their phone dialogue) will make it. Today was an exception.  It was unusually silent as the plane navigated the gauntlet that is the Atlanta airport. Good.  I won't have to explain to Big E what some random man is talking about or worry that Big E will try to inject himself into the conversation. The fasten seat belt sign went off as the plane stopped at the gate.  Big E popped out of his seat. I HAVE TO MAKE DIRTS! (translation: the kid needed to poop.) We all know the potential ending to this story. I try and stay calm.  I feel the heat radiating from my armpits. CAN'T I CATCH ONE BREAK.  JUST ON

Have you seen the whooping cough commercial which urges all adult caregivers and family members to get vaccinated so your poor, sweet baby doesn't get infected and cough itself to death? It terrifies me on a daily basis.  Not contracting whooping cough.  Just having to watch this horrific commercial. We had a baby sitting directly behind us on today's flight.  And no, I'm not going to complain about her crying, because I am a mother and I have mad sympathy for anyone flying with children. I am going to delicately mention that I'm 99% sure this baby had whooping cough.  Every time she coughed/struggled for air, I died a little bit inside.  I'm sure her mom wouldn't take her on a plane if she had some dark ages infectious disease, but it sounded painful. I hope adhering to a strict Magnolia Bakery diet while on my trip boosted my immune system to the point that I won't be coming down with whatever she was coughing into my hair for the duration of the t

Big E and I just returned from our semi-annual trip to NYC.  We spent the weekend visiting Uncle D and Aunt J. As in past visits , my brother and his wife bore witness to an epic Big E temper tantrum.  Scratch that. My brother, his wife, and half of Manhattan bore witness to an epic Big E temper tantrum. It started with a t-shirt at the Grand Central Station Transit Museum.  I picked out an E line shirt for Little E.  I asked Big E if he, too, wanted one.  (matchy-matchy!) Big E emphatically declined.  I asked him the required forty-two times.  But he was certain.  It was a no on the shirt.  It saved me $18, so I was fine with it. I paid for Little E's shirt and we were off.  As soon as I took my first step out of the museum and into the acoustically endowed Grand Central Station, Big E lost his mind. His howls would have been loud in our modest home.  But in this vast train station, they were deafening. Big E and I have been working on his constant indecisiveness.  I

MOM, I THINK THE SUN IS COMING UP, NOT SETTING. I checked the clock.  It was 7:45.  The sun was still going strong here in the ATL, but Mrs. Yoy was not. I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Big E that it was indeed nighttime. After multiple reappearances by him, I told Big E I would lay with him until he fell asleep. I rubbed his back and told him to count sheep. ONE SHEEP, TWO SHEEP, THREE SHEEP, FOUR SHEEP... Somewhere around 108 sheep, I checked out.  While my son has unlimited energy, I'm running on generic brand batteries.  I run out of power by about 7:30 each night. I'm not sure how long I slept, but I felt Big E kiss my hand. I opened my eyes and his sweet face was inches from mine.  He smiled at me and rolled over. Within a few minutes his breathing slowed to a steady pace. I began my descent out of his bed.  One. Limb. At. A. Time. My first movement caused Big E to roll back over.  Again, our faces were inches from each other.  The light in Big

Last year was the first summer I enrolled Big E in swim lessons. The teacher is great, but she doesn't take any crap.  She had Big E swimming in four, thirty minute sessions. I was one impressed Mrs. Yoy. This year, it was Little E's turn to be indoctrinated into the "dunk club." Big E was slotted to go first at 3:30.  He walked right up to Miss C and began chatting her up.  I hadn't told him why we were at the pool and he didn't seem to recognize her.  Initially.  Then the light went on. And he was off.  Big E bolted up the stairs, flung open the gate to the parking lot, and went for it.  I grabbed him moments before he hit the street. He was hysterical. So like a lamb to the slaughter, Little E went first. As soon as Miss C baptized his Fred Flintstone feet in the pool, the wailing began.  It didn't end until he plugged his mouth with a well earned lollipop. In the meantime, I was in serious negotiations with Big E. I promised him eve

My parents recently returned from a week-long cruise of the Western USA/Canada. They popped in and out of awesome cities throughout California, Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. My mom was on a mission to locate the perfect souvenir to bring back for the Yoys. And boy did she ever. Picture this. First, you have a trigger.  Like a gun. You press the trigger but instead of a bullet, a basketball (or soccer ball), because there are two variations of this satanic toy, begins spinning, playing music and lighting up. The music is eerily similar (anyone know a good copyright lawyer?) to the Pitbull/Jennifer Lopez song that was beat to death by pop radio.  So now those guys are haunting every waking moment of my day. TONIGHT WE GONNA BE IT ON THE FLOOR! Sorry, there it goes again.  I will try and control it for the remainder of the blog entry. The ball opens up and some weird, scary clown guy (IN A TOPHAT!) is giving you the once over with his evil shiny eyes. One