The Mrs. Yoy Blog: The Quarantine Coronacles

Today was Little E's first day following Winter Break.  If you are keeping score, the week before his Winter Break, was the appetizer for Winter Break which consisted of three days off of school due to ice and snow.  At this point, school is just a fleeting memory. Little E was excited to head back today.  We went a little early, as we were in charge of snacks this week.  Little E gave me a big hug and was off to chat his sweet teacher's ear off about the comings and goings of the Yoys over the past few weeks. I, on the other hand, had my laundry list of chores/errands to accomplish over the next 220 minutes of freedom.   And I was off! After my workout, I came home to clean up the house.  The weekends do a number on this place.  With the cleaning people coming on Wednesday, I've got to pre-clean for my pre-clean that will be happening tomorrow night after the Yoys go to bed. I was in the middle of a straightening up storm when my phone rang.  It was Little E's

I almost made it through the day without anything blog-worthy. The boys were asleep.  I was preparing to take a long overdue shower.  It had been a rough day of crossfitting, manicuring, eating, and playgrounding.  I had been outside with the boys for the better part of four hours this afternoon.  I was smelly and tired.  A shower was just what I needed to recharge enough to get through some Yoy administrative work.  Mr. Yoy had a dinner thing, so I anticipated a quiet night at home. I peeled off my workout clothes and dropped them into the empty laundry hamper (pat myself on the back for that one).  I took two steps towards the bathroom and there I saw him.  He stood a mere three feet tall, but his presence was grand enough to startle me. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I shrieked with fear. I stumbled backwards and my foot got stuck underneath the ottoman.  All bets were off.  My limbs flailed and I fell back onto the chair.  It was a fall of epic comedic proportions.  Melissa McCarthy

Last night I received the warning shot that my 20 year high school reunion was on the horizon.  Yes, I can do math and realize that 2014-1994 = 20, but I was still in denial. Until a Facebook page was set up for my high school's 20 year reunion.  Within hours, an army of my classmates had joined.  Things just got real, people. Assuming the reunion will take place over the summer, I have about 4-5 months to undergo as much plastic surgery as humanly possible.  I'm not aiming to look like Michael Jackson, I'm just aiming to look eighteen. I've loved sun, food, alcohol, having babies, and all sorts of things that have taken their toll on my middle-aged body.  I started to panic. But then I remembered, I'm already on Facebook, and I do post pictures of myself.  Not the weird, artsy, one-eye and half of a nose kind, but of my whole face (and sometimes my body if I'm feeling adventurous). I took a deep breath. There will be no surprises.  Or surgery.  I will

Motherhood is not for wussies. Sometimes, I may want to act like one, but I can't.  Because I'm it.  If I lose my nerve and run screaming from what life throws at me, who will protect my kids?  No one.  So I get a grip and soldier through. I've seen some nasty stuff in the past five years.  Stomach turning, lunch reversing, sh*t that nightmares are made of. Blood, boogers, poop, vomit, scabs, spit, ear wax.  All the highlights. But nothing skeezes me out as much as curdled, moldy milk.  The smell, the texture, all of it. This afternoon, in a spring cleaning frenzy, I attempted to straighten up our bedroom closet which is in a constant state of ransack.   I ran my hands under the row of cute summer shorts that I was beginning to feel like I'd never wear again.  I pulled out a couple of shirts that I'd thrown on the ground during a previous attempt of putting together an acceptable outfit. Then I felt it.  A sippy cup.  Before I pulled it ou

Bedtime is a very precarious process for me. If done right, I've got both Yoys in bed, asleep by 7:30.  This leaves me 3+ hours to be the lazy slug I dream of being during daylight hours. If done wrong, it can be the worst 2-3 hours of your day. Once the last bedroom door is closed, I usually sit upstairs for five minutes.  If there is no movement detected, I'm 90% home free.** Tonight I waited the obligatory five minutes on the couch.  Then I moved the party to my bedroom.  I bounced down on the bed next to a laundry pile of Mr. Yoy's black and navy socks. I stared at the ceiling while carefully examining my evening time options. 1) Fold socks.  If they were white socks, maybe.  But having to distinguish between black and navy pretty much guaranteed my failure.  Next. 2) I could read my book club book(s!).  That would require me downloading something onto my Kindle.  I'd have to move my arm over to my nightstand to reach it.  Sigh. 3) I could shower.  A

Day 3. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Three days.  No school. I'm sure my single friends cannot comprehend why everyone is complaining about being stuck at home with their kids.  All while the quantity of alcohol consumption hits freshman year of college levels. So let's take a closer look at the situation. Yes, I did intentionally get pregnant with both my kids.  Yes, I love them dearly. Yes, they bring me great pride. But they have this thing called school.  For Big E, it is from 7:45-2:30 EVERY DAY. For Little E, it is from 9-12:30 EVERY DAY. So, EVERY DAY, at a minimum, I have 3.5 hours to enjoy using the bathroom in private, grocery shopping without having to stop at the bakery for a cookie, working out without being asked constantly when I will be finished, and sometimes, if I'm really lucky, meeting a friend for lunch.  It's what keeps me sane.  And keeps my kids alive. First, school is taken away from me.  Then the roads become impassable.  So I&#

Remember that 80s sitcom gem?  The mom slept around and this poor girl didn't really know who her dad was.  This was eons before DNA testing was a thing. Nicole was content that Paul Reiser just might be her dad.  And that was aces in her book. Lucky for Little E, he'll never have to watch this show.  Instead he is living it. Well, not really. He has his real dad, Mr. Yoy.  No paternity testing needed there. Then he has his second dad, Big E. It took about five years, but that kid's paternal instinct finally kicked in. Especially in the discipline department. LITTLE E, IF YOU DON'T STOP PLAYING WITH TRAINS AND EAT YOUR DINNER, YOU ARE GOING TO TIMEOUT FOR THREE MINUTES! LITTLE E, I'M GOING TO COUNT TO THREE AND THEN YOU BETTER SIT DOWN AND EAT! LITTLE E, USE YOUR SPOON! I laugh.  And then I cry because Big E is just parroting me and apparently, I'm super annoying and a horrible nag. You can pretend you never watched this show, but we all

As the cold descended upon us, the Yoys looked for other, indoor activities to occupy our time. One of our favorite after school activities is to hit up the small library branch across the street from our neighborhood. The boys load up on books and I let them each check out one DVD.  The DVDs have a quick turn around.  You can keep them for seven days. Unfortunately for us, day seven fell on day three of Atlantarctica.  And I had not garnered enough courage to drive up my street (mountain for my Floridian friends). But Mr. Yoy had to get into work.  As he ventured out on Thursday I handed him two DVDs to drop off at the library.  I breathed a sigh of relief, as our movies would be returned on time.   I have to admit, my mind was not functioning on all four cylinders.  I had been homebound with my kids for way too many hours.  I was running dangerously low on caffeine and alcohol.  I was halfway hibernating to conserve energy and keep my long limbs warm.   I was