List includes:

• Bed, messy
• Baby, hungry
• Mother, lazy (tired)

On a more serious note though, Saad and I are more inclined toward child-lead weaning on certain things and this potty training business falls in that category. The way that makes the most sense and most conducive to my lazy tendencies is waiting until Aiman shows an interest in using the toilet and encouraging, but not pushing. When he’s ready and wants to leave the diaper, I imagine the process will be easier and faster for all of us. So that’s why we’ve waited. Besides, a 2 1/2 year old in diapers is totally normal to me….a 4 year old, not so much, but I don’t think it’ll get to that point.

Anyway, I gave you that ridiculously long prelude to tell you about an exchange Aiman and I had a while ago.

Sometimes I let him chill around the house with just his undies and pants on. This almost always leads to an accident somewhere at some point. And he’s super sneaky about it until he’s done and then yelps “I PEED!” as he runs around. Then I have look for the spot and it’s just a pain in the ass to clean it up, clean him up, and I curse to myself that this is such shit! And once or twice before, it truly was shit and realize the pee wasn’t so bad.

So after one too many times, I kept that butt of his tightly bound in a good old diaper.

And then I gave you that second prelude because I’m just too verbose and obviously not using preludes correctly.

About two weeks ago I thought I’d give it another try. Only this time I completely forgot to ask him if he needed to go, much less put him on the toilet, every 20 minutes or so.

I was sitting at the computer and he was on my back, wedged in between the back of the chair and my back. We were looking at some video or something together when I felt it.

Warm liquid streaming down my shirt AND INTO MY PANTS, soaking my back, shirt, pants, and underwear. I mean, that was a lot of pee.

I got so angry. At myself, but HELL, do you know how filthy it feels to have pee running down your back and into your crack?

So I was washing him up and put him in a diaper while angrily mumbling all sort of things to myself, when Aiman asked “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“I’m feel dirty and violated in a new and unexpected way. Mom doesn’t like the pee all over her back and pants.”

I continued with the cleaning up and strapping on of his diaper.

Then, in the sincerest way, he said “Mom, I’m so sorry I peed on your back.”

Gah, oh man. Sweet child of mine, there’s no need to apologize.

So I made him feel bad, obviously, thus solidifying my worst mother of the year award.

To compensate, I apologized and gave him a lollipop and we were cool again.

But after that moment, whenever someone pisses me off I’ve been thinking “Hell, I’m going to pee on your back, AND I SURE DO HOPE IT GOES DOWN YOUR CRACK.”

So this means it’s story time, kids.

In retrospect, I totally underestimated the magnitude of what pulling four giant teeth buried under your gums meant. When the dentist, who I remember reading from his business card was also an MD, asked if I’d rather pull two and then come back for the other two, I was all “No thanks doc, I’ll go ahead and them all taken out at once. Saves time and a trip, you know” and I’m sure in his head he was thinking “You have no idea of the wrath that awaits you.”

I went in on the day of the surgery and waited in the waiting room with a lady who looked a little nervous. We chatted a bit, but the strongest memory I have of the waiting room time is texting my mom this ad from a magazine because these cats crack her up:

Fresh Step Cat Litter ad (used from Coloribus.com)

When they finally called me in, I got prepped and was asked if I would like general or local anesthesia and I immediately chose local. I wish I could say it was for some smarter reason, but really I just wanted to know what was going on with all of these people up in mah grill.

I though local anesthesia would be less painful too, but then I saw the needle. The one that was going directly into my gums. The only needle that has ever struck fear of a needle into my little heart (I’m one of those unusual people who need to see the needle and see it puncture my skin to NOT be scared of it, otherwise if I don’t see the needle and it going in, it freaks me out). So that needle was intimidating and then the pain of puncture into my gums coupled with the instant burning….good thing I kept my composure externally because  internally I was SCARED OUT OF MY MIND and imagined jumping off the chair, telling the doctor and staff “the hell with THAT,” and running out of the office in a fit of crazy-woman laughter.

But then the doctor’s voice broke my daydream and things got going.

So the doctor/dentist did his work and chatted it up with me, only he was smart in maintaining the conversation without having me have to answer anything–obviously– and the whole procedure went by tooth by tooth, until all four were out and he stitched my gums up.

At the time I was still on the anesthesia’s magic and didn’t feel anything other than some swelling. He packed my mouth full of gauze and sent me off with my prescription for pain meds and whatnot.

This is where it got nuts.

Saad picked me and my swollen face up and we headed straight to the pharmacy. Once we got there, I decided it would be best for me to go get the meds instead of him because I needed to pick up some things as they filled out the prescription. This is was a good and bad thing.

Good: I got the help I needed.

Bad: It looked like there was a massacre.

After I dropped off the prescription, I walked around the store for the stuff I needed. I was in one of the aisles when I felt something wet on my big toe. Then I felt another drop on my pants. And other on my foot, then my arm, etc. I mean, after so many drops of something, I figured it would be a great time to stop and see what was wetting me.

Following the trail, I realized these BLOOD DROPS were coming from my face, specifically from the numb lower half. The numb half that was effectively pouring out blood in a steady stream at this point.

I looked around panicked and ran to the cashier (he was closer than the pharmacy). I ran up to him with my hands cupped over my mouth and blood seeping through my fingers. That poor man. I think he peed in his pants a little bit when I tried to tell him I needed more gauze or the bathroom or HELP and the pooled blood in my mouth splattered all over the counter, even getting splatter on his khaki pants.

Apparently the gauze was over saturated and no longer useful, so the blood was collecting in my mouth, only I COULDN’T FEEL ANY OF IT.

He called for help and someone took me to the bathroom, as I spit into a bucket they got me.

Once I cleaned my mouth out, in which I mean, just let the blood drip out and then put more gauze (a quick thinking employee got me a packet from one of the aisles), let it absorb the blood, and then replace it with more gauze until the gauze I pulled out was still white (as in the bleeding stopped).

By then the prescription was ready and the whole store knew about The Girl That Bloodied The Store With Her Mouth.

Oh Gee, I’m really sorry about this mess, guys. I swear I don’t go around soaking people and things in my mouthly fluids.

There was blood in the carpet, on the counter, a trail to the bathroom, on my clothes–oh you just name and if I was in the vicinity, there was blood on it.

By then the prescription was ready and I walked up, got it, and then casually walked out of the store as if nothing had ever happened (After profusely thanking the employees for their help and apologizing for the scene I caused).

I got back to the car and Saad asked about the giant blood stain on my brand new top and various blood spots on my pants.

After explaining in mumbles and extravagant gestures (because I couldn’t actually talk) the good time I had in the store, Saad and I had a hearty laugh and then went to pick up the gallon of soup and other liquid foods I would need until my mouth healed.

And that’s what having my teeth pulled was like –a nice, smarty pants doctor/dentist dude, frightened, yet fast acting employees, tons of blood, and a ruined top.

Have you ever had your teeth pulled? What’s your memorable dental experience?

*The doctor didn’t inflict any violence upon my mouth for the gory aftermath. That was alllll meeeee.

So, oh yes, all of Sunday night he wouldn’t sleep and wasn’t comfortable enough or full enough or something enough to go to back to sleep. He wasn’t sick or in pain or either, just awake when he didn’t want to be, but didn’t want to sleep either? Make up your mind, kid! And in true Aiman fashion, if he couldn’t sleep, then no will, damn it! So I was pulled at, sat on, made into a makeshift bed of some sort, poked at, and completely prevented from any iota of sleep.

I looked at the clock at around 5:30 AM when I noticed that I wasn’t physically assaulted for 2 straight minutes and saw that kiddo was knocked out on my shoulder. Finally, an hour of sleep before the alarm goes off and we begin the day.

Fast forward to 8 am when we oversleep and scramble to get ourselves together before my class at 9. Forty-five minutes later when we’re barely making it into the care in the God forsaken 89-freakin’ degree weather and humidity so early in the morning, I turn on the car and oops, it’s not turning on. Why? Turns out that the backseat light had been one for two days (we didn’t go anywhere the day before) and completely shot the battery. After various phone calls, sweating buckets (which instantly makes me grouchy), finally locating the stupid battery charger, and a very kind neighbor, we get the car running again.

So I completely missed my 9 am class and, fine, I may have not gone anyways, so I went to study for my lab quiz and lo and behold, of course, the one quiz I didn’t prepare for is the one that covers the most material. So an hour of cramming 60-something pages later, I take the quiz and feel the urge to kill something because I’m so fed up with the day. And I’m pretty annoyed by everything at this point. Wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t need-NEED-an A in this lab to get out of college.

I guess today was the day to be in the mood to cut something up because that’s exactly what we did -we dissected a dogfish shark, a bull frog, and a rat. And guess what? I HAVE PICTURES!

THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FOR THE WEAK OF HEART OR STOMACH.

dogfish shark

bull frog

rat

I think the rat got to some people because not only is its anatomy similar to ours, but it was also the least faded by the formaldehyde, so all of its organs’ pigmentation were rather vibrant. It was “different,” for lack of a better word, to work on a shark because it’s anatomy is sort of alien-like and everything was just green with the frog. Overall, I think it’s a little more interesting to work with animals than cadavers, maybe because I’m a little used to cadavers now.

After lab, I went home and made this stellar vegetable stew and, of course, Aiman didn’t want any of it. I don’t even know why I cook; Aiman hardly ever eats any of it.

But we did play; he did insist on watching an episode of Blue’s Clues snuggled up with me; and to read the same three books out of the plethora of others, so the day winded down into something pleasant.

Plus, seeing him passed out/sleeping peacefully next to me makes me want to get up and do it again tomorrow.

I’m sure I’ll regret that at 5 AM.

LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO MY SON.

Last night we were going to the market to pick up a few things when Aiman choked on absolutely nothing, well maybe his spit, and coughed a little. Then threw up the last entire feeding he just had. It was a mess. HE was a mess.

And my boy, he’s not of those who stop when he’s regurgitated a good amount. No sirree! He goes all or nothing and kept it up until his onsie, vest, and pants were pretty damn covered in back flowed milk.

Well that wasn’t even the worst part.

His hands were nicely covered as well and when he was done, he looked at his hands and without hesitation began licking his fingers. When I looked up from trying to find a wipe in his diaper bag, little man was basically sucking the vomit off his hands, much like it was chocolate or the tasty flavoring that remains on your fingers after eating chips or something.

Kid had the crazies to look at me like I was depriving him. OF HIS DELICIOUS VOMIT.

ewh.

We have several nicknames for him like “Little Love!” and “SnookyPooh!” among millions, and more descriptive nicknames like “The Destroyer” and “Nasty Boy”, so I think you know which one applies here.

Case in point: Hot Cheetos.

Once upon at time, when Elham was about 6-ish, Sieda and I had some hot cheetos (which seems so gross to me now) and Elham insisted that she have some too.

“No Elham, it’s too hot for you” we warned.

“But I want to have some; it’s not fair you and Sieda can eat whatever you want!”

“Elham, you will regret this. Just have some frozen yogurt instead.”

“NO!” she screamed as she started crying.

Stubbornness runs deep in this family.

“Fiiiiiiiine! Stop crying -here” we said as we poured her a few cheetos and waited for her reaction.

Of course she didn’t admit that they were too hot, but the sucking-air-in noise she made with every bit said it all.

Later that day we heard a loud scream come from the restroom and my mom, sister, and I rushed to see what was going on. There we find Elham crying on the toilet.

Mom: “What’s the matter, are you okay?”

Elham: “I have to push, but I can’t.” (still crying)

Mom: “Why?”

Elham: “It burns!”

—

Needless to say, we all got a good gut-bursting laugh out of that.

And we’re not vicious child abusers; we helped her and even Elham saw the hilarity in her…”struggle”.

No?

Looks like it’s story time!

Back in March when I was what one would consider an obvious nursing mom (“obvious” because I stained everything from my shirts to the bed sheets) I had to go to school for an exam. My sister had a play to watch at the same time as my exam so we left the house together. Admittedly I did have a feeling, a tiny feeling, that I should nurse Aiman one more time before leaving, or at least pump a little bit.

But I ignored it because we were planning to be back in two hour’s time.

And because I’m an idiot.

Now, of course with traffic plus the distance and time spent walking, oh and how my sister’s play was not an hour long like she thought it was going to be and was something like THREE WHOLE HOURS long, two hours’s time was more like four-ish.

I completed my exam and headed to the library to wait for her, all the while thinking that she was already there. But no, she wasnt. I got a text from her reading that it’ll be about two more hours. Normally I wouldn’t mind because I could do all of my wasting-time-on-the internet-business in the library that I wouldn’t have time to do at home….

But not when my breasts are solidifying with milk.

With every half hour that passed, another part of my boobs hardened with stuffed milk ducts begging for relief. Oh and let me not understate the pain associated with engorged breasts, because engroged breasts are only a gentle breath away from exploding. Does anyone want to see what an explosion of blood, fat tissue, and milk everywhere looks like? No, I doubt anyone does.

After two hours I couldn’t take it anymore so I walked to the vending machine literally bracing myself because a jiggle here or a accidental brush there would’ve been the end of me. Remember that bloody and milky explosion I mentioned? This would’ve been the time.

I bought a bottle of water and emptied it when I got to the restroom. I grabbed the largest stall and sat there on the toilet as I hand expressed my milk into the water bottle. At this point I can’t even find the right words to describe the relief, but it was such sweet, sweet REFLIEF!

At the end of my session, the 16 oz. bottle was filled. What can I say? I was a cow. A cow that milked her own udders. Too graphic?

When my “pumping” session was complete, I walked out relieved and a little lighter.

I fully intended to feed Aiman the milk because to waste breast milk drives me just a little bit over the edge. Actually, it makes me lose my senses because IT’S LIQUID GOLD I tell you! How dare you spill it or -gasp!- intentionally throw it away!?

Side note: the first time I accidentally spilled 4 oz of pumped milk I reduced down to a 2 year old and threw a fit.

At any rate, when I got home I was all “Look Aiman! Mama has a freshly squeezed batch just for you!”

I poured the milk into a bottle that looked cleaned (it was dim in the room) only to hear my husband exclaim “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Apparently the bottle had formula in it and wasn’t washed yet so I quickly sniffed it and it had a certain hint of foulness.

So I had to dump out the milk. Did you read that? I HAD TO DUMP THE BREAST MILK  that I engorged myself with, sat in the bathroom for 20 minutes to pump into a water bottle, stored and kept cool until I got home, and was ready to give my baby the best thing my body could offer.

Just. shoot. me.

Aiman was sitting on my lap and being as happy as could be when he reached for my bowl of fruit. I asked “Oh, would you like some banana” as I mushed a small piece and held it in front of him. He had just eaten some baby food about 10 minutes prior, but I totally forgot that because my memory lasts as long it takes you to blink.

I kept giving him some banana and he kept taking it, so hey, he wasn’t really saying “OK Stop I’m Full I Will Be Overfed Now”

As I’m chatting away thinking what a big boy he was being, I hear a terror striking hack. A hack so strong it couldn’t possibly come from a baby, and PLEASE NOT MY BABY because the hack, THE HACK, means, hmm what’s the word? Oh yes, it means RUN!

Around here, Aiman is known for regurgitating on demand. It is, essentially, his talent. Need instant spit up? No problem, my boy to the rescue. Need an excuse to leave a scene? Yep, he’ll give you that excuse.

So upon hearing THE HACK, my whole body tensed. No sooner had I thought “Oh. Boy.”  did he begin flooding the dinning room with vomit. There was coughing, vomit, more coughing, crying, and vomit again. It was coming out of his mouth and his nose as he cried “Mamamama” and, yes, more vomit.

I’ll give you a minute to register the messiness of that scene.

It was heart breaking to hear him call for me, but what am I supposed to do when I’m slippery with spit up and hardly able to hold him. Funny that my husband didn’t bother to take Aiman away from me because, hey I’m already covered in slimy spit up, I may as well finish the job.

Whenever we said ” This has to be it/ I’m sure he’s done now/ There can’t be anymore left ” HA! YES! Yes, there is more, here it is!

HURL

I also have low tolerance for someone vomiting. So while Aiman was busy emptying his stomach, my body was jerking to keep my own stomach from doing the same. It took more self control than I can handle to not join in on the hurl fest.

Well he not only returned the banana, but also all of  the baby food that I forgot he ate and even some milk. My husband’s aunt was smart enough to grab a bowl to collect the constant flow that continued to spew out of his mouth when my hands and clothes weren’t enough to absorb it all.

I rushed him to the tub where he continued to cough himself up more vomit -because he goes all or nothing!- and then finally calmed down. He went to sleep after a bath, massage, story, and a bottle, not to mention profuse apologizing from mama.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “This is all your fault you incapable mother, you!” and I accept that, but you don’t know my kid. He’ll choke on his own spit and spit up. He’ll smell something funky, cough, and spit up. You’ll look at him funny and he’ll spit up.

Like I said, it’s his “talent”.

He has gotten better about throwing up as he’s gotten older, but when he does throw up, it’s as if he’s making up for lost time. I feel terrible about this whole incident and regret accidentally overfeeding him by two or three tiny pieces of mushed fruit causing him to reverse all the food he ate in the hour before, but who knew so little could do so much damage?

Oh, that’s right. ME!

I’m sorry my baby-love, but if there’s somewhat of a silver lining to last night, its that you definitely set a record.

Yeaaaah, but let’s try to set any more records…

That one decision screwed up my entire day.

At first it was pretty good, actually it was tasty all through the very last bite. I had a satisfying lunch and was on my merry way, but little did I know that my stomach was slowly, but surely rejecting every morsel of that tuna sandwich.

A few hours later, I left an uncomfortable rumble in my belly.

Hmm, that’s interesting.

Then a louder and much stronger vibration radiated throughout my body and immediately stopped me in my tracks. I stood there unsure of what to do, or really what to think.

Should I run to the nearest restroom?

Should I wait to see what happens?

Maybe if I embrace what might happen next, it won’t be so horrifying.

Then there was silence. An eerie type of silence that provides a very false sense of security. But you know what? I accepted that eerie silence because I was scared. I fear the day that I lose all bodily control.

Ah, I’m okay. Just a belly burp, I guess.

Later that night I felt the onset of a familiar and unwelcome old friend: nausea. It gradually crept up from my stomach and reached all corners of my body; the spinning, the horrible taste in the back of my mouth, the tuna was coming back to me! To say that I was nauseous would be an understatement because I could not even blink without the threat of regurgitating everything I ate all over the floor. It seemed like every movement was going to be the last blow.

As I lay on the couch hardly able to move, Saad (my husband) nonchalantly suggested “Why don’t you just throw it up?”

“Because….just because.”

“Well you’re going to keep suffering if you don’t get it out of your stomach.”

“I’m scared” I whispered.

“You’re what?” He insisted.

“SCARED. I AM SCARED OF THROWING UP.”

Now, look, I’m can be a big girl when it comes to things that happen to (or within) my body. I don’t get bound up in a ball of anxiety or freak out when I’m stuck with a needle or probed for a vein. In fact I get nervous if I don’t a) see the needle and b) see it pierce my skin, so I look the entire time. And I’ve given a presentation while butt was a second away from #2-ing all over myself because of diaherria. heh, TMI?

So I can handle it, whatever it is.

But vomiting? No. Just no. Everything from the dry-heaving right before it happens to the feeling of undigested and partly digested food flowing the wrong way through your throat and out of your mouth with the force of a fire hydrant is unbearable to me. I’d rather eat my own baby’s puke than puke myself.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Saad asked.

“No, I guess just let me die in peace?”

He said “I’ll be back in a few minutes, if you have to…you know…then at least spare Aiman’s play area” as he picked up his keys and walked out of the door.

In the ten minutes he was gone AND LEFT ME TO DIE ALONE I thought happy, non-messy, non-foodie thoughts while drifting in and out of a nausea induced coma. He returned with a small bag and in it was the most beautifully bright pink bottle of miracle fluid.

Oh, sweet little bottle of Pepto Bismol…you. are.sooooo.beautifullll…..to.meeee.

I would’ve cried if I could even blink without having to hold my mouth shut to keep the contents of my stomach, in my stomach.

He poured the dosage and handed it to me. After taking it, I kid you not, I was better as soon as I swallowed the last thick drop and have been back to normal until this very day.

So I feel victorious having diverted what seemed like an inevitable doom. You do not understand how happy I am to have not puked, given that the whole day -the whooooole day- my stomach was threatening to do just that and how much anxiety it was giving me.

Currently the score is:

Amira- 1                Vomit-0

and I hope it stays “zero” on that side, for like, THE REST OF MY LIFE!