Friday, November 27, 2009
See that guilty look?
The other day I was sitting over on the couch, pumping some good-as-gold breast milk for the little one, when a blanket of silence fell over the house. It never gets quiet like that, not even at 3am when everybody is sleeping.
Where is everybody, and what are they getting into?
I turned around, hands still holding my cold plastic suction cups in place, and there in the very back of the room, standing at the window sill, was my 11 month old son (who, even though he likes pink glittery hair bows and his sisters dolls, hes proving to be all boy), getting himself into a heap of trouble.
By this point, I'm in fire hose mode, and literally cannot stop pumping.
"Eleanore! GET CHARLIE!", I shouted from my end of the house to hers. I'm not sure what GET CHARLIE was supposed to mean, or how I expected her to interpret it (as she sat watching his every movie, giggling), but at this point I didn't care if she knocked him down in a football style tackle. I just wanted him to STOP.
Yes! That's it! "Eleanore, smack his hand! Knock him down! Get brother! Get him!", I started yelling. The sudden chaos interrupted my milk supply, so I ditched the tube connected bottles, and ran boobs-out (really, I didn't tuck them back into my bra until somewhere around the dining room table) across the room, and pulled my innocent little boy, off of a not so innocent, fly trap.
These fly traps have made our lives a heck of a lot easier (as gross as they may be). When I worked at Lane Bryant, one of my coworkers told me about a "clear sticky window bug trap" during a conversation about the fly infestation that we had been dealing with. Since then, I've told everyone I know about them, and everyone agrees that they're a million times better than the awful brown hang-from-the-ceiling coil traps.
There was Charlie, both hands buried in a fly graveyard. I swooshed him over to the kitchen sink, which was full of dirty dishes (of course, it adds to the atmosphere), and started plucking fly heads off of the tips of his fingers. Literally, fly heads. Not the bodies, just the heads. And its not like they came off easily, they were practically melted onto his skin, soaked in trap glue. It was, disgusting.
After I freed his fingers from itty bitty eyeballs, I noticed little things all over his face, they kind of looked like eyelashes? And little things in his hair. LEGS. WINGS. BODY PARTS THAT HAVE BEEN MELTING IN THE SUN OFF AND ON EVERY DAY FOR SIX MONTHS.
My gag reflex somehow kept it to a minimum, but the entire time I was shouting "Yuck yuck yuck Charlie! Yuck Yuck! No! No Charlie! That is yucky! You are BAD!" long after all of the flies had been disposed of, and Charlie had been cleaned from head to toe at least 10 times.
I will never get the image of my infant standing by himself at the back window, the sun shining down on his chubby little baby cheeks, his leg rolls glistening like the skin of a Stephanie Meyer made vampire- absolutely covered in bug body parts, out of my head.
And so it begins...