Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Poopcaso

The events described below happened on August 12, 2009 (when Mr. 10Kv was almost one year old), and were actually the reason I wanted to start a blog about my life. Not because I have some bizarre need to talk about poop on the internet, but because I laughed all the way to work, and loved "my guys" even more for the wild adventure we experienced together.

At the time, at work, I was behind by four hours in the pay period, which was going to end that Friday, because the previous Friday I had taken Mister 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv) out of daycare and to the doctor because (as it turns out) he had an ear infection, and hand, foot, and mouth virus. Good times.

I could have used some PTO to cover the doctor's visit, but I just didn't want to do that for hand, foot, and mouth virus. So instead I had worked through lunches and made up two of the four hours and had two more to go, and that morning at 6:45, I was really pumped because I live 10 minutes from work, and figured I was almost ready and could get to work by 7:00 and knock out another hour.

Wroooooong.

Pierre-Francois (PF) came into the bedroom with Mr. 10Kv, and sat down on the bed, and started thumbing through a bedding catalogue while I finished doing my hair. All of the sudden I heard him scream, "OH MY GOD! HONEY!"

Of course I thought Mr. 10Kv had fallen out of the window, or swallowed one of my earrings, or was spewing blood, or something else drastic. So I rushed into the bedroom only to see my poor husband staring (jaw dropped) at poop smeared on the carpet like a throw rug, and my child, "cruising" down PF's side of the bed, laughing and chirping like he did when he was 11 months old, but with poop all over his little hands (down to his wrists), and down the back of his chubby little right thigh, and all over both feet. 

Since his hands were on the bed, and his feet were on the carpet, there were poopy hand prints all across the comforter, and the bottom sheet where PF had not yet made his side of the bed. And there were poopy footprints on the carpet to match those on the bed.

So I grabbed Mr. 10Kv and rushed him to the changing table  And as I was trying to get the poop off of his little hands (because I'd clean one with a wipe, and then he'd clap his hands, since that was his new trick), he was wriggling all over the changing table and kicked me in the belly/chest, and got poop all down the front of my blouse. Which was the last clean one in the closet, of course.

I finally got him cleaned up enough with wipes that I could take him into the bathroom to wash him with soap and water. Then I tackled the carpet while PF showered. I stripped the bed, started a load of laundry, changed my blouse, and flew out the door.

And I got to work at 8:15.

PF decided we could buy a new comforter from the bedding catalogue that night when we got home. We had only to choose the color. And because irony can't ever be ironic enough at my house, they indeed had a rather poop-colored comforter. What luck.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Cast of Characters

In this story of my Franco-American life, you'll want to know exactly who the nuts are in the mix.

Penelope 
That's me. The author of this blog, and a mother of three boys; two living, and one angel baby.

Pierre-Francois (PF) 
That's my husband. He's French. As in "import." And he's a keeper!

Mr. 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv) 
That's our first-born son. If you didn't already guess, he has a LOT of energy.

Kerian 
That's our angel baby. You can read all about him here.

Sunshine Boy (SB)
That's our third-born son. He earned his nickname even before he was born. I heard the song, "Here Comes the Sun," by The Beatles, multiple times when I was pregnant with him. I heard it everywhere. In grocery stores. In the pharmacy. At the doctor's office. I took it as a sign that he would be the sunshine through our tears.

These are of course pseudonyms. And if you can figure out why I chose Penelope, please do feel free to leave a comment.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Every Story Has a Beginning

I've been enamored with all things French since I was very young. Perhaps my mother planted the seed by giving me French first and middle names (the latter after a Frenchwoman who was a good friend of hers). Or perhaps it was that my dad's mom knew French, and would teach me pretty little things to say in that language.


So I'm not exactly sure how French rooted itself into me so firmly, but it helped define me even from the beginning. In high school when I was required to choose a language to learn, I chose French, without ever suspecting that it would not only come in handy some day, but also become an intimate part of my life. (Since most of the time I'm more of a never-even-get-on-the-rollercoaster kind of gal, as opposed to a hands-in-the-air-even-when-the-rollercoaster-is-at-the-top kind of gal, I figured I'd just take French to get through school. And that would be that. HA!)


Fast-forward about 20 years and you'll find me here. In the United States. Speaking Franglish with my handsome Frenchman, and our gorgeous little boy. And within this blog, I'll tell you what it's like to be us.