"Mommy! MOMMY! Mooooooooo*gasp*mmmmmmmmmyyyyyy!"
Any parent will testify to the fact that when you hear a child -- any child, yours or not -- scream the word "Mommy!" or "Dahdeeeee!" in a distressed, on-the-edge-of-tears tone, the instincts kick in. (If you ever want to test this, watch what happens in any public space when a small child yells for either parent. ANYONE who has ever spawned will stop, pop up like a prairie dog and look around until the source has been identified and the adult is convinced that the situation is in hand.)
I raced up the stairs to discover my eldest sitting on the hopper, drawers around her ankles, crying. "It's a big, spiky one and I can;'t get it out and it huuuuurts! I need help! Help me push it out!"
Turns out she was a bit constipated, and trying to pass a football. Unsure as to what I ought to do to help her wrangle that turd, I flat-out asked: "What would you like me to do?"
"Sit on the shower stair and help me!"
Which is why my husband came in ten minutes later to find me and my nine-year-old practicing Lamaze breathing as she pooped.
Octo Boy and I were baking brownies to take on his field trip (which was yesterday). He likes to cook -- particularly to measure things and break eggs -- and so I got out all of my spoons and measuring cups and let him pour out all the various ingredients. While he was doing that, I went to switch out laundry loads. When I got back, he was contendtedly stirring brownie mix in the big mixing bowl.
In the over the went, and a bit over a half-hour later, we pulled them out and got a glass of milk apiece for a round of Quality Control.
They tasted awful. Gaggingly, nauseatingly terrible.
We went over the recipe again, puzzling over what went wrong. Then, he tells me: "We were out of the vegetable oil you usually use, so I mixed these two half and half and used it instead!"
He handed me the bottles of chili- and garlic-infused wok oil and sesame oil.
We made a trip to the store for more oil and brownie mix. Even the birds wouldn't eat those Asian-fusion brownies.
The wee ginger beastie has adopted Biteypants as her very own kitty. Now, he weighs in at an amazingly lard-assed 26 pounds; we think there was a Maine Coon in his woodpile at some point. Despite being the size of a comfortable hassock, he has the most pathetic, squeaky little "meow" ever heard on a cat. It is (forgive me) a pussy little voice for such a large cat.
She only weighs about 30 pounds, yet she insists upon tucking him up under one arm and dragging him about like he's a stuffed toy, or dressing him in baby clothes and trying to feed him fruit snacks.
As she has gotten older, we switched out her car seat, and out the old, baby seat in the kitchen. We were going to put it out with the bulk trash this morning.
I put the kids to bed last night, and was reading in the living room about an hour later when it occurred to me that Bitey was not at his usual post (laying across the top stair, trying to make me fall down the fucking stairs and hissing at me as I tried to move him with my feet) when I put the kids to bed. I called a few times, and heard a faint "squeak" in reply, and so went looking for him.
She has strapped his ass in with the five-point restraints on the baby seat, and he could not extricate himself. He was lying there, pathetically, wide-eyed and desperate for rescue. (I admit that I considered leaving him there.)
Predictably, he took a hissy swipe at me as I extricated him, and gave me the pinkeye as he sashayed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to assume his normal position. He took another swipe when I went up the stairs on the way to bed, the ungrateful little twat.
Then he hopped the gate into Her Majesty's room, sniffed at her ears and gave a lick to one of them, and curled up with his fat back braced against hers, between her and the edge of her bed. She sighed in her sleep and rolled over, slinging a chubby toddler arm across him. I heard the rusty purr start up as I turned to go to my own room.
God help the boogeyman who tries to invade her sleep.