Noodle Boy is a nickname my son had when he was a tiny guy and I started this blog. His nickname changes all the time. (Don't worry, we keep his real name the same.) He is completely awesome. Read on and see for yourself!

Friday, February 18, 2011

Anafakelactic shock

Jon has an allergy to peanuts.

He also has a flare for the dramatics.

When we got the diagnosis from the allergist, we explained to Jon the dangers of peanuts and told him that if he ate a one we might have to use his Epipen. Which involves jabbing a syringe of epinephrine into his thigh and most likely panicking until help arrives. I just told him about the jabbing, not the panicking. I knew he'd pick up on that part himself.

Now, at least once a week, we have an "incident".

The first incident scared the bajeebers out of me. Jon came running up to me panting, holding his throat and said, "Mom, I got a peanut. I can't breathe! QUICK! Get my Epipen!"

I of course freaked out. Where the hell did he get a peanut?! Where is the Epipen?! I can't breathe either! Oh God! I'm going to pass out and he's going to die from anaphylactic shock!

Don't worry, I quickly got a grip.

Only to find out that he's a big fat faker.

I jumped off my stool and ran for my purse with lightening speed and returned, wielding the Epipen like a madwoman.

"JON, WHERE DID YOU GET A PEANUT? ARE YOU OK? MOMMY HAS THE PEN, YOU'LL BE OK." Loud Mom Voice is out of control at this point.

I whipped the pen out of it's protective cover and lunged for him. He threw his arms up and gave me some jazz hands and said "WAIT! I'm just pretending. I don't have a peanut."

If I were a cartoon this is when the black rain cloud would be drawn above my head.


"No, Mom," all sweet and innocent, "I just pretended that."

At this point I was beginning to understand why some animals eat their young.

Instead of eating him, though, I explained that we couldn't pretend he "got a peanut" because peanuts were serious business and we couldn't mess around like that. He understood.

Now instead of Jon having a peanut, it's usually one of the Buddies that falls victim. And instead of his Epipen he gets out a trusty Bic pen. Nothing works better for stuffed animals in anaphylactic shock.

"MOM! Tiny got a peanut! Quick! Get his Epipe-e-e-en!" and he takes the cap off the "epipen" and jabs it into poor Tiny's thigh.

"Now I gotta count to ten, Mom." This part is hilarious because he sort of loses track before he gets to ten.

"Ok, you go call Tiny's mom, I gotta rub his leg. It's ok, Tiny. You just got a peanut. Here comes your mom."

And then it's back to business as usual.

His dad is not as good of a patient as Tiny is. We were all in the living room watching TV one night when Jon decided maybe his dad had a peanut and couldn't breathe.

Really what had happened was his dad had fallen asleep and was snoring.

Without a word Jon jumped up and grabbed a fine-point Sharpie, took the cap off and stabbed his dad right in the thigh.


Jazz hands again from Jon, "It's ok, Papa. You just got a peanut. I need to rub your leg now. Shhhhh."

We had to have another talk about pretending that somebody got a peanut, because nobody wants to get stabbed in the leg with a Sharpie. He understood.

Sunday, February 6, 2011


Jon hates eating leftovers.

Actually he just hates the word "leftovers". If I tell him we're eating spaghetti two nigths in a row, he's fine. If I say we're having leftovers, he has a fit. "I can't eat leftovers! I hate those guys!"

So I have to be careful with my wording. I have explained that leftovers are the same yummy things he liked the night before but it doesn't really seem to sink in. He just has some crazy notion that leftovers are terrible. Even when I am cleaning up after supper and he sees me putting perfectly delicious food into containers he doesn't grasp that that's what leftovers are: food that's leftover from supper. Whatever, I give up on that battle.

Jon's favorite breakfast used to be oatmeal. We ate it damn-near everyday for months.
(I'm going somewhere with this, just read.)
I personally can't stand the stuff anymore, but I make it whenever he asks because it's healthy and hot and that's what moms do.

At some point I think the oatmeal requests started coming out of habit instead of an actual want for that gloppy mess, because he started eating less and less of it when I would make it and I would end up throwing a lot of it in the trash. Which is sort of a pet peeve of mine. So I gave him the "eat what you take, there are starving kids everywhere, don't waste food" song and dance and hoped that would be the end of the oatmeal for awhile.

No such luck.

The next morning I was making oatmeal. Again. I knew I couldn't eat oatmeal another day so I threw back a cup of coffee and just made some for Jon. Then I went downstairs to do the old washer-dryer-switcheroo on the laundry and when I came back up he was done. Clean bowl! No wasted food! Sweet!

What I didn't see, until I got home and was doing laundry that night, was that instead of eating the oatmeal, he put it in "tainers".

In his bottom drawer was one of those little M&M guys with the antlers that came in Jon's stocking (emptied of the M&M's of course) and OVERFLOWING with oatmeal. Alongside it was a zipper pouch that I keep chapstick and band aids in to carry in my purse. Also overflowing with oatmeal.

"JON. COME HERE. NOW." I have no control over my Loud Mom Voice. It just comes out sometimes.

Stomp stomp stomp.
"Yeah, Mom?"

"WHAT IN THE HECK IS THIS?!" Still with the Loud Mom Voice.

"It's my leftovers. I put 'em in tainers for tomorrow."

Now, how do I yell at that? He thought he was being a little saver.


"Got it, Mom. I can go watch my shows now?"

I threw away the leftovers.

And I also threw away the rest of the oatmeal in the cupboard. My apologies to the starving children.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Stomach Bug

*This post is about barf. If that's a problem for you, you might want to check back another time.

I, am a vomit warrior.

Jon woke up throwing up super nachos at 10:30 last night. Poor kiddo! He's never really been sick to his stomach before, so it kind of surprised him. I mean sure he urped when he was teeny and once he got a bad Happy Meal, but he's never actually had a stomach bug until now.

I was settling in for some quality time with the TV when he hollered out, "MOM, I'M SICK!" And I'm pretty sure my feet didn't touch the floor on the way to his room, I have this fear of people choking to death on vomit-not sure where it came from.

Now nobody likes to throw up, but poor Jon has developed a little of his mother's OCD and can't stand to have anything out of order. And when kids throw up everything's out of order.

A very exasperated Jon said to me, "Mom, I have gook on my jammies. And look, it's on my blankets."

I started to strip him down to put him in the tub and came to the conclusion that over-the-head jammies are a tool of the devil and will never be worn in my house again. I almost went and got the scissors and cut them off of him because the hysterics that went along with getting a barfy shirt over his head and off his body were like nothing I have ever seen before. "My face!! You got that stuff by my FACE!! OH NO no no nooooo!"

And then, he spotted The Buddies.

The Buddies are Jon's pack of animals that he sleeps with at night. There's White Baa, who used to be a fluffy white sheep and is now a flat gray sheep; Puppy, a blue dog who for some reason, looks as good today as he did when he arrived at our house when Jon was born; Tiny the Bear, a weird little bear with a beanbag butt; and Meow-Meow, an ugly, scratchy stuffed cat that Jon claimed out of a box of my mother-in-law's stuff that we acquired after she died (she was holding Meow-Meow when she died, and it kind of creeps me out the way he hauls that thing around.)

The Buddies had been hit, and it wasn't pretty. "OH NO! MOM! My Buddieeeeees!"

Fortunately the Buddies are all machine washable, but that provided no comfort for Jon. "Those guys can't go downstairs, they need me for sleeping!" We finally settled it that the Buddies could go down to the wash for the night and that I would stay with them so they didn't get scared in the basement.

So I finally get him in and out of the tub and some clean sheets on the bed so we can get on with the evening, and as I'm tucking him back into bed he says, "Mom, I forgot to tell you, I frowed up behind the door. You need to clean that." Awesome.

I got his room completely barf free, and thank God I have two washing machines so the laundry was washed and dried before midnight in case we had to go for round two in the night.

Before he got up this morning I completely barf-proofed the place. Queen-sized sheets cover all my furniture and carpet, there's an empty coffee can in every room and the Pedialyte is chilling in the fridge. I am SO READY for the A-puke-alypse.