Boogie Wipes and Other Legends of the Disco

OK, actually there's nothing about the disco here. But the terrifically named "Boogie Wipes" have me constantly singing, "Boogie Wipes! Ain't no doubt – we are here to party! Boogie Wipes!" to the tune of the Heatwaves' "Boogie Nights."
For anyone who's ever wondered if there's something better out there than the latest lotion-laden tissue for a little kid's chapped nose, Boogie Wipes is your answer. (And if you join the company's Boogie Bunch, you can score a 50-cent-off coupon! This is a good thing, considering the rather hefty price for the saline wipes.)
There are several available scents, including Fresh and Menthol, but why buy those when you can get the most awesome scent since the strawberry scratch-and-sniff sticker – Great Grape!
Let's face it – wiping a kid's nose every two minutes before the inevitable snot-all-over-the-face occurs isn't the most fun activity. But these amazingly scented wipes actually make it quite fun.
In fact, hold on, Quinn needs a wipe. SNNNNIIIIIIIFFFFFF. Sigh...
Lest you think we're snorting these grape-scented wonders, let me assure you we haven't quite flipped out that far – even though a sick Quinn, who wakes up intermittently in the night crying, does make us feel like we're losing our minds.
The good news is if we do ever go crazy, it'll be a fragrant fall into insanity.

Super Sizing Her Happy

The Happy Meal's healthier with less guilt on the side.

Before we had Quinn, we used to think we were going to be the kind of parents who only fed our children healthy food. And now that we've had Quinn, we try to be the dream. We really do.
But the kid likes fries.
And so since she's under the weather and has a terrible appetite – seriously, it's like she's fasting – we've allowed her to have one Happy Meal.
While we don't recommend McDonald's on a regular basis, we do have to give props to the fast food spot for trying to better themselves when it comes to kids' nutrition. Quinn got her fries, but she also got apple wedges and Minute Maid apple juice.
Oh, and she got a funny little toy Chipmunk as well. It's Alvin in a tux, and he cries, "Awesome!" or "OK!"
So while we may not be introducing McDonald's into our regular rotation, it's sure nice that they're helping us feel a little less guilty when we do wander through the Drive-Thru.

Nesting Monkeys to the Rescue!

Christmas was pretty great – our New Year’s was pretty rough.

It was Gen’s fault. She takes most of the blame.

See, rather than give nice gifts like most humans, she gave us the gift of pestilence.

And so the entire family was sick on the first day of 2012. (Perhaps foreshadowing the Mayan prophecy? Yeah, right – more like foreshadowing the need for more Kleenex and Vitamin C.)

Quinn has taken her illness harder than the rest of us. Her nose is constantly producing streams of snot – Derek actually wondered whether one could market snot for a profit – and her cough rumbles like Kilauea.

Worst hit was her appetite. New Year’s Eve was anything but an eating holiday for our 2-year-old.

Thankfully, today she woke feeling much better. And thanks to six Schylling Nesting Monkeys, given to Quinn by her grandma, she ate like a normal toddler – that’s not saying much, but it’s much better than the previous day’s three noodles and a couple of bites of applesauce.

The Nesting Monkeys are made like traditional Russian dolls – one fits into the other and the other fits into a bigger one – but look like Sock Monkeys.

The industrious monkeys entertained Quinn through her dinner, hiding grapes for her to find and consequently consume.

Tomorrow will surely bring better days for our family, with Quinn at least having eaten enough to nourish her tiny body and the Nesting Monkeys standing by in case we need to again play hide-and-seek with fruit.

Throwing Up Karma

"I'm OK!"

I suppose you could call it karma.

When I was a kid, I was a pretty sickly kid. Every year around Christmas, I would have an asthma attack.

Me being a kid meant I didn't drink the water and warm 7-Up I was supposed to nor did I take medicine well. Oh, and I didn't know what it really meant when my mom told me to "cough it up."

And so, being as congested as I was, there was always the inevitable public puke experience.

I threw up in our local drugstore, in our 1976 Cadillac and on the floor of my kindergarten classroom. Anywhere was fair game until I was old enough to either run to the bathroom or do what I needed to do to alleviate my congested condition.

No matter what, though, my mom was always there, rubbing my back reassuringly and cleaning up after my mess. I always wondered how she could do it – I never thought I'd be capable of that compassion and empathy, particularly because I have a very sensitive olfactory sense.

Well, last night karma paid me a visit at Jasmine Seafood, our favorite Chinese restaurant in San Diego.

We were with our best friends, Bex and Ty, and Ty's parents, enjoying a great meal of shrimp chow mein, choy sum, orange peel beef, and Cantonese style roast duck. Our little daughter, Quinn, had a steamed pork bun, a few pieces of the duck and grapes.

She seemed fine, playing with her newly acquired Handy Manny tools – she brought Rusty the wrench and Pat the hammer – and chattering away, all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Then she climbed into my lap, smiled, leaned forward and threw up directly on me – all over my black sweater, gray shirt and jean-clan lap. She actually got a good portion beneath my shirt as well.

I'll let you... uh... digest that.

The good news is: (1) She didn't make that heaving sound, which would have alerted other diners; (2) my nose was terribly stuffed so odor wasn't an issue; and (3) I apparently had little-to-no reaction, other than to lean her forward so Round 2 could be delivered on me as well. Other than a few soiled napkins, most of the damage was on me – there was no "Stand by Me" moment.

I carried her quickly to the bathroom, cleaned up as best we could, made sure she was OK and took her to the car.

The ride home was quick and dirty. Derek drove home while I sat in the backseat, holding Quinn's hand – don't worry about her, she was singing – and shirtless, save for a blanket wrapped around my midsection.

I guess you could call it payback. Heck, it's very likely only the beginning of payback.

The whole experience, however, has heartened me in realizing I'm more like my mom than I thought, and that is a very good thing.