Parenthood- An Abundance of Gross

Quite often I am the lucky recipient of incredibly gross behavior that requires me to say things that are even beyond my disgusting, perverse comprehension. I am the one who wanted a book called, "The Wonders of the Scab." Parenthood however has revealed a whole other level of nastiness.

"Stop putting things in your butt and trying to eat them!" 

"You cannot eat the snotty tissue, even if your Father did leave them all over the bedroom floor."

There is obviously the normal ones too-

"Don't pick your nose."

"Don't pick your nose and eat it."

"You cannot pick your  nose and wipe it on your bedroom walls."

"Yes, you do have to wipe."

"No, wiping does not consist of smearing poop on the bathtub."

Sigh.  I'm exhausted just typing up this list of disgusting things.  That's the part about parenthood that no one tells you.  Yes, it is loud. Yes, it is messy.  There is spit-up and snot.  There are mountains of diapers and you are covered in more bodily fluids than you ever knew were possible but no one tells you how absolutely gross, putrid and stinky parenthood can be. 

I, for one, never thought I would have to use a sock to wipe my kids ass in the woods one day. Did you?

The Dead Rabbits vs. the Natives

While in marriage counseling this week (Yup, still going. Go Team Mason!) we touched on a lot of relevant things.  How my work defines me, my need for validation and equality despite a continuous paycheck and a host of other issues that can cause marital strife when not addressed properly.  Somewhere in this the subject of our kids came up.  Our counselor made this observation-

"Well, at this point they have formed sort of a gang."  I glanced at H and nervously stated, "Great. We've got a roaming gang in our house.  All the time. Our house if Five Points. "  A pack of marauders.  The kids are close in age and work together to achieve whatever it is they want around the house.  Now that The Fifth Element is mobile it is even worse.  "They are a gang!", we both exclaimed!  Our mouths hanging open. 

Holy Hell. 

Then it hit me.  It's like the Gangs of New York in our house on an almost daily basis.  TD, the first born, is the Nativist and The Comedian is like a pack of Dead Rabbits.  The Fifth Element is like the bizarre scene at the end where an elephant just walks into the room wreaking havoc throughout the town square.  While they may work together occasionally for the good of the cause these kids war with each other daily and what is left is a path of destruction and mayhem miles wide. 

Go Team Mason!

The First Day of School, Knives Included

I'm no different than anyone else. I cannot believe that I have one child in Kindergarten now. Each day that I see her get on that bus I am surprised that we are already here.




Then The Comedian says to me yesterday morning, "I have my knife in my purse. I'm ready for school, Momma!"

Oh, Indeed.


Preschool has begun. The knife stayed home.

I Call Uncle, I am a Parenting Failure.

I feel completely and totally inept these days.  When I am out in public I feel like people are looking at me and thinking, "Lady, why in the world do you have three kids?"  I know that I am outnumbered. I look around me and feel like everyone is doing everything better, easier and in a less stressed out way.  I almost broke down in the middle of Target this morning when I couldn't steer the cart that is supposed to hold all three kids. A man in his 70s had to help me control them as The Comedian "houdini'd" herself from her straps and took off in the parking lot as I buckled the baby into her car seat. 

I've been trying to keep a grip on all these welling emotions. Trying to stay in control.  I keep looking at the other side, "I have three healthy, beautiful children"  and it shouldn't matter that each time I pick up The Fifth Element she slaps me, bites me, head butts or kicks me.  I know it isn't intentional, but I swear I've almost dropped her a half dozen times the last few days because of it.  Last week I felt I was treading water, this week I'm drowning. 

When H comes home I am exhausted. I am glassy-eyed and empty.  I want to give him my attention so badly, but when it takes me a whole day to remember to drink a glass of water or almost two hours to finish my lunch, it is awfully hard.  And I don't think he wants to hear about it anyway. 

I feel like such a failure as a mother right now.  I'm all restrained tears, restrained yells and out of ideas.  I keep telling myself that it is the ages.  That the three's and age of one are trying because no one can communicate well or do a lot for themselves.  Lately though that doesn't put the salve on the gaping wound that is my feelings of futility and worthlessness as a parent.

Lessons Learned

Every day is a learning experience or so they say.  This week I learned the following-

When you put cereal and milk into a sippy cup it creates a far greater mess when spilled than if you just hand your kid a cup of milk with no lid.  Seriously.  I think I am still scraping dried bits of oats and nut off my baseboards.

If your kid seems to be picking their nose for twenty minutes straight you should probably do more than just tell them to knock it off a few times.  There's a reason they are digging up there and it just might be because they stuck a bolt or metal nut in there.  I'm still trying to figure out where she found that tiny thing. 

That $5 grab bag at the craft store might end up costing you $200 in cleaning.  I fucking hate crafts.  The person who invented those tiny jewels to stick on things should be drawn and quartered. 

Sometimes a glass of wine can make bath time so much more pleasant.  Bath time for three kids under five when you are the sole parent for the week.  It makes for a long day.  I'm just sayin'.

Kids with Knives

Most mornings I wake up to The Comedian shaking a jar of gummy vitamins in my face. Other days she just wants to come and grab a quick snuggle before she sets off on a new day and new path of destruction. Today I awoke with a sack of bread being thrown in my face. "Open! Open!" I complied as I knew that she was going to take it downstairs to her sister and they would have the ultra healthy and not CPS worthy snack of bread and water before I could make it to the kitchen. Wily little things, those girls are.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw next.

As she turns to leave the room with the now open bag of bread I see she has something else with her.



Granted, it was a butter knife but still. She was carrying it just like that. I couldn't help but laugh at the perfect way in which she hid it behind her back and carried it so stealthly.

I weep and cackle simultanesouly for the boys she dates many years from now. She is going to be a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure.

Overheards- Toddlers with Knives

Scene:  The dinner table.  TD, The Comedian, H and myself are seated and The Fifth Element is on the floor playing with toys while we eat.

H:  "We don't hold knives over babies!"  He says to The Comedian who is swinging her table knife* over the top of The Fifth Element's head as she plays down below. 

Especially not at the dinner table.  It's just bad manners.


*All knives used in the making of this post were dull and void.  No babies were actually harmed in the making of this post. 

What No One Tells You About Parenting

I don't know what I thought it would be when we decided to take TD to a psychologist.  At first, I was just relieved that we would have someone to talk to about the tantrums and massive highs and lows.  Then, I became totally freaked out that they would say it was all about our horrific parenting (those free rangers man, you just can't let them breed!) and suddenly we would be watched constantly because why on earth else would these terrible tantrums be happening?!  Deep breaths. Breathe, Vicky.  Just breathe.

Instead I found a tall thin, kind-faced man who spoke in a happy voice that reminded me a lot of TD's own pediatrician.  It eased my fears and enabled me to take those deep breaths and feel that while last week we might have been at the bottom of a mountain looking up, today we have reached base camp 1 and we will leave it fully prepared to climb more of this behavioral mountain. 

Everyone says that parenting is hard. That is it exhausting.  That is takes up all your time.  When they do you think of the diapers, sleepless nights and teenage curfews.  You don't think about the possibility that your child might have a neurological issue that can be tweaked with diet or might in fact be hereditary.  You don't think that you will lie awake at night pondering each days events wondering just why she won't stop screaming. 

You don't think that you will realize that three out of the five people in your household are now in counseling and it will make you laugh out loud at the sheer craziness of it all.  No, no one tells you about that exhausting side of parenting.

Marriage Can Be Fucking Hard- Part II

H asked me this question recently, "Does it always have to be this hard?  Will it ever get easier?"  I took him to mean our life as a whole and hopefully not just our marriage or parenting because man, once you put those two together it is just downright exhausting.  They say the Army is the toughest job you will ever love but the dude who made up that slogan was clearly single and childless.

I believe it will get easier but not for a long time.  When you are an overachieving couple who travel for work and you throw three kids under five into the mix and a dog that loves to just drop "nuggets" all willy nilly onto the floor whenever she feels like it, life is not just a bit busy it is downright spastic.  Coordinating a family schedule is like creating strategic war maneuvers for most of today's families.  I know we are not unique.  In fact, I believe we are pretty average and that is the problem.  The pace, even when we cut out a lot of stuff, is daunting.  The kids being the ages that they are create such a demand on our emotions, bodies and minds. It all leads to epic meltdowns like I had last Friday with TD. 

What should have been our easy, no-school day turned into a day where her tantrums rolled in like seizures.  They held over our domain like black thunderclouds threatening to destroy every moment through the day.  Each time we survived one another arrived minutes later. This condition, and I am going to call it that, is something H and I cannot understand.  We have tried timeouts.  We have taken away privileges, eliminated sugar and done a reward system.  Nothing has worked.  We have gone the 1,2,3 Magic route and that worked the longest but it boils down to this very Veruca Salt motto, "I want what I want, when I want it." That is what TD tells us when we ask why she has these screamfests.  Screams that make our neighbors think someone is in peril.  Screams that last so long and have me reeling and unable to deal with anyone else in the house.  Cries that have me calling the pediatrician who tells me to restrain her with no eye contact and gives me the name of a child psychologist.  Sigh.  And that is that.  That is the next step and it is a scary one.  I feel I have failed TD as a parent.  Somehow I am not giving her something she needs.  Somehow I have missed a parenting class on this issue.  I need the therapist as much as her if only to have someone to talk to about our situation.

When you add this into what H and I are already trying to do with our own relationship it makes one feel like they have been cast about into the sea. The water just keeps rushing into your lungs as you begin to sink below the surface.  Drowning.  That's my current emotion. Do they have an emoticon for that?  Scotty, from the Enterprise, has just yelled, "She can't take much more Capt'n. She's gonna blow!"  Oh wait. That was in November and December.  And January and last Friday too.  Heh.  I want so badly for things to work out.  For things to remain calm.  I want to feel like I am doing something right again.  I am sick of feeling like I am spread too thin.  I'm sick of the demands.  I never knew that it would all be this hard and this non-stop.  Because like H I wonder, "Will it always be this hard? Will it ever get easier?"  If it doesn't soon I fear we are on a sinking ship. 

Maybe I just need to start going to bed at 6 p.m. before the kids and see what happens. 

Life in the Weeds

I keep thinking back to this saying I used to hear when I waited tables back in the day, "I'm in the weeds."  Truly, it runs through my brain on a continuous loop more and more.  The addition of a third child factored with a two-year old and more has put me over a barrel.

I look at my kitchen windows and see that only one blind has been pulled up to reveal the outside world.  It is at a haphazard angle and crooked while the remaining windows are still drawn shut.  I think to myself, "Yup, that about sums up my week. My life, as of late. Half-assed.  Haphazard and askew."  My shit is all apart. 

Take the fact that the kitchen sink clogged the other night.  Just before we were headed out the door for the Disney on Ice spectacular the damn thing clogs up.  As the kids sit down to an early bird dinner, TD asking, "What is wrong that we are having dinner so early?"  I remove the contents from underneath the sink and begin to unscrew the pipes.  I pray that dirty drain water doesn't spray me in the face.  The clog doesn't budge.  I scoop the water out of the sink and beg the girls to keep this to themselves. "DON'T TELL DADDY THE SINK IS CLOGGED.  We have to be in the city in an hour!"

He isn't even in the door when TD yells, "Daddy! The sink is clogged and Mommy...." Do I need to go on?  Cue clenched teeth and shoulders scrunched to my ears. 

Cut to the next morning. The sink is still clogged.  Armed with the bucket for disgusting drain water and a plunger I again remove the under the sink contents, get the trusty bucket in place and unscrew the last remaining pipe where surely the clog must be.  It's then I hear a noise that doesn't sound quite right.  I look to my right, then left. The plunger is missing.  Gone.  It was just here!  I peer over the counter to see The Comedian has gone stealth and taken the plunger from the kitchen and moved to The Fifth Element who is currently being held captive in her exersaucer.  You guessed it, she's sticking the dirty, toilet scuffing, sink unclogging, germ-infested plunger in the baby's face! 

"Plunge! Plunge, my cute baby sister, squishy cheeks! Let me plunge your kissy face!"  I swear, that is running through The Comedian's mind as she waggles and shoves the plunger into her sister's no longer clean face.  I charge and the plunger drops to the floor. The Comedian takes off running back into the kitchen.

CRASH! SPLASH!

I round the corner to see she has taken the bucket and poured it out onto the kitchen floor.  Dirt brown water, laden with coffee grounds and bits of old food slosh the wooden floor and seep out all over.  I scream. I pant with irritation and exasperation.  I bite my lower lip and tears prick my eyes.  If my hand were not so crusted in dirty sink water I would bite it to keep from screaming. 

In one minute this has all taken place.  This is just one of the minutes of my day.  It doesn't factor in the countless pairs of shoes and tiny toys I will trip over or crunch beneath my feet.  The popcorn I will find littered on the dining room table, kitchen floor and under the den coffee table.  The diaper that is removed and left for funkification on the den floor will be found hours after it was removed.  I will never be able to recall actually seeing The Comedian without a diaper at any given point but I know I must have put a new one on and realized one was missing.  Burp cloths will go in the trash.  The dog will poop on the floor.  Milk will be spilled more than once in various rooms and the dog will puke somewhere else.  Spit up happens, emergency baths are needed and Alfredo sauce will boil over from the sauce pan and become a thick, gluey mess on the burner and underneath it.  The laundry monster chuckles in a corner and thinks of spawning.

This is my life.  THIS is my life? This is my LIFE!  Oh Lord, this is my life.... It's sprinting for a marathon.

Forget 'pearls are optional. attitude is a must.'  This is life in the weeds and I feel like I am about to be eighty-sixed at any given moment.

The Sticky, Big Tape

What does it say about your day when it starts with a line like this-

"Mommy!  The Comedian has tape stuck all over her body!  The sticky, big tape that comes from the office!"

OY.

And with an eye barely cracked open I glanced over the edge of the bed where sure enough The Comedian was wrapped in packing tape from head to toe.  It wasn't even 7:30 in the morning. 

Detachable Penis

Scene:  The breakfast table.  It is barely 8 a.m. and I am working on my first cup of coffee.  T.D. sits across the table from me.  The Fifth Element is in my arms.

TD:  "Mom?  How did The Fifth Element get in your tummy?"

V:  "What?  Oh, you mean how did I have The Fifth Element?"

TD:  "Noooo.... How did The Fifth Element get IN your tummy?" 

V:  (Nervous smile, shooting eyes heavenward, thinking, "It is too early! Where is H when I need him?!")  "Eeehh, in my tummy. Right.  Well...." Swig coffee likes it is bourbon. 

And then I said the thing I swore I would never say because it is so cliched and so cheesy and as H put it 'wildly inaccurate because any two incestuous rednecks can make a baby!"  I said-

"Well, when a man and woman really love each other.."  Then I puked in my mouth.  OK, not really, but I wanted to.  "OK TD, let me start over. Men have sperm and women have eggs.  Sperm are a lot like little fish because they can swim.  The man gives the woman sperm to fertilize her egg, just like bees pollinating flowers. Got it?"

She nods, smiling.  I ask, "Are you sure you don't already know the answer to this?" 

TD:  "No.  Why?"

V:  "Just wondering. So the egg and sperm come together to make a baby that grows in the woman's tummy and that is how The Fifth Element got into mine."

TD:  "How did you get the sperm?" 

V: "Daddy gave it to me. It comes from his penis, which he puts in my vagina." 

TD: (Eyes wide, mouth hanging open) "He takes his penis OFF and gives it to you?!" 

V:  "Not quite.  We have to lay really close to each other to do this."

TD: "Oh. OK.  And some women have their babies through their vagina's and others get their stomachs cut open?" 

V:  (Can you tell she's been around a lot of pregnant women?)  "Yup.  That's how it works."

TD:  "When I grow up and have babies I want them to come out my vagina. No ones cutting me open!" 

Aren't you glad you came here for this sex education class today?

Trying Your Best

Thanksgiving brought us to the Tot Trot nearby. TD was originally nervous and full of performance anxiety but H and I let her know that all she had to do was try her best. After all, that is what we did in the adult Turkey Trot earlier that morning. It wasn't about winning at all.

Well, it's not always about winning, but sometimes it can be.  When did she get so big?

Tell Me It Is Worth It

It's a busy here. Actually, when isn't it busy here?  I've got three kids under five.  One of which does all of the following and more in a single day-

"Mom! The Comedian has food coloring!"  Yes, she did.  I entered the kitchen just as she was about to squeeze out drops of yellow food coloring onto the kitchen floor. Next to her feet was an uncorked bottle of wine she had also seized from the pantry. I don't know what kind of party she had in mind but I wasn't down with it. 

That same day she clogged the upstairs bathroom with toilet paper and then proceeded to take all the paper out and throw it on the bathroom walls.  Before I even got to that I had to pick up an unopened box of ob tampons that were all over the bathroom floor and in the tub. 

The tub.  She got in it at 5 a.m. and was stomping around throwing tub toys.  No, it didn't have water in it. Give me some credit. 

She found a stray orange marker and "stripe-ped" the den carpet with it.  Also her face, hands and soles of her feet. 

It sounds like I don't watch her and let her run around like an aimless barnyard chicken but when you are going from one mess to the other trying to clean it up she is paces ahead creating another snafu.  Throw in a dog, high maintenance preschooler ("But I want to make Valentine princesses and glittery heart flowers with you NOW! While jumping on the couch and cuddling and brushing my hair! Can we please!?! Why isn't Curious George on?") and a three month-old who likes to have her diaper changed and be fed in all this mayhem and it's overwhelming. 

Now is where I should insert that line about "it being all worth it."  It is, right?  Tell me it is.  Because when I'm cleaning up dog poop from my old ass dog (heh) who can't quite always keep it in her rear or make it outside, wiping two butts and doling out Bunny crackers like a corner dealer in Hamsterdam I seriously have to wonder. How is this shaping America's future?  Am I even remotely doing this whole parenting thing right because I feel like I'm involved in some sort of government experiment instead. 

The Sugar Highs and Lows

The subject of screaming and tantrums has come up before within this blog, especially where TD is concerned.  At first we chalked it up to the Terrible Two's followed by the Troublesome Three's, which everyone declared was way worse than anything we had ever witnessed before.  Right.  It seems that the "F*ck You! Fours" (described quite adequately by a girlfriend of mine) are really what it was all about this past year. 

We tried everything we could think of to rid our home of the yelling and tantrums and absolute hysterical meltdowns that occurred and went on and on and on and on and on.  There were time outs. We took away toys and other privileges, including play dates with friends.  We read and practiced '1,2,3 Magic' too.  We spoke to her pre-school teachers and found out that this behavior isn't exhibited at school. We spoke to her friends parents and found more of the same.  "She's an angel!" they would proclaim.  Huh.  Then how come when she gets home its a case of 'Bizarro TD'?

Then I had an idea.  This summer has brought on a lot of trips, special outings, parties and more.  The amount of sugar that has been pumped into this kid can sometimes reach stratospheric levels without us even being around.  Birthday cake here.  Juice boxes and cookies there.  Suddenly, we have days of insane behavior that no one can control.  We were feeling desperate again and wondering if she might have behavioral problems.  Last Saturday I took it upon myself to experiment with her body chemistry. I informed my mother and H what I had in mind and we all agreed to band together to see if this "test" would work.

No juice.  No desserts.  Only fruit as her form of sugar and anything else is given sparingly.  Really sparingly, if at all.  I don't care what other kids are eating at play dates. She can't have them.  It's milk or water all day.  We haven't baked at all this week and the goodies that people are still bringing to our home with our prepared meals are not being given to her.  It kills me to do this as we don't even have that much sugar in our house for the kids.  We don't give snacks that are processed and pre-made.  Still it was not enough.  She was getting sugar elsewhere and there were too many treats. It was literally driving her crazy and us as well.

Now, on day seven of the "no sugar" TD regime I have noticed a marked change in my child's attitude and conduct.  The drop in the number of time-outs and meltdowns is noticeable and she is downright pleasant a majority of the time.  I don't know how long this will hold, but if we attend some suped-up sugary party in the near future and she has a freak out again I can almost guarantee it is from a sugar high (I don't care what studies show there is a link with sugar and behavior) and then inevitable crashing low.

At Seven Months I Lose It

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  Actually, maybe it was just the worst of times.  The last few weeks have been a roller coaster ride of busy with a capital 'B' at our abode and in the last few days I began to crack.  Scary, large, saucer-eyes would appear in my skull as my jaw and fists would simultaneously clench.  My body was tired. It hurt and I felt like I had nothing left in me about an hour after waking.  By Wednesday afternoon I found myself sobbing randomly and it just continued.

People tell me the third kid breaks you, but I just can't wait for the relief that will come at the end of this pregnancy.  What?  Don't look at me like I don't know what I am talking about, I know it will be a challenge having a third child.  However, at least I won't be carrying that giant orb of weight that makes me nauseous, achy and full of pains that make it almost impossible to go up stairs by 10 a.m. and/or pick up either of the other two kids. Housework is a thing of the past.  I need that sort of strength back to power through and it's hard not having it.  I'll be physically capable of doing things once this kid is born and I can have a drink at the end of the day to make it all a bit softer around the edges. 

Yesterday was a day that broke me and I can safely say that if I hadn't been seven months pregnant it would not have been nearly so bad.  I would have had the energy physically to deal with all of this in a much better mind set.

Up at 6:30, neither TD or I are ready to start the day but The Comedian is all systems go as she beats down her door with fists of fury. 

A series of yells and rants, spilled milk and bowls lobbed at my head are what constitutes breakfast.  I forget to make coffee.

A diaper leaks.

I hear the now familiar bang of the toilet upstairs as I realize The Comedian has begun her new game of swishing her hands in the toilet water and wiping her face.  I lumber upstairs to clean up her and the wet mess.

Before my doctor's appointment I enlist TD into moving her nightstand and bookcase with all its books and toys out of her room before the bunk beds are delivered later in the day.  It's not a precise maneuver but it works and by the time the sitter arrives I am ready for my appointment. 

Wait, must scrub snot off TD's walls before new furniture is installed.  Anyone have a putty knife?  Kids are gross.

Realize there is the after effects of the snake bite medication smeared on the carpet in her room as well.  The dog has assed all over the house since coming home and I'm about to lose my mind from cleaning up yet another mess.

At doctor appointment I'm told, "Hey! Guess what! Your thyroid is low.  Time to do another test!"  Kick ass.  My iron is low too.  Did you know that basically all your levels are low but "Cheers!" your glucose is fine.  The midwife tells me that I need to spend an hour in the morning on my left side resting and another hour in the afternoon doing the same thing.  I almost go into hysterics laughing at how ridiculous she sounds as I tell her about the ages of the other two kids and school no longer being in session.  She tells me I may need to "lock my 18 month-old out of the room" to rest this way.  I note that surely she is half-joking and that she doesn't have kids. 

Weep in car from exhaustion and hope to God that H made it on his morning flight home.  Shake fist in air like Scarlett O'Hara making a dirt field oath.

Home again, I relieve the sitter and am grateful the kids have just finished lunch.  I begin to make my own when the furniture arrives.  This occurs at the same instance that I hear the toilet slamming again from the downstairs bathroom. The Comedian is at it again.  This time toilet paper is draped around the room.  Sigh.  Must. Buy. Toilet. Clamps.

While the furniture guys question me about set-up and other pertinent things the following things happen in under thirty minutes. 
     -The Comedian finds a marker.  She writes on walls, floors and windows.  TD yells, "MOM! The Comedian has your water!!!"  I run back downstairs to find the kid drinking orange water.  Funny, I didn't have Tang to drink....WAIT.  She's dipped an orange marker in the cup and is now drinking/pouring it down her shirt front, the table, chair and floor.  Yippie!
     -TD yells to me, "MOM! The Comedian has a piece of pizza!"  Great, the kid got my lunch.  But on closer inspection I see that is not the case.  As I bypass the kid on the stairs, removing the mashed pizza from her fists as she trails it up the staircase in a smearing mess I realize my plate is still on the counter. Huh.  However, the trash can in the kitchen has been emptied and that is where the pizza comes from. But, of course.
     -TD yells,  "MOM! The Comedian has a brownie!!!"  WHAT THE FUCK? I mean seriously?  I am still cleaning up the staircase, moving out of the furniture guys way and trying to keep The Comedian busy with toys. SHE WAS JUST HERE!  A BROWNIE?  I silently walk to the kitchen to find an open bag of brownies on the counter.  There is a child's step stool directly underneath.  I call to TD and ask how in the world this has occurred since the brownies were on a high shelf.  She's helped herself and didn't clean up.  Brownie bits litter the floor and I see that The Comedian is feeding Lex a nice portion of brownie.  I inwardly think, "If that fucking dog dies from chocolate poisoning after surviving a snake bite last week and costing us a grand in medical bills I will be so pissed!"  I grab at brownie bits on the floor and throw the dog back outside where she was until just moments ago.  Who let her in?  I can only imagine. 

The furniture guys leave.  I survey the room and move all dangerous objects, screw bits and plastic bag aka  inhalants from the floors.  As I am sliding a box spring out of the hallway into another room I once again hear, "MOM! The Comedian is up the ladder!"  Of course she is.  I walk into TD's room to find this precious 18 mos. old climbing the bunk bed ladder that has been placed against a door.  Not the beds. 

I am done. I am so done.  It's only 2 p.m.  I collapse in a chair and weep.  TD hugs me and it makes me cry harder.  I want my old self back.  I want energy and freedom to move the way I need to and not feel like I'm as slow as molasses in January or that each time I lift The Comedian my insides will pop out.  This better be the worst day we have until this new kid arrives.  I wish for a glass of wine and dry my eyes.  It's almost nap time. 
I feel like the worst mother in the world.

My Inner Andy Rooney Comes Out. Again.

Changes are a'comin' to this household in the form of Baby Trois a.k.a the Fifth Element.  We purchased a slew of furniture last weekend to turn TD's solo room into a room for deux complete with bunk beds. I swear this time I will finish decorating the room.  Really, I will. 

The Comedian has been in the converted crib to toddler bed about a month or so now and with great success.  Since bed shopping this past weekend she wants to be in the room with TD at night too.  I am taking this all as a positive sign that once we move her over into the lower bunk she will adjust and be content.  Then the Internet stepped in with a cute little note in my inbox titled, "Is Your Toddler Ready for a Real Bed?"  Of course, I clicked and read the article.  Any helpful hints or ideas that we didn't need or use with TD would be more than welcome. 

Then I found myself screaming at the computer screen as I read the following-  

"Another tactic, although it requires a little more work, is to throw a "big-kid bed" party. Choose a date to unveil the new bed, and talk up the event a week in advance. On the big day, have a party and invite friends and grandparents."

Yes, yes, I know this is just "another tactic" but for some reason when I read this idea it really pissed me off. My yelling had me sounding like some Andy Rooney impersonator.  I griped on and on about how ideas like this create overly sensitive children who can't cope with real change and blah, blah, blah.  It's not that I subscribe to the Betty Draper way of parenting and lock my kids in the closet, but the idea of making such a big deal out of something that is just a natural occurrence in the flow of life just hit me the wrong way.  Not everything has to be so monumental, you know?  It's just a freakin' bed.  It's we, the adults, who see more into it than is necessary. 

On the other hand maybe I need to find a new therapist to deal with my new found "I Never Had a Big Girl Bed" party and tell my parents how I now feel my childhood was not complete and I got jiped.  Wait. I don't even remember being placed in a bigger bed, which probably didn't have side rails.  I'm just sayin'.

We're Doing Something Right

There are so many days, moments and even weeks where as a parent you wonder if you are doing anything right. It is hard to see the big picture and not be stuck in the muck and mire of daily living and realize that maybe; just maybe you are doing something right as the parents to your kids.


I had a moment like that today. TD was playing with her dollhouse, something I bought for her with such great expectations at Christmastime and one of those toys that did not hit the mark. As she set up the house and played with the dolls, I heard her say, "It's OK. What seems to be the problem? Oh, well, if something is broken, that is OK. Just tell me and we'll try to fix it together."

It seems small but it was in that quiet moment that I realized she is actually listening and learning to what we have to say about how to solve problems without tantrums and fights. Her dolls did not bicker, freak out or throw themselves on the floor in disappointment as she is sometimes prone to do. They quietly resolved the problem of whatever was broken in a calm manner. It is what we try to do with her each time a situation like this occurs. We are often left wondering what we are missing or doing wrong when this behavior just keeps cropping up. It is how we talk to her and what she seems to never hear or comprehend.

Yet, she must, on some level. I have to say it was quite heartening to hear and gave me the boost I needed as a parent in a somewhat frazzled week. Later, she even said to her dolls, "It's fine. I love you just the way you are."

I got a bit emotional then. 

If Life Was a Movie It Would Be Funny

If it was a movie it would be funny.  You would watch it play out on the screen and think, "Oh my God! What more could happen to this family in such a short period of time?"  The on-screen family would bumble through the mess and we would all laugh as we munch our salty, sweet snacks and guzzle gallons of soda.  As it is I just tell myself, "It could be worse. Just roll with it."

It started with the car being totaled and the need to replace it with another car payment, er car.  At this point we were all atwtitter with the money I would be making from last month's work and how this would help with new things for the baby (it's a girl!), paying bills and saving.  Ah, relief and answered prayers had come just in time.  Then the water heater died and flooded our basement.  We laughed a bit nervously saying, "Well, at least we have that extra money coming in."  Then the new car got hit.  The damage is not abysmal, but it still costs more than I would like or think is remotely reasonable.  Sunday, on our way to church we got a flat tire. "Well, I needed new front tires on the truck anyway..."  I just love forking over $300 in one grimy afternoon, is more like it.

That brings us to yesterday afternoon.  Sitting in the auto place waiting for the tires to be replaced I was grateful for the partially blocked off toy area.  The girls looked at books, played with old action figures and roamed about quietly.  For the first twenty minutes.  Suddenly, I see a giant puddle of water crawling across the floor and notice the stroller has tipped over.  The water bottles I packed for us were leaking all over the place at a rapid pace.  Using only the brown, non-absorbent paper towels the auto place had I began to mop up the mess. Not in time for The Comedian though who had already discovered the tiny river and was traipsing around the waiting room leaving wet, scattered footprints all over the place.  I thought of it all as a lawsuit waiting to happen.  I crawled around the other patrons mopping up the mess, cleaning The Comedian and thwarting her attempts to climb every chair and wall in the place. 

In the next hour we exhausted the snacks.  The kids began to mutiny and I didn't blame them.  The Comedian found an old Tootsie Roll on the floor and ate it wrapper and all.  Sticky, brown goo I initially thought was motor oil drooled down her face and clothes. The minutes ticked by.  I looked for our truck again and realized it was no longer in the garage or the parking lot.  WTF?  Where was the car?  I went to the service desk and found out that while The Comedian's diaper grew large in size and sag (smart Mommy had forgotten in the truck) the truck had been finished for quite some time and parked on the street.  The mechanic then called our home, not our name in the waiting area, to tell me to what?  Walk and get the truck?  I glared and tried not to huff and puff demon-like smoke as I explained, "I've been sitting here for two and a half hours.  Just sitting here! You called my house?! Not even my cell?"  I paid the bill and tried to make a swift exit.  I was pregnant lady, angry and starving with angry, starving, bored, over-tired children.  The stroller was grabbed, The Comedian placed in it. In our swift exit we forgot the keys and a sippy cup, which I later found in a bin of tires. Naturally.

Five minutes later we met H in a new, lauded Mexican restaurant across the street.  Five minutes after that H proclaimed, "Remind me to never take the kids to a Mexican place again."  The nap-deprived, hungry kids were rebellious and rigid with anger.  Tortilla chips were used like daggers.  Salsa like napalm. TD screamed as an ant crawled across the table.  The first of many.  The food arrived greasy and tasteless.  Chips and salsa debris littered and splattered the table as The Comedian found some refried beans to hurl around. TD complained her tacos weren't up to par and one bite from me through a clenched, trying not to gag smile confirmed it.  An ant crawled through The Comedian's hair as she poured a milk cup down the front of herself.  We were all on the verge of losing it.  H and I pushed our food around.  The waiter hovered beyond excess making H and I surly.  No wonder the place was empty.  I killed more ants, called for the bill and H took the kids to the car as I waited.  I felt like I needed a shower. 

I wanted to bury my head in my hands as I waited for the check and wallow for a moment but what good does that do?  I just had to think, "If this was a movie, I would find this funny. If this was a movie, I would find this funny."

Two Kids, One Mom and a Junk Yard

"Um..yeah, if you could just pick up the plates and EZ-pass at the collision place tomorrow that would be great....." I have now succeeded in making H sound like Lumbergh.  I asked him if there were any other items in the car and he said, "Maybe a box. That's it."

So I went to the collision place today- eesh. On top of going to the grocery store, trying to get some work done- blogging and otherwise, building a volcano, calling the cable company, insurance company, doing laundry and cleaning the house.  I'm leaving this week for a business trip and there is loads to do before I head out on Wednesday.  I feel like I'm forgetting something. Right! The kids. I also made sure they didn't run in traffic, burn themselves on a hot stove, fight each other to the death and act like wolves.  OK, so they acted a bit like wolves and The Comedian did bite her sister. Again.  But they are still in one piece despite their whirling dervish of a mother.

H left out a few things though.  Like money.  There was money in the car.  An umbrella, a box full of CDs for work it seems, a glove compartment full of stuff including sunglasses and just a plethora of junk that needs to be sorted through. 

When I got to the collision center I told them I was there to pick up the plates for a '98 Corolla.  The receptionist looked at me as I shifted The Comedian on my hip and asked, "Do you need a screwdriver?"  Um..what?  "Why would I need a screwdriver?" I asked.  "To take off the plates" (insert the silent word, "Dumbass" here.)  I snarled smiled sweetly and said, "If I had known I had to take off the plates myself I wouldn't have brought two kids. I thought they were at the front desk with the keys and a box of stuff." More smiling on my behalf.  "Nope, it's all in the junk yard.  You have to go get them."

YES! Just what I wanted to do today! I totally woke up this morning thinking that I wanted to haul my four year-old and sixteen month-old into a junk yard of broken down cars, dirt, shards of glass and twisted metal.  Can I please? Huh? Huh? Can I?!  Luckily a manager stepped in and said, "Ma'am we can send someone out to get the plates." 

Which was true.  Except five minutes later I still had to claim my items as the mechanic unscrewed the license plates. I put both kids in the backseat of the Corolla and ripped apart the car collecting all the items H had left behind.  Then the nice man toted the box to my car for me too because after scrambling from the front to the back to the front to the back seats just to grab a squealing Comedian out of the car in my falling down materinty capris (WHY CAN'T THEY MAKE A PAIR OF MATERNITY PANTS THAT DON'T SHOW PLUMBERS CRACK?!) I sort of needed some help.  TD was content to run around in the dirt during this production looking at the various shards of glass and asking ninety bazillion questions about our impending doom via junk yard car or jagged metal.  To say that the phrase, "Your father...." didn't escape from my lips at least once would be a lie. 

I said goodbye to my old, trusty friend the Corolla and that was it.  The car that took me across country more than once is no more.  Tomorrow we pick up our new car that we purchased this weekend.  Another chapter closes as a new one begins.