Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Mommy should have known better.

While running on the treadmill at the gym this afternoon, I found myself reflecting on the day so far and feeling quite pleased. Of course there were the usual incidents of sister hitting brother in the face with a plastic screwdriver, sister dumping her cup of Cheerios on herself in the car and singing with glee, and brother melting down over me giving him an orange popsicle over a red one. And obviously because Mommy (a.k.a. Barbara Crapper, the culinarily inept sister to Betty Crocker) tried a new recipe -- homemade chicken nuggets -- she burned herself when oil splattered all over the stovetop and cabinets. Those events are givens on any old day.

And maybe it was because the children were clear on the other side of a 15,000 square foot facility, but I did feel content and peaceful while running today. And I thought to myself, STUPIDLY, that despite these and several other less than pleasant events, "This has been a pretty good day so far."

Moms! If you find yourself wanting to say this statement, or even think it, don't! This thought is not allowed to cross your mind until the kids are asleep and it is after 8:00, the house is picked up, and your wine / beer is in your hand. THEN you may think this. NOT at 4:00 when the day is still young.

Mommy should have known better.

Work-out ends and serene Mommy goes to childcare room to retrieve the children. Immediately upon entering, I see my 18-month old daughter standing at the front desk with a childcare worker. Apparently she had just made a gift in her diaper and they were about to page me to come deal with it (which would have interrupted my happy time, so I am glad she held it a few extra minutes). I pick her up and immediately smell that yes, indeed, their assessment is accurate. My son comes running and I ask him to go retrieve his shoes out of the cubby. After a few seconds, he reappears with a look of confusion and tells me they are not there. Of course they are there, Buddy. Look again. Nope, Mommy. Okay, the stench coming out of her butt is really brutal. Let's find the shoes and get going, okay? I give the childcare worker a description of the shoes, and we all begin looking. We look and look. And look. They are gone. Apparently some other 3 or 4 year old little boy thought my son's PRECIOUS Buzz Lightyear shoes that LIGHT UP were so cool that he wanted them for himself. And apparently the parent-of-the-year who picked up said child did not notice his new shoes.

Now that I have searched the entire childcare facility, all the while holding stinky-butt, I (in a very obvious loud and irritated tone directed at the gym employees) tell my son that "He was just going to have to walk to the car in socks" and that "Mommy will go to the store tomorrow and buy him new shoes because those are the only shoes that currently fit him." Petty? Yes.

Once we reach the car, I start it up and notice that the external temp is 102 degrees. I change my daughter's vile diaper in this heat, pack both kids into their seats and head home. My son cries the entire 10 minute drive about losing his shoes. "I don't want new shoes from the store! I want my Buzz Lightyear shoes! Where are they? Let's find them!" Over and over and over. Thank you to the oblivious parent whose child now owns my son's shoes.

We arrive home, and although Mommy would love a shower, I recall that there are clothes in the washer that have to be dried before bedtime -- namely my son's mattress cover and sheets, since he soaks through his pull-up and pees his bed nearly every night. While I am quickly switching the laundry (and bear in mind we have been  home for 3 minutes) I hear the kids fighting and they come tearing into the laundry room. He pushes her (he claims because she pushed him first), she falls over, cries, which causes him to cry because he knows this isn't good. Mommy explodes, putting each in separate rooms. I decide this is a good time for my shower.

15 minutes later, feeling somewhat refreshed, I begin to prepare dinner -- the meal I spent over an hour preparing earlier -- dicing chicken, marinating it, covering it in egg followed by a flour-panko-salt-pepper-garlic mixture, frying it in oil, and baking it. The arm burns and 2 dishwasher loads were totally worth it because I made chicken nuggets! Surely the kids will approve?

To quote my son, "Mom, where did you get these chicken nuggets? Why are they so bad and gross?"

Lesson learned, Mommy. Never speak (or think) too soon.

Friday, June 22, 2012

A post entirely about child #2

Just another day with an 18-month old:

1. The night before your 18-month old daughter will cry off and on all night. You never really learn why.

2. In the morning, you will take her in for her 18-month well visit. She will get 2 shots.

3. She will take a 50 minute nap after said shots and wake up screaming.

4. You will decide to skip the gym to fit 2 major errands into the afternoon: Costco and grocery store. You don't have time to fit the gym in as well, and let's face it -- no one will want to take her from you today.

5. You will pack up the kids, drive 15 minutes to Costco, unload them in 90 degree heat into the shopping cart, walk up to the entrance, and discover that your wallet is at home.

6. You will drive home to retrieve wallet, abandon Costco mission but still make it the grocery store since you have no food for dinner.

7. You will stupidly attempt a recipe off of Pinterest that includes fancy things like avocado and zest of lime.

8. While preparing dinner, your 18-month old daughter will pull the heaviest pot you own out of the cabinet and drop it on your foot.

9. While you are wiping up the floor after her nightly dinner disaster (on your hand and knees), that same delightful daughter will walk up to you and pull a handful of hair out of your head.

10. She will wrap up this gem of a day with a temper tantrum because you will not allow her to wear necklaces to bed. Because, despite your bruised foot, bald scalp, and sleep deprivation, you actually do not want to strangle her.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

"Uh-oh Mommy"

If you have not potty-trained a boy, you may not know the importance of the phrase "point it down." This concept is instrumental in order to protect your bathroom floor, walls, and, well... all of your bathroom. Some parents of boys opt for the stand-and-train method, but since 99% of the world's toilets (including our own) are well above the height for this to even be a possibility right now, we went the sit-and-train route.

As with all aspects of parenting our son, we need to repeat everything several hundreds of times. The phrase "point it down" is used at just about every potty break, and usually, he does pretty well getting the pee in the potty. Today, however, Mommy heard "uh-oh" from the bathroom, and knew that something that came out of him and was meant to be in the toilet probably wasn't.

Before I continue, let me set the backdrop here.
#1: Mommy is cooking chicken on the grill outside.
#2: 18-month old sister is extremely (borderline psychotically) attached to Mommy these days.

Mommy has just run back in after flipping the chicken on the grill. She hears son say "uh-oh" from the bathroom and knows that even though she does not want to, she needs to learn the truth and deal with it. Upon entering the bathroom, she notices a sea of liquid on the floor (something that does happen from time to time) but then realizes that the pee-sea is actually coming from under the basket of magazines and books. This evidence leads her to deduce that her son must have peed straight forward, or perhaps upward even, creating an arc of pee that drenched the entire basket on the opposite bathroom wall. Mommy lifts the basket up and out of the bathroom, but since baby sister has followed her in there, the dripping wet pee basket is lifted directly over sister's head. Mommy then wrestles herself from sister's grasp in order to go grab paper towels and returns to find sister standing directly in the middle of pee-pond, staring at her brother, still sitting on the toilet.

As I begin explaining that everything in the basket will have to be thrown away, all of Mommy and Daddy's magazines and all of his own books, he cries and begs me to "clean" his books and not throw them away.

Once the basket is tossed and floor is cleaned, Mommy recalls that she is also cooking dinner! Again, wrenching the death grip of her 18-month old daughter's fingers from her legs, she rushes outside to salvage the burning chicken, and in her haste, touches the grate and sears her fingers.

2 hours later -- I kid you not -- he does it again. This time, however, "It's okay, Mommy. It only got all over the floor."

Thursday, June 7, 2012

A new word

My 1-year old daughter has recently taken up the habit of trying to grab a hold of my 3-year old son's frontal appendage. Her latest attempt, while getting into pajamas tonight, led to the following conversation with him.

"No, you don't touch your brother's penis."
"But I can touch my own penis."
"Yes, but she cannot touch your penis, just like you cannot touch her..."
Yikes. I had not introduced this word to him yet.
"Her what?"
"Her vagina."
"Her WHAT?"
"Her vagina. She does not have a penis. She is a girl. Girls have vaginas."
"Where did her penis go?"
"She never had one. She was born as a girl."
"She is not a girl. She is a baby."
"She is a girl and you are a boy. You were born that way."
"Well, where is her vagina?"
"It is covered by her diaper right now."

I watched the wheels turning in his head as he listed everyone he knows who is a boy (Daddy, Papa, Poppy, friends at school, Mickey Mouse...) and who is a girl (Mommy, sister, Nana, Mimi, Dora the Explorer...) and pieced together this new information about everyone's anatomy.

After about 475 questions, eventually the conversation changed topics. However, later when my husband called to say good night to the kids, my son immediately piped in with his newfound terminology. My husband was provided with a dissertation on penises and vaginas and who has what. Tomorrow night's bath might be a little bit more interesting.

Monday, June 4, 2012

A Celebration

This week officially marks one year since we jumped into underwear and started potty-training our son. Being the festive fellow that he is, he wanted to commemorate this happy occasion, and did so twice today.

Event #1: While peeing on a public toilet a local farmstead, he neglected to point his peeter into the bowl, thus spraying 10% of the urine on Mommy's hand (who was frantically trying to control the stream), 30% of the urine all over Mommy's leg, and 60% of the urine all over the bathroom floor.

Event #2: Despite a lengthly conversation about what to do if he needed to go potty at the gym, including a threat that he would not be allowed to play in the pool after the gym if his underwear did not stay dry... When I picked him up at the childcare room after my workout, his underwear, shorts and shirt were all soaked with pee. Since it is 93 degrees outside, the only outdoor activity that is remotely pleasant is playing in our $40 plastic pool (currently the favorite toy in our house), so we are therefore stuck inside until bedtime as this frustrated mommy is following through with her promise.

Happy Anniversary, little man. It is has been a rocking year.
Toot (me blowing my celebratory horn).