Dirty Little Secret

So Hot Guy has taken Ironflower and Lovebug to Kansas to stay with their grandparents. For a week. Initially, I had a lot of anxiety about this. I’ve never been so far away from them, never been without them for so many nights. And yet, now that they are safely there, I feel at peace.

Because taking care of one toddler? It’s cake.

An endless supply of snacks and occasional trips in the car (his favorite phrase these days is “Go car!”, which can be amended to screams of “Car go!” if you don’t respond quickly enough) and he’s pretty happy. Plus, he doesn’t care what shows we watch when the TV is on.

So yeah, parents of only children? You have it easy.

Not that there’s anything in the world that would make me give up any of my 3 in 4 years, but still. This is just so much easier.

Of course, I didn’t think so when I (briefly) had only 1 kid. Then I thought having a kid was so much work.  And it was, compared to my life of having no kids.

So I think what I need to do when the big kids come back is borrow a few more kids. So that I’ll have 5 or 6 to manage. Then I’ll send the extras back to their (well-rested) parents and having 3 will seem easy.

In fact, I think that’s what all of us who feel overwhelmed should do – borrow some extra kids. Your kid is tiring you out? Handle 3 for a week. Three kids driving you crazy? Try 5. Five kids stressing you out? Have 7. And those of you that have more than 5 kids? Send them to whiners like me and have some time off. Because you? You don’t need to be reminded of how much more difficult things can be.

Sure, “time off” isn’t quite the same when you have kids. You spend your time cleaning their closets and rearranging their rooms while they’re gone, like I have (amazingly, though, I still haven’t gotten around to cleaning their bathroom.). You worry about what they’re doing and how they’re feeling and whether their father is remembering to put sun block on them. You miss their hugs and their commentary, though maybe not their love of the Disney Channel.

So it’s not the “time off” of yesteryear, which involved lots of booze, trashy television and complete relaxation. (That wasn’t just me, right?) But it’s still time where you don’t have to do a lot of the more annoying parenting tasks like settling arguments, cooking (ChunkyMonkey prefers meals of fruit, milk, peanut butter and crackers and who am I to argue?) and listening to Phineas and Ferb.

At least that’s how I’m looking at it.

Today I ran into my neighbor at the grocery store. Not so strange, even though we were not at the grocery store located several blocks from our respective homes but at one several towns away which has lower prices. And is always SO. DAMN. CROWDED. Usually I just split the difference and go to the slightly closer, slightly cheaper and significantly less crowded one that’s located one town away. But what also had to buy Lovebug a boogie board, or as I used to call one, a kickboard. His sister has one and there were savage fights over it during our last trip to the pool.

Plus, it was only $5.

Which I probably saved shopping at the super crowded grocery store conveniently near 5 Below, aka, the shop where they sell cheap kick boards.

So I see my neighbor and she almost stops in her tracks. Which is dangerous at super crowded store, because those bitches will run you over. We smile and say hi and as we race in opposite directions, she calls, “You’re so brave!”

She was child-free – apparently I should have been friendlier with her so that maybe she would share her baby-sitter with me. Because I had all 3 kids with me.

You would think that because I had them all corralled in the genius contraption known as the car cart (that’s right, my kids are so close together in age that all 3 of them fit on a car cart) and that generally they are well-behaved kids, shopping with all 3 of them shouldn’t have been such a big deal.

I should, in fact, be using this post to scoff at being called brave for taking 3 kids to the grocery store. Because, I mean, really, it’s not like going to war. It’s not even like dealing with them for 2 weeks straight by yourself. Which I have done.

But I am not scoffing. Because I loathe unfamiliar grocery stores. Add in construction and rearrangement, aisles not meant for the super-size car cart and the fact that ChunkyMonkey was hungry and I”m surprised we all survived.

So, thank you, neighbor. And thank you for complimenting the kids’ behavior when we ran into you at the check-out. True, you may have been complimenting because the pinching fight Ironflower and Lovebug had just finished left no marks, but I don’t care. It’s your kind thought that counts.

Now how about sharing that baby-sitter?

I am currently sporting a Cars band-aid around my thumb. It is band-aid number 4 and I have it so tightly wound that it’s going to leave marks. In fact, I’m slightly concerned that my wound is going to need more than a band-aid.

It happened in the kitchen. Almost every injury I’ve gotten since having kids has occurred in the kitchen. I was cutting up cantaloupe while trying to block out a big kid screaming game as well as translate 20 month old gobbledy-gook. ChunkyMonkey yelled in frustration, I turned to look at him and . . .blood gushed from my thumb. I ran it under water, then returned to all the mommy duties. Soon I realized it was still bleeding.

And as I sat there at dinner, paper towels wrapped around the thumb and an inability to clearly explain to Ironflower and Lovebug what I’d done, I had an alcohol flashback.

The most fun wedding I ever went to (er, um, I’m sorry if I went to your wedding and that this wasn’t it. I’m sure I had a fabulous time at your wedding too. I swear.) was my friend Mimi’s. I was a bridesmaid in a cute dress who knew most of the guests, there was an open bar and lots of flirtatious men. What wasn’t fun about it?

Well, there was the broken glass. Dropped near me, I quickly hopped up to get a waiter or paper towels or something. But, um, I had already taken off my strappy high heels. So apparently I stepped on some glass. It didn’t hurt much, which I took to be a good sign and not a sign that I’d had more champagne than necessary. So I wrapped some paper towels around my foot and kept dancing.

When the paper towels bled through, I just asked someone to get me new ones. I was having so much fun.

It wasn’t until early Sunday morning, as I practically crawled downstairs to my bathroom, that I became concerned about my foot. It throbbed, but so did my head, so I didn’t worry until I saw the trail of blood. It went from the front door up the stairs to my room and was actually coming back down the stairs.

Yeah, my foot was still bleeding.

You know when a good time to go to the ER is? Early on a Sunday morning. Unless, of course, you can’t adequately explain why your drunk ass didn’t come into the ER the night before. The doctor actually called extra nurses in to hear my explanation of how I’d embedded the glass into my foot by continuing to dance.

Despite laughing at me, though, they gave me something that erased my hangover while they cleaned  and put seven stitches in my foot.

When I looked at my children at dinner and tried to explain how I cut my thumb, I felt exactly like I did in the ER. It was like the drunken instinct to hop right up – of course I’d keep chopping, even though I’d moved my thumb! And of course I’d just wrap some paper towels around it and keep going. Because just like I couldn’t pass up fun back in the day, I couldn’t pass up mommy duty last night.

I could totally pass up having stitches on the bottom of my foot again, though. That sucked. I hated the thought of crutches, so I spent weeks hobbling in flip flops and actually pulled a muscle in my foot as well.

Anyone else ever noticed parallels between having young kids and being drunk?

Every time I hear a kid crying or screaming in public, I think, “Thank God that’s not one of mine.” Except, of course, when it is.

There was a time when I was absolutely mortified when one of my kids had a tantrum . . .or even cried. . .in public. Ironflower didn’t have a lot of public tantrums, or even private ones, so when she did I always felt completely at a loss. Lovebug had more, but all that did was make me humiliated more often.

And along came ChunkyMonkey. ChunkyMonkey has had more public tantrums than I can count. Usually when I had no option but to deal with them, as he’s much more likely to do it when I’m alone. And when the big kids are having fun somewhere.

I talk calmly to ChunkyMonkey. I say “No bite!” in a strict voice. I carry him facing away from me so he can’t bite or scratch, sideways so he can’t kick and go on about my business because I am no longer mortified.

Or humiliated.

Or even embarrassed.

When one of my kids starts screaming in public now (Lovebug has not completely given up the tantrums, he’s more like a heroin addict weaning himself slowly with the methadone of whining), I find myself slightly annoyed. In fact, it’s quite similar to my reaction when they whine. Or poke each other for no good reason. Or talk incessantly at the top of their lungs.

I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten much better at dealing with tantrums (although, thanks to ChunkyMonkey, my ability to dodge head butts and kicks has gotten a lot better) in my 5 and a half years of motherhood. I certainly wouldn’t say that my children have gotten mellower.

I would say that my attitude towards other people has changed, though. I no longer give a shit what they think. You want to glare at me as I carry my screaming 20 month old out of the 7-11 because I wouldn’t let him carry my precious Big Gulp? Fine. You give him your Big Gulp then.

How do you feel when your kid throws a tantrum in public? Mortified? Humiliated? Embarrassed? Annoyed? Sad? And how do you handle it?

I might need some ideas if ChunkyMonkey gets any stronger.

I don’t know whether to blame my very, very, very late ’30′s or my children, but something around here has turned what used to be pretty normal periods into weeks from HELL. Add in the fact that said weeks are unpredictable (in fact, this week started LATE and I was imagining myself as one of the few women whose bodies overcome tubal ligation. As in, pregnant again. As in, mother of 4. As in, no semblance of sanity left.) and you have a recipe for various disasters.

Like having to ask your 5 year old to go up and get you a tampon.

Because I have kept my daughter ignorant of such things, I had to describe what they looked like.

(Generally, we’re pretty open around here – correct names for body parts, explaining that touching yourself is fine in private, daddies plant seeds in mommies to make babies – but periods are a lot of detail. My own mother was very, very open about hers and it freaked me out so much that I dreaded it for years. I even ignored my first one for a day or two. So I see no reason to depress Ironflower ahead of time with details of blood, bloating and bitching.)

So my description was clear enough, apparently, because she found me one easily. She brought it to the downstairs bathroom, where I had discovered my desperate need a few minutes earlier. But naturally she wanted to hang out, not hand over the tampon and get away.

“What’s it for, anyway?” she asked. This is the problem with encouraging your children to ask questions and to always providing them with an over-abundance of information.

Naturally, ChunkMonkey came toddling in at that moment. And because I was busy trying to think of an explanation that would not freak her out while, um – let’s say “covering my shame”, shall we? – I was not prepared. And because I was not prepared, ChunkyMonkey proceeded to grab the tampon and throw it into the sink.

“Nice job, ChunkyMonkey, ” I said sarcastically. Ironflower asked if the tampon was supposed to go in the sink. Ironflower still misses a lot of my sarcasm. For which I am grateful.

“Does it help with clogs?” she asked hopefully. We have a sink clogging issue at our house, possibly because everyone except ChunkyMonkey had SO MUCH FREAKING HAIR. Anyway, I pondered the clog question with a slight smirk.

In the end, I said that mommies’ bodies had to get rid of stuff each month and that tampons helped. I waited for follow up questions (nervously), but there were none. “Will you make lunch when you’re done?” she asked cheerfully.

I nodded and asked her to shut the door. The whole situation could have been avoided, of course, if I just kept a stash in the downstairs bathroom.

How do you handle those kinds of situations? Uh, you do have those kinds of situations, right? I’m not the only person whose had her 5 year old grab a tampon for her, am I?

When I quit working full time, one of the first things I did was rush my kids to story time. Ironflower was 18 months old, Lovebug 3 months. Lovebug mostly hung out in his stroller. I drove to the main branch of the KC library because they had all sorts of neat kids’ stuff and a craft room and what have you. I was sure that Ironflower would love it because she loved (and still loves) listening to stories.

It was hell.

Ironflower did nothing but mortify me. She walked around instead of sitting in my lap. She talked during the stories. Sometimes she got up and did a little dance in front of whoever was reading, waving at the audience of parents and nannies.

The only reason I kept putting myself through the humiliation (because, even though this was a story time for young children, I got very few sympathetic looks from the staff when Ironflower acted up. Mostly they were annoyed) was because it was also my chance to check out grown up books. It takes a lot more than humiliation to keep me from getting new reading material.

At around 2 1/2 Ironflower suddenly became the pillar of story time. But that was after we moved here, so I never got to show off her excellent  behavior to the people who spent 10 months glaring at me. When Lovebug got mobile, he was always an angel at storytime. I figured it was because he’d been going practically since birth.

Anyway, today ChunkyMonkey and I went to storytime at our local, small library. ChunkyMonkey has also been going to storytime since birth. He does not get up in front of our librarian when she is reading or singing songs. But he doesn’t sit in my lap either.

He explores the room, stopping by to hug me frequently. He is usually quiet, but I don’t think he’s ever sat still for a story or a song. And I feel like apologizing to Ironflower, because ChunkyMonkey and I have a much better time at storytime than she and I ever did. I’m not embarrassed by his behavior or that he doesn’t act like all the sweet, docile children (at least, not in this particular instance). Consequently he does his thing and scribbles a bit on the craft and it’s all good.

Except when he inspires another child to rebel. Today 2 little girls – normally lap-sitters – noticed what a fine time ChunkyMonkey was having while walking around one of the craft tables. So they too decided to explore. And their mothers tried to corral them. Which made them run faster. And shriek. And pull on the table cloths.

It crossed my mind to make ChunkyMonkey sit down with me. That probably would have helped the other moms settle their girls down. But it also would have meant incurring the wrath of the pissed off ChunkyMonkey. This kind of wrath includes kicking, screaming, biting and throwing things.  I looked at him as he toddled toward me. He wasn’t shrieking or pulling the tablecloth or disrupting anything. He hugged me and gave me an angelic, then continued toddling around the table.

I totally let him. I believe the librarian cut short her book reading as the 2 girls ran around the craft tables. But that wasn’t my fault, was it?

On Saturday, I tried to take my kids swimming. It sounds so simple. But, much like keeping a clean house or resisting bagels, things that are simple for other people are kind of challenging for me.

My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.

Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don’t get to go swimming.

Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It’s not cheap and I don’t know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which – spoiler alert! – is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.

Not, apparently, anymore.

We could not swim in our town’s pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town’s pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn’t possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.

By the time we got settled at my parents’ town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.

We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn’t demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.

I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can’t be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.

And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn’t have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn’t eat the crackers he’d thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world’s longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I’d collapsed.

Not exactly the fun family day I’d had in mind.

Dear charity-seeking neighbor,

We have never met. In fact, I don’t even have a nodding acquaintance with anyone in your section of the cul-de-sac. And yet you sent me this request for a donation to your favorite cause. I am not sure why this bothers me more than if your group had sent me a direct donation request, but it does. Am I suppose to think, “Gee, I’ll give my charity dollars to THIS charity because the lady down the street supports it,”? Here’s the thing; I don’t know you. You could be a Tea Party member. Or a Klan member (same difference?). Living on my street doesn’t tell me anything about your personality. As for your charity, I have only vaguely heard of it and your donation request offered no information. So, no, I won’t be sending them any money. Ever.

Sincerely,

The loud woman from down the street

Dear leaf-blower addicts,

You are not making the world a better place. You are a leading contributor of noise and air pollution. You are wasting precious gas. And by tonight, all that crap you blew off the sidewalk will be right back where it started. Special note to the landscapers of my neighborhood: STOP using the LEAF-BLOWER around my patio, you are actually blowing dirt onto it. Also, stop moving my chairs.

Seriously,

The messy lady on the end

Dear old people who coo at my son

Thank you for smiling instead of wincing when he starts screaming. Thank you for engaging him when I run out of energy. I bet none of you own leaf-blowers. In short, I love you.

Thanks,

The tired lady with the screaming toddler

Dear Ben & Jerry’s,

Stop putting crack in your ice cream. I know it’s in there, because ever since I had “Chocolate Therapy” the other night, I can’t stop craving it. Just once and I am totally hooked. . .just like all those people on Intervention and Addiction. My husband swears that you are good guys and would never do something so dangerous. He says it’s MY problem. So could you please announce that you’re taking the crack out? Then I can prove that I’m right and stop the cravings.

Thanks,

The lady who is running out of elastic-waist pants

Dear NBC,

First you wouldn’t spend the money to advertise how awesome Friday Night Lights is. Then you put Jay Leno on all the time, when Jay is just not that funny to people under 70. Then you screw Conan O’Brien, who is not only funny but classier than you’ll ever be. If you fuck with Mercy, 30 Rock or Community, you’re dead to me.

Sincerely,

The lady who watches way too much TV

I think have crossed the line from “imperfect parent” to “maybe-someone-should-call-social-services”.

This morning something happened to ChunkyMonkey. This something gave him a bump and a cut on his forehead. But I have no idea what the something was.

We were getting ready to take Ironflower to school. Putting on shoes and jackets, finding Ironflower’s school bag, grabbing my sunglasses and whatnot. ChunkyMonkey wandered into the bathroom. Since I could still see most of him and I just wanted 30 seconds to put on my own freaking shoes, I let him stay in there. Just as leaned in to get him, he dropped and began crying. I assumed I’d bumped his behind with the door, because I’m kind of uncoordinated like that.

I scooped him up, hugged him and deposited him on the step. I put on his shoes and jacket. I ran to get Ironflower’s lunch bag and told the big kids to stand still for just one freaking second so I could make sure I had everything.

Then Ironflower noticed that ChunkyMonkey’s head was bleeding.

That’s right. SHE noticed. I, who had put on his shoes and coat (and was annoyed that he was STILL crying), had not noticed.

What kind of mother doesn’t notice a bleeding head wound? With a bump to match? What kind of mother did not see this happen when she was 3 feet away?

I swear that he was facing away from the door when I opened it wider. I swear there were no sharp objects in his hands or anywhere in the bathroom. I may be lax about cabinet locks and the like, but we don’t have spikes sticking out of the walls, either.

I’m not sure what’s worse; that I don’t know what hurt him or that I didn’t notice it for a good 3 minutes.

Ironflower once did the same thing to her head on the side corner of the coffee table (under where we had the bumpers, of course), but at least I noticed it immediately. I saw it happen. Lovebug never cut his head open, but he bruised it plenty of times. And I noticed it immediately, every time (especially during the 2 year phase where his response to frustration was to bang his head on the nearest hard material).

My poor ChunkyMonkey. He’s got such an inattentive mom.

How do people handle having more than 3 children? Is there a higher accident rate for children who are third or fourth in the birth order? And what dangerous object is skulking around my bathroom?

So this morning I had to go to the grocery store. With all 3 kids. I know there are some moms who bring their 6 well-behaved kids to the grocery each week, along with their lists and their coupons.

I am not one of those moms.

I try to do my grocery shopping when the older two are in preschool and Hot Guy is able to watch the toddler. I am lucky if I remember to bring my list or my coupons, because I have yet to manage to bring both.

It is not that my kids are bad at the grocery store. Generally, they are pretty good – so good, in fact, that I often bring home more junk food than I’d intended. Because they ask so politely. And they’ve walked in the aisles without hitting each other. It’s just that I have a hard time having 3 simultaneous conversations, remembering what I want to buy and using the scanner correctly.

In retrospect, I probably should have skipped the scanner. But I like scanning as I go, because that means I can bag as I go and then I don’t get stressed out at the checkout. Besides, I thought Ironflower and Lovebug would like using the scanner. As usual, I was wrong about what they’d like. ChunkyMonkey was the only one who liked the scanner. As in, he liked eating the scanner.

Despite the wrestling matches that ensued every time I had to take the scanner away from ChunkyMonkey to actually use it, I made it through most of the store in a fairly good state. In the juice aisle, however, all 3 kids needed me at the exact same second, which also happened to be the second that I was trying to scan juice boxes. So I put the scanner down.

Somewhere.

After dealing with each kid’s issue, I reached for the scanner so that we could resume shopping and get the hell out of there. But the scanner was not in the cart. Or under the cart. Or next to the juice boxes. Or in my bags. Or in ChunkyMonkey’s hands.

I had a sudden vision of having to go up to the customer service counter and tell them that I lost a scanner. I realized that I would have to start shopping all over again. I ordered Lovebug and Ironflower to look. I muttered exasperatedly. Finally, I said loudly, “How could a scanner just disappear?”

The elderly man behind us averted his eyes. He’d witnessed the whole thing and didn’t even give me a smile of sympathy. Fortunately, another mom came by. She discovered the scanner on the shelf under the juice. Where I hadn’t looked, because why would I put it under the juice? That would just be dumb. I thanked her profusely. I was reminded that there are still good people in the world. I will be forever grateful to the scanner fairy. My heart soared until I noticed the sour old man.

He pushed his cart by us, shaking his head. I think he saw me put the scanner under the juice and was too afraid to interrupt my rant. Or he’s the scanner troll.