Saved by the T.P.

Dear Diary, 

     Since becoming a mother, my days run together. But today. Today was definitely Monday. All those Monday stereotypes about them being horrific. Mine was not horrific, but rather comical. When I woke up this morning, I had no idea what was in store for me over the next few hours.

     We began our day by making our weekly run to the grocery store. Suddenly, my Irritable Bowel Syndrome kicked in from this morning's "Pancake-with-peanut-butter" breakfast and I had to hit the toilet, STAT. It was inconvenient on multiple levels. For one, I was driving one of those carts with a fake firetruck attached...the one with steering wheels and seat belts to keep your fidgety kids occupied while you pick out the perfect head of lettuce. Secondly, I had already begun to fill said cart with produce. I wheeled our Greyhound Bus over to the bathroom (My IBS allows me to find the closest restroom in any facility in under 5.2 seconds) and waited for the handicap stall to become available, because let's face it, 2 kids and an adult are not going to fit in those skinny stalls. Ain't gon hapn. We shuffled our herd into the stall and the kids were in awe at how cool it was. A tampon/pad dispenser! A Baby Koala diaper changer! A toilet paper box! Wow, wow, wow! This was a relief for me, because I could do my business in peace and make it swift. One snap of a finger later, I was done and reached for the TP. It was out. This is the part where I shut my eyes and pursed my lips. I looked around. Nothin. No wipe-worthy-paper-like-items in sight. And wouldn't you know it, a mother of two kids who usually carries wipes in her bag, realized they were at home. All 9 million of them. The lightbulb turned on and I sent my eldest into the next stall (no worries, it was empty). He comes back with ONE PLY. One ply! Yeah. We're gonna need more than that, buddy. A few minutes later, we took care of bidniz, gave each other high fives and ventured back into the grocery store. My son saved me! I was so proud. 

     Upon finishing at the store, my friend called to remind me of our playdate. You know...the one I forgot about. The one I was currently 15 minutes late to. I ran home to place the refrigerated items where they belong and I left the rest in the car. I booked it up the freeway to the kids gym where this play date was arranged to take place and we played for a while. Before loading up in the car, I made my son go potty. I avoid accidents at all costs. Since it was lunch time, we made a quick stop at In-N-Out Burger, also known as my son's "favorite dinner store". The In-N-Out Burger by my house is like nothing you've ever seen. There are some 10-25 cars in the Drive Thru at ALL TIMES. We were the 6th car in line or so, and had already placed our order. We were waiting to get to the window to pay when I hear a voice from the back seat. 

SON: Mom? I gotta go potty. 

ME: Well, buddy, you've got to hold it. Wait til we get home. Don't go potty in your pants. 

SON: *Wimper accompanied by lip and voice quiver* Mom. Can't hold it. 

    Wondering what to do, I realize how simple the solution is. So, I do it. I put the car in park, open the back door, unbuckle him from his seat, run him over to a corner and let him whiz away. Some 10 cars and the people working through the clear windows at In-N-Out got a nice flash of a tiny hiney. That boy was holding in 20 gallons of urine, I couldn't believe it. He had just gone to the bathroom not even 15 minutes ago! I hurried him back to his seat, buckled him in and made sure to give him a quick high five before shutting his door. When we pulled up to the window, the lady laughed. She laughed hard. And she eased my pain by telling me that everyone else was laughing also. No complaint of indecent exposure. No complaint of pee all over the In-N-Out Drive Thru wall. I was relieved. I was so glad to return the favor to my 3 year old literally saving my bum this morning. Thanks pal. You're fabulous. 

Sincerely, 

Me. Proud Mom of a Hero.     

I Want to Get Away.

Dear Diary, 

This is Fiji. This is where I need to be.

     As I began to type this entry, I heard a quiet "pfffffft" sound. Sure enough, my dog let one loose. The cherry on top of a very long day. 

     This morning, I woke up not a minute after 6 AM to a screaming 1 year old who cried multiple times throughout the night due to nasal congestion. If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't breathe through my nose...

     After the congestion, came the whining. Constant. Whining. At the end of the day, I estimated she'd spent approximately 9 hours and 30 minutes pulling on my leg, producing alligator tears, and making a high-pitched noise that could have burst the ear drum of a small animal. I'd feel bad for her (and I admit I did at one point) except for that this girl was born with more drama than all nine seasons of Grey's Anatomy combined, so it's hard to take her seriously when she cries.  

     My husband came home to a grumpy wife and asked what he could do to help. I said "nothing" at first, then ultimately requested that he be on kid duty while I ate my dinner in peace.(Ding, ding!) I poured myself a stiff drink (does a Diet Dr. Pepper on the rocks count for anything?)and indulged in some hot wings made by yours truly. And no, the house did not burn down, thankyouverymuch. The smoke alarm even spared me its usual song. 

     I finished my delicious meal, washed my hands, felt like a new woman, and ripped through the many layers of Grinch to get to my ever-so-shrinking-in-size heart where lies my motherly nucleus. I rocked my baby to sleep (like a boss) and returned to the kitchen. One final plop onto a chair accompanied by a mental sigh and an eye itch, and I was viciously thrown back into my day of terror. The spice from my hot wings managed to somehow make its way into my eyeball, causing a burning sensation that only Hades would understand. And then the dog farted, remember? 

     I'd say "goodnight" and then put myself to bed here at 8:57 PM, but the little one is at it again with the coughing. Good thing I didn't make the same vows to my children as I made to my husband. "For better or for worse" is easy with the mister. But when my kids are "for worse", I begin to wonder where I can hide out for a day or two until the naughty/sick storm passes. Fiji, perhaps? 

Sincerely, 

Me.