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. 

I Set a Record.

Dear Diary, 

     Tuesday of this week, I was awoken somewhere around 6:20 AM by the sound of laughter and shortness of breath accompanied by claws in the carpet by taking sharp turns while running. "What is going on?", I thought. As I opened the bedroom door, I see my 3 year old, holding this knife (shown below) and chasing my dog around the living room couches. Right after my eyes tried making a run for it by popping out of my face, I grabbed the knife, wondering how he even got it. Then I sent my son to his room to go back to bed. I'm guessing he'd woken up around 5:45 AM and had been playing for a while. Not the best way to start my morning, but I got over it. Until Thursday. 

     Thursday morning, I opened my bedroom door and in wafted an overwhelming scent of dog poop. My dog had slept in the living room. Coincidence? No way. I started the search. With eyes squinted and slowly scanning my living room, I watched as my dog tucked her little Twinkie-sized tail under her bottom and lowered her head. Then I found it. A huge pile of dog diarrhea laying at my front door. As if it wasn't bad enough that she pooped in my house, it had to be at the entrance of my humble home, so that every time someone walks in, the welcoming smell is "poop" scent. 

     Not even 45 minutes after the diarrhea discovery, my daughter yells "ow!" after stepping on a tiny shard of glass on the kitchen floor from a broken baby food jar last week that I obviously missed while sweeping. Blood is spilling all over the place. Strike two. 

     Attempting to be a fun mom and salvage the morning, I loaded the kids up to take them to Playtopia, a free public park here in Arizona that has TONS of things to play with, all under a gigantic canopy. We were there for 4 minutes and 30 seconds when my son, lovingly referred to from time to time as Evel Knievel (shown above), leaps off of a little toad stool and onto the next. He did this multiple times as I watched him closely. They were low to the ground and I wasn't worried. But wouldn't you know it, the second I look away, he makes an extra special leap that leads him to the biggest gash I have ever seen in the inside of one's mouth. His teeth had mangled up the skin inside. Blood was pouring out of his mouth as he cried and cried. It was split right open, about a 1/4 inch wide and I knew he needed stitches. I loaded the kids up and rushed him to the Urgent Care. Thankfully, the doctor, who I actually thought was out of his mind, said he didn't need stitches. I had to clean out my ears to be sure I heard him correctly. Did you see his mouth??? I've had stitches twice in my life- both from Evel Knievel accidents (I just realized my son got his wild side from his mother) and I knew his mouth needed stitches. But hey, whatever. We loaded up and went home. Nap time approached and what happened next will haunt me forever. 

     I blew up the pool in the backyard and filled it with water for the kids to play around in. I'm taking mental note of all the random turds I need to gather in the yard. I am usually quite on top of the job, but I could see I had a few to pick up. As the pool was being filled, my daughter starts to cry a horrible cry. In her hand is a golden, fresh, sun-warmed pile of dog crap, and it's all over her lips as well. I took that hose and nearly shoved it in her mouth as I fish-hooked out the remainder of unswallowed poop with my finger while she gagged. I looked in the grass and saw that a whole fist full was taken out of this pile of feces. I thought about how my dog ate the food, digested the food, then pooped out the food. Then my baby ate the poop, will digest the poop, then poop out the poop. It was just too many levels of gross for me. 

(This is me, making a sad attempt to gather my sanity)

     This morning, I swung open my bedroom door (I need to start leaving that door open...)and found my toddler on the other side as he yelled, "MOM! Leyla ate my poop!" I'm sure my eyebrows raised up so high in disbelief that they reached my hairline. Could this truly be the poopiest week of all time?! I've got to have set a record somewhere. 

     I went to the guest bathroom, only to find remnants of poop in the plastic toilet, but the doody was nowhere to be found. I sent my dog outside and told myself that this whole exchange of bodily matter between members of my family has to stop before I go crazy. But it's quite possible I already have. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go program Poison Control into my speed dial. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

Congratu-sorry?

Dear Diary, 

     I have such a rough time with newborn babies that whenever I hear of someone getting pregnant, my stomach turns over, I want to vomit and cry simultaneously, and then I'm torn between congratulating them or passing along my deepest condolences. 

     I love kids, but I have an incredible distaste for babies younger than a year old. They are like crying, squirming, pooping, uncoordinated, head-bobbing, wrinkly blobs of goo. And I don't like 'em. 

     My husband and I have often talked about how we *might* consider the thought of having more children if it meant I could birth a child when it was 18 months old. But then I'd be pregnant for at least 27 months and I wouldn't like that very much. I'd be cranky. And I'd have to have some major reconstructive surgery down south. I wouldn't like that either. But, if anyone figures out how to make that work, let me know. Oh wait, it's called adoption. I'll think about it. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Wimpy Mom. 

And just to be fair, I believe newborn babies feel the same way about me as I feel about them. This is the face we both make when we come in contact. Wah. 

 

My Finest Moment.

Dear Diary, 

     Saturday, I took my kids for a walk in the wagon. But not just any old wagon. It was a rickety old John Deere wagon like the one below (only less ghetto) that my neighbors gave us for free when they were moving. 

As I rounded the corner of my neighborhood with the kids in tow, a succession of cars paraded past us on a busy street. One car in particular had a couple in their 50's or so, driving slowly past us and beaming at the sight of two precious children in an antique-like wagon, taking an afternoon stroll with their mother. I smiled politely, knowing dang well that my kids are quite the attention grabbers (as all children are) and looked behind me to take a gander at those beauties. Just as I turned my head forward, my slow-motion smile and "life is just marvelous" movie moment turned into a big fat, 

"OH, SHIIIIIIIIIII-OOOOOOT!" as I tripped over an uneven piece of concrete in my ever so fashionable crocs I spoke of in a previous post. The only thought going through my perspiring mind (yes, it's already hot here in Arizona, if you can imagine it while there is 2 feet of snow at your house) at this point is how their "awwww-ing and oooo-ing" turned into belly laughs and, consequently, accidental farts from laughing so hard after seeing this All-American family eat pavement. It wasn't my finest moment. But it's me we're talking about. It'll happen again tomorrow, someway somehow. 

Sincerely, 

Me. The Pavement Eater. 

I've Arrived.

Dear Diary, 

     After weeks and weeks of suffering through sicknesses and my eldest childs' flirtation with death on a daily basis, I've decided to blog. However, those are stories for another day. 

     Today was a terrible day. The kind where you accidentally curse out loud in front of your children because it's seriously impossible for them to eat their lunches in less than an hour, where your curious baby flips the dog's water bowl over- soaking herself and the carpet, where the dang match breaks in half as you're trying to light it, your kid has poop up her back from an extra forceful push, the grill won't light, Netflix won't work, the kids won't sleep, and you haven't eaten a real meal even once in the day. Believe it or not, aaaaalllll of those things happened at this house today. Minus the cursing. That happened yesterday. 

    So, naturally, I pasted this image on the front lobe of my brain. 

To top it off, starting today and finishing through to the rest of the week, my husband will be gone every single night for various activities. I decided I'd make the most of it. But it wasn't until I was actually getting ready for my "awesome night in" that I realized something. I realized that my definition of a perfect night to myself included basking in a freshly vacuumed house, the dishes done, the lights down low, eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch that I found economy size on clearance at my local grocery store, and watching Gossip Girl. I'd like to say that I've finally arrived to Mom Status, but I think even 10 years ago, I'd have done the same thing, only replaced Gossip Girl with Boy Meets World re-runs. If I had a glass in my hand, I'd raise it and make a toast to all you wonderful moms who recollect their sanity at the end of the day, only to lose it again the next morning. Cheers to you! And one more toast to our awesome children who teach us the true meaning of love & patience! All of the sudden, I think I'm thirsty.

Sincerely, 

Me. 

P.S. Obama wanted to toast to us as well. He didn't get the memo that I was only drinking Cherry Pepsi. Excuse his creeper face, he's had a long day, too. 

Kids' Conversations.

Dear Diary, 

     This weekend, my husband and I did something very adventurous. No, we didn't hike the Himalayas. We didn't even have a junk food picnic in front of the TV while watching a military documentary. (Wait...that is really what we do for fun. Are we getting old or...what is going on here.) 

     Anyway, we packed our bags for a night and had a cousin sleepover while the parents went on a romantic get away. Since my kids are toddlers/babies and the kids we watched were 5, 7 & 9, we had a very fun and interesting experience. Here is a conversation we had at dinner one night. (We were eating Garlic Shrimp Alfredo from California Pizza Kitchen.) 

Me: Hey Taylor, can I borrow your cup that says Aylor on it? *Laughs*   

Taylor (9): *Giggle* Yeah. The T fell off. 

Porter (7): NO! Paige scratched it off when she was a baby. 

Paige (5): No I didn't! 

Taylor: Porter...we didn't even have those cups when we were babies. We got them last summer. 


*End of argument* 

Me: So, Paige. You hate shrimp? 

Paige: Yes, I HATE shrimp. 

Me: Are you picky? 

Paige: No.

Taylor: *Nodding her head and pointing to Paige behind her back*

Paige: Hey. Where you pointing at me??? 

Taylor: Well you are picky. 

Paige: No I'm not! 

Taylor: Yeah!!! You don't eat green things! 

*End of argument for Paige*

Me: Who else is picky? 

Taylor: Porter. 

Porter: No, I'm not! 

Taylor: Yes, you are! You don't eat peas! 

*End of argument for Porter* Ding, ding! Winner is...Taylor. 

Me: So Taylor, what don't YOU like?

Taylor: Um, probably red and yellow and green peppers. 

Porter: Red peppers are good! And so are yellow peppers. And green ones. 

Paige: Do you know what Porter's worse enemy is? Beans! Do you know what MY worst enemy is? Bacon! I hate bacon. Because I hate pigs. 

*End of conversation altogether* 

     During the time of this conversation, I was looking around for my phone, wondering how in the world I could record such an awesome moment in time. Kids, the way they talk, the way they move their hands, the way they argue about worst enemies being foods such as beans and bacon. 

     I never thought spending a weekend with 2.5 times as many kids as I already have (there were 5 kids, one gigantic tortoise and one boxer dog) would be my idea of "a good time". But it was fabulous! Kids really brighten the world and I'm so lucky to be a mother of 2 big balls of sunshine. And sometimes, they are just big balls. But I love them. 

Sincerely, 

Me. Mushy Magoo.