Just Another "Shitty" Day

Sometimes we go places. It usually involves an ordeal. And it takes a lot of preparation.

We pack sippy cups of juice for both kids, a bag of goldfish crackers, one of those applesauce squeeze thingies for Maeve (in an attempt to diversify her diet of chicken nuggets), a couple of lollipops for coercion purposes, and Max's stretchy lizard friend (so he can torture it instead of Maeve).

All of this gear gets thrown into my purse, which has taken the place of the diaper bag because it got thrown away after being overtaken by fuzzy black mold. Undoubtedly, this fungal outbreak precipitated from ignored apple juice spills and half-eaten nutrigrain bars and long forgotten Oreos. My purse has become the mecca for unusually grouped objects. At any given time, you can find money, tampons, sequined hair bows, snack foods, chewing gum, leaves/dirt, a water bottle, a calendar, pens, markers, broken crayons, matchbox cars, Motrin, a stethoscope, a can of diet Coke, lipstick, my phone, Maeve's toy phone, a diaper, underwear (for Max), bandaids, pacifiers, wipes, Kleenex, and usually about 7 hair ties. I probably have enough supplies to feed and entertain a dozen toddlers stranded in the Peruvian mountains for a week. And enough lollipops to convince them all to come down.




Getting the four of us clothed, fed, and out the door takes a surprisingly long time. First we have to sit on top of one child to brush her teeth, get her dressed, fix her hair, and put on her socks and shoes. Then we have to do the same thing with the next child. Usually while tending to one child, the other one draws on himself with indelible markers.

Robert and I usually get our clothes from the meticulously arranged dresser as seen below.



They are so conveniently warm and wrinkle-free if Robert remembers to hit the quick dry button. Even though, I'm pretty sure my go to wardrobe of yoga pants are wrinkle resistant.

By the time we get both kids into the car seats, we are all irritable and unpleasant. Particularly me. I usually inquire and complain about a variety of things, including but not limited to why it takes us two hours to get organized and out of the house, when and where did Max last go potty, how many bites did Maeve eat of her scrambled eggs, and why Robert doesn't help to put me in a better mood.

As if by act of divine intervention, there happens to be a Starbucks within minutes of my house. I am thankful for the heavenly combination of sugar and caffeine. Robert is thankful that I have to shut up in order to drink it.




By the time we get to our destination, I feel like it should already be nap time. But in an effort not to be perpetually gloomy and negative, I psych the kids up for an exciting adventure at the park. Instead of heading for all of the other families frolicking on the playground, we gravitate towards a trail into the woods. Robert and I have the philosophy that if you encourage your kids to run nonstop during the day, they will go to bed earlier and sleep through the night. We continue to aspire to this philosophy even though we have found it to be largely untrue. We end up staying out too late, missing the sacred window of nap time, and facing the wrath of overtired and cranky children. And then we try again tomorrow. I think this might be the definition of insanity.

Everything starts off fine. The birds are chirping. The sun is shining. No one has any boo boos. Then I think I see a creek off the beaten path. I encourage everyone to step off the nicely groomed trail so that we can walk on uneven terrain and throw rocks into a glorified drainage ditch. This decision might seem a bit foolhardy when you also take into consideration that I severely sprained my ankle 12 days ago.
Fairly soon into our trailblazing adventure, we encounter a small embankment. I pick up Maeve to help her onto surer footing when I start to lose my own. Unable to catch myself because of my weakened ankle, I slip and ungracefully roll down the hill. Instead of reaching out to catch me, Robert just stands there and laughs. Max is horrified. He points at me and says, "Mommy's falling down a mountain!"

Luckily, I am uninjured.




After recuperating myself and yelling at Robert for his insensitivity, we make our way to the creek. It's actually quite a nice creek and the kids periodically enjoy tossing rocks into the water. But the moment passes almost as quickly as it had begun. We are a fair distance from the van at this point. The kids are hungry, and wouldn't you know I left my purse in the van.

So we trudge back to the path. I am busy tending to Maeve when I hear Max shriek out. Immediately I assume the worst. I imagine that he's been bitten by a cottonmouth. I rush to his aid only to discover that he has procured a splinter. It is not nearly as bad as it sounds.




Finally we can see the light of civilization. I'm carrying Maeve. Max wants to walk. He's clutching his hand as if he's afraid the wind might dislodge the splinter and cause massive, fatal bleeding. Anxious to get to the van, Robert lifts him up to his shoulders. And then shit really hits the fan. Or more specifically, dog shit all over Robert's jacket, shoulders, and hair. I guess Max had stepped in a pile of doo doo.
And now is when I get to laugh my ass off.



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Sleep is NOT overrated

I have not slept through the night in over four years. That includes the three years and eight months of being a mother and prior to that thirty-nine weeks and one day of being pregnant. Not that anyone's counting.

Last night was particularly lacking in the area of sleep. And personal space. I'm not sure if you read my other cosleeping post, but I have this fantasy of one day being able to make snow angels in my bed. But Maeve prefers to pretend that she's a little chimp in the rain forests of Africa. She clings to me all night long as if she's afraid she'll get eaten. Robert currently sleeps with Max in Max's bed in a heroic effort to get him out of our bed.

So here's a rundown of last night:

10:30 pm. I'm up too late because of the election. I follow the results on my iPad. Maeve clings, apparently dreaming of predatory creatures.




12:00 am. I finally fall asleep.

12:16 am. I wake up. I hear a scratching noise. I've been having weird dreams lately, and for a second I think it might be a zombie version of my elderly next door neighbor clawing at the door. I tiptoe out of bed, prepared to stab her with the pen from my bedside table. I silently hope that the struggle doesn't wake up the kids. I swing open the door, pen poised in the air. But it's just our super annoying cat Stanley. He sprints past me, unimpressed by my weapon, and leaps onto my pillow.




I eventually fall back asleep. The purring and kneading noises from Stanley don't help.

2:35 am. Maeve starts wiggling around. She wants to nurse. I might also add that in the past three years and eight months, I've only had five months of breast independence. Max nursed for 16 months. Maeve is still going strong at 22 months. I find myself wedged between a ridiculously loud purring cat and a suckling toddler.




I don't remember when or how, but I fall back asleep.

2:53 am. I wake up to the sound of Maeve laughing hysterically. I force my eyes open against the weight of my enormously heavy eyelids. Maeve's sitting up in bed poking the cat. The cat responds by purring even louder, obviously thrilled with the attention. I respond by throwing the cat out of my room and slamming the door.

3:12 am. Maeve is still awake, asking for the kitty. And chicken. And paint. In that order. I give up trying to force her to nurse back to sleep. I drag my corpse of a body out of the bed, pick up Maeve, and go into Max's room. Of course Robert and Max are both sleeping peacefully. I have only a tiny bit of guilt as I shake Robert awake. "Here," I say. "Take her. She wants chicken. And Stanley. And paint." He mumbles some form of muffled agreement/animosity.




I climb back in bed. I close my eyes.

I wait. I feel sleepy. But I feel hungry even more.

I'm doing Weight Watchers. I only eat enough to keep my brain, heart, and kidneys working. Pretty much everything else is starving to death.

3:53 am. I'm still awake. And starving. All I can think about is the bag of Halloween candy in the coat closet downstairs. I'm not supposed to eat candy. It has like 1,324 points. I'm only allowed 29 points a day.

3:58 am. Weight Watchers can kiss my ass. I'm getting a candy bar. I sneak downstairs. I manage to evade Maeve and Robert. They are in the living room watching TV. And perhaps eating chicken. I open the closet door and rummage through the Halloween candy. It smells heavenly of chocolate, and chocolate, and more chocolate. And skittles too. I finally settle on a 3 Musketeers bar. It's a full-sized one, which I feel guilty about, but it also has 45% less fat, so then I feel less guilty. (My kids got several full-sized chocolate bars on Halloween because they looked so damn cute in their costumes. See the end of this post for pictures.)

I race back upstairs with my candy bar and hop into bed. I eat it in the dark, quiet, loneliness of my room. It's perfect.

Except for the fact that I am exhausted too.




At some point I fall back to sleep.

4:22 am. I wake up suddenly. Maeve has just run into the room, saying "nur nur!!!" That means she wants to nurse. I pull her into bed and give her the boob. I don't remember exactly what happens next. Nothing, not even chocolate, will make things better. I just want sleep.

5:10 am. "MWEOWWW!" I twitch to life. I hear a howling noise. It's Stanley again. He wants to go into the garage. That's where his litter box and food are. Despite having an intense desire to strangle him, I really don't want to wake up the kids. So I follow him down the stairs and let him out. I tell him that he's never coming inside ever again.




I crawl back up the stairs. I now wish the zombie old lady next door neighbor had killed me. It would be better than this living hell.

I get back in bed. My chimp immediately clings onto me. I fall asleep probably instantaneously.

6:50 am. BANG! The bedroom door slams against the wall. "Mommy!!!!" Max yells. "I want to snuggle." I feel like I have been kicked, gutted, and decapitated. I'm that tired. But it's time to snuggle. And then get up and get ready for school.



Max notices my despondency. "What is it, Mommy?" he asks.

"I'm tired, Max. Very, very tired," I say.

"It's okay, Mommy. You can take a nap yater," he says, stroking my sullen, sunken, somber face.

You bet your ass I'll take a nap, I think.

But I write this post instead.


Halloween pictures:






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It's Getting a Little Warm in Here

A few days ago, Max was acting particularly dreadful. He pushed Maeve after she confiscated a car out of his meticulously placed car line. I tried to use my positive discipline techniques. I said, "Hands are for hugging, buddy!" He murmured back to me, "Well it's my car..." I ignored him.




A few minutes later, Maeve tried to sneak away another car. Max took my words a bit too literally.




"That's my car!" he yelled as he hugged the life out of Maeve. The only sound she made came from the air being squeezed out of her lungs.

That's when I lost it.




I yelled at him, "Never hug anyone again!!" Then I put him in timeout. And I was very loud and monster-like.

Fast forward to the next morning. I reached over to snuggle with Max and noticed his body was quite warm. There was not doubt he had a fever. I immediately thought back to my mothering failure from the day before. I should have been more compassionate, I thought. His throat was probably sore. His head was probably throbbing. And I told him never to hug anyone again. I lay in bed for a few minutes, clutching Max's warm body, feeling very tormented as a mother.




Being the nurse that I am, I believe in getting the most accurate temperature reading. So until our kids can hold a thermometer in their mouths, it goes in their rectums. For this reason, our children have a good deal of trepidation when they see the thermometer come out of the bathroom cabinet.




In fact, they run away from me holding their bottoms and shrieking, "Nooooo!"

I finally got Max on the changing table and have calmed him down when I realized that I don't have any Vaseline. I scurried back to the bathroom to look for some. I looked in all of the drawers and cabinets. We were out. I wasn't sure what to do.

Then I saw it. Nestled back in one of the cabinets, dusty from lack of use. A small bottle of Astroglide. And not just any Astroglide, WARMING Astroglide.

I was faced with a dilemma. I needed to take Max's temperature. But if I did, I would have to use my personal lubricant with warming sensation for added pleasure.

So I decided to compromise. I just used a little.




Max was very upset, not necessarily because of the warming Astroglide, but because of the thermometer in his butt.

Maeve generously offered him a toy car.

I gave him a hug.

And bought some Vaseline the next day.

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Reality Bites

I work part-time as a nurse. I pretty much save lives every day, so it's a pretty gratifying job. I also consider myself a full-time mommy, which is also a gratifying job. Especially if you like delayed gratification. As in "30 years from now I finally see that I was a good mommy" kind of delayed gratification.

When I'm at work, I usually get home at about 6 pm. I'm usually hungry and tired. I'm excited to see Robert and the kids. While I'm driving home, I envision a certain scene awaiting me. It includes clean floors, clean children, clean clothes in my drawers, and food on the table waiting for me to eat it. It looks kind of like this:




I'm pretty sure that this is an example of an unrealistic expectation. Even as I'm thinking it, I know that it's an unlikely picture. But when I get home, things are far worse than I could have ever imagined. I say to Robert, "What did you even do all day?" Things really look like this:




On the days I don't work, I stay at home and Robert goes to work. Secretly, I think about how great of a mother and housewife I'm going to be. Okay, so maybe I say it out loud too. "Robert, when I'm at home, I create a fun and educational environment for the kids and also clean up the house! Can't you do that too??"




He normally doesn't respond. He's learned to block me out, because I really can be a nagging bitch sometimes.

So, the next morning, I wake up full of ambition and motivation. Well, after I've had my coffee anyway. Before I've had my coffee, things look like this:




Max starts asking for juice. Maeve says, "Come. Pway." They have already somehow made a mess of the living room in the fifteen minutes that I've been lying on the couch hoping that someone would magically appear with a Starbucks latte.
So I get up. I get them dressed. I get myself dressed. They look cute and refreshed. Ready to go. I look frumpy and tired. I load them into the van and drive to Starbucks. Yes, I really do. I have major goals for the day, and the first one is to get myself a Starbucks latte. We drive home. The kids are screaming for coffee too. And coke, chicken, balloons, and daddy. I turn on music so I can pretend I don't hear them.
When we get home, I make them bacon and eggs. The fact that I will touch raw bacon for my children means that I really, really love them. I create a lot of dishes. The kids drop little morsels of bacon and eggs throughout the living room. I hope the cat eats it.




They are so fast and unrelenting with their destruction that I can't keep up! As soon as I pick up their play doh, they are throwing cars out of their car bin. Then they want snacks. Goldfish are soon flying around the living room, threatening to permanently blind someone with a tail fin. I manage to fold a load of laundry, but as I start another load, I leave the precious piles unattended. And when I poke my head around the corner, this is what I see:




After lunch, I lie down with them for nap. I've been busting my butt all day -- I think I deserve to rest a bit. We get up a couple of hours later, go downstairs, eat more snacks, drag out more toys. I never get back to the laundry so it's still scattered all over the floor. I begin to get anxious. Robert should be home in an hour and it does not look like the perfect mother and housewife lives here. So I start vacuuming. Max thinks that vacuuming is a fun game so he pours out some cereal for me to suck up. Maeve finishes her applesauce. By squeezing it all over the floor. It's amazing how many things you find when you are cleaning. Like cat vomit. And a piece of toast from perhaps 3 months ago.




I'm exhausted and it doesn't look like I've done anything all day long. And I haven't thought about dinner. Do they even need dinner if they've been eating all day long? Just as I collapse on the couch to retreat into my dark, twisty place, I hear the door open. I brace myself for a comment such as, "The only thing I smell cooking for dinner is a poop in Maeve's diaper."

But he surprises me.



At least one of us is grounded in reality.

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At Least I'm Koot

I have come to the realization that 90% of my clothes date back to the premommyhood era, a time where food was never fried and the only reason for not going to the gym was because I was too sore from the day before.




I drew this little diagram to show what mealtimes look like before (freshly prepared healthy food, sitting down, napkins) and after (whatever is edible in the fridge, loitering around TV, sleeves or my t-shirt) kids.

Every morning, I face the same dilemma (except when I work and then I can wear scrubs, thank God): what should I wear? Things used to be so easy. Now, sometimes I cry.




I used to wear really cute clothes that showed off my toned, tanned legs. Now I hide the shapeless, pale appendages in black yoga pants. And then I eat some chocolate to make myself feel better.




Once in a while, I set my mind to getting back my girlish figure. I post a hot, skinny profile picture of myself on Facebook. I write a workout schedule in my calendar. I throw away all junk food from the pantry (except for chocolate).

Then, for a few days I exercise religiously. Sometimes it lasts for a few weeks even. I feel rejuvenated. I'm a nicer wife. A more patient mother. My legs feel sore. I study them for signs of blossoming muscle definition.

Then, one morning, I get an idea. I've been working out every day and surviving on air, grapes, and goldfish crackers. Surely I'll be able to fit into my old clothes! I dig around in my closet. I try on one pair of jeans. I can't get them over my hips. I kick them off impatiently. They must have shrunk in the dryer, I convince myself. I try on another pair of jeans. I get those all the way on, but after I button them, I can't breathe because all of my fat is pushing against my lungs. I kick those off too. I try on yet another pair. They are easier to button. I smile. Congratulate myself. I imagine all the compliments that I'm going to get from my family and friends. Then, I turn around to model in front of the mirror. I think I actually let out a frantic "eeeeee" sound. My legs look like link sausages in the jeans. Not shapely and toned. Tubular.




So, I make the most obvious decision. I sit down and eat chocolate.

Just when I think things really, really suck, my kids distract me and I forget about my skinny jeans and my sausage-like legs. I get pulled into a happy little world of play doh snakes and water balloons and walks around the neighborhood. Kids are good like that. They don't give you a lot of spare time to feel sorry for yourself.

And when I get a spare moment to start fretting about my wardrobe, I give up and put on my yoga pants.

Maeve watches me. I imagine that she might be grossed out. Disappointed in me. Or maybe she's just hoping I'll give her some chocolate.

But I'm wrong. She smiles at me and says, "Awwwww, mommy! You so koot!"



And I give her some chocolate anyway.
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Fair Fun

We went to the NC State Fair last week. It lived up to all of my expectations, because I really had none.

Our first stop was the free petting zoo. They charged a dollar for a sandwich bag of carrot slivers. We bought two. There were goats, porcupines, llamas, a camel, pigs, and a very somber musk ox. I think the owners of the petting zoo must have withheld their breakfast in order to boost carrot sales, because the animals were literally climbing on top of each other to eat the carrots. Luckily, Maeve seemed to have a healthy fear of holding out her hand for too long, because my gut says that the animals might have been hungry enough to eat her as well. Especially this one Pygmy goat, who definitely had his eye on her.




We all survived, but I think that watching the wily animals devour those carrots made Robert think about lunch, even though it was only 10:00 in the morning. It is very trying on my patience to deliberate about Fair food choices with Robert. He is never satisfied with the outcome. We let the kids pick out their food first, before we became overly immersed in Robert's incomprehensible decision tree. And what do you think we bought? But of course -- chicken nuggets! Unfortunately, Maeve has slipped backwards in her pickiness and will only eat chicken nuggets, French fries, yogurt, Munchkins from Dunkin Donuts, pizza, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sometimes stir fried broccoli. Her dietary choices keep me awake with parental remorse every night. It's quite sad, I actually rationalized to myself that at least the chicken nuggets from the Fair were a new type (as opposed to McDonald's or Wendy's), and at least we were supporting a small, local business instead of a corporate chain. The kids both ate them, and were completely unfazed by their lack of adventurism.

Robert's first food choice was not the difficult part. He wanted a Philly steak and cheese. The real debate was where to get this delicacy from. I lost track of counting how many stands sold steak and cheese sandwiches, but it was a lot. I felt like we were wandering around aimlessly, hoping to see a sign that would say, "Robert, here is the perfect Philly steak and cheese for you!"

Every time we passed by a place, I would say, "This smells good. How about here?"

Robert would look at me like I had three heads. "Do you see those green peppers? They don't look good. Green peppers should never be that color green."

"Okay," I said. "I guess that makes sense." We walked by a few more stands and rides and this really talented woman on stilts. I bought a piece of roasted corn. It was hot, buttery, salty heaven. Max and I ate it together. It is, hands down, my favorite Fair food. Max was starting to get restless. Eating is a chore for him, not an act of pleasure. He was ready to be spun, flipped, and swung by rusty, creaky Fair rides.

"I think it's just around this corner," Robert said, implying that he knew exactly what stand he wanted to go to AND he knew exactly where it was located. It would be quite impressive if it was true, which it wasn't. Finally, Robert broke down and ordered his sandwich. I was *this* close to intervening. Even though I wanted him to hurry the hell up and pick a place, I also really did want him to be happy with his sandwich, especially after the effort we had all put into looking for it. But I didn't intervene, I let him order his steak and cheese, and hoped that he would like it.

It started off fine. He took a few bites, and I didn't hear any negative comments. Phew, I thought, now we can stop obsessing about food and let the kids go on some rides. And then, silly old me, I thought it would be nice for me to ask him, "Robert, you like your steak and cheese?"

He looked up from his sandwich, and I saw the lines of regret on his face. "It's not right," he said. "We didn't go to the right place."

"Well, are you going to finish it?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said in a defeated way. "I'll eat it. I'm just mad at myself. It's definitely not the sandwich."

Now is when I started to lose my patience. "How do you even know such a sandwich exists?" I asked him.

"Because!" he exclaimed. "I've had it before, three years ago. I know it's just right down there somewhere," he said as he vaguely pointed his finger down a line of rides, food stands, and game booths.

"Shut up and eat the damn sandwich," I said in probably a very bitchy, dismissive kind of way. But this topic of conversation had to end. It was going nowhere, and our kids were getting squirmy. And yes, I'll go ahead and admit that it's my fault that our kids say "shut up." And other such things.

After our fun and relaxing meal trying to hold two kids and not get elbowed by half of North Carolina, I suggested that we take the kids on some rides.

I spotted one in particular and said, "Look, Max! That's a fast one! You want to go?" Max readily agreed.

"Why don't you take him on it, and I'll find something to do with Maeve," said Robert.

"Do you even know me?" I asked. "I'm not going on that ride. I would barf corn kernels."

I hate rides. I haven't always been this lame. I used to go on all sorts of rides -- roller coasters, the Gravitron, even the Ring of Fire. If it went upside down, I was on it. I'm surprised that I was not ejected and thrown to my death on some of those rides. Just thinking about it makes my heart race. Once I became a mother, my days of fearless living were over. Literally everything became a potential tragedy. I'm surprised we even get out of the house sometimes. I've also developed horrible vertigo in my old age. Even swinging makes my head swim and my stomach turn. I do realize that I've become one of those mothers that I used to scorn -- one who does not go on rides with her kid. But I also have come to realize that that is what husbands are for.

So Robert agreed to take Max on the ride, and I watched on the sidelines with Maeve. The ride was spider-like and its arms whipped around in unpredictably fast motions. It is exactly the kind of ride that I hate the most. Its pure purpose is to uncover any weak-stomached riders. Max's head barely reached the safety bar. As the ride started, the centrifugal force pinned Max to Robert's body on the far side of the seat. He laughed like a maniac, while kids twice his age were screaming for their mommies. Oddly enough, I felt a little proud.




After that, we stood in line for the Ferris wheel. It's a tradition! We had to go on the Ferris wheel. Even lame moms go on Ferris wheels, right? They are slow and don't go upside down. I thought I would handle it just fine even though my anxiety levels were steadily rising as we got closer in line. I noticed that as they were loading and unloading riders, a few carts were left dangling in the air. Robert said that was the best part. Where you have the longest view. I cannot fathom why anyone would define this activity as the best of anything. Soon it was our turn to step on the ride. I sat closest to Maeve, and Robert sat next to Max. Right before the ride attendant locked our cart door, I asked him, "This is safe, right?" He merely nodded, as if my question was trivial. He nodded at another man who pushed a giant lever, causing the Ferris wheel to creak to life and take us upward. Our fate was sealed.

I gripped the wheel in the center of the cart. I bent my head down so I could not see the ground disappearing.

"What's wrong, mommy?" asked Max.

Maeve had her hand on my leg. It comforted me.

"Allison, it's not that bad. Just look up," Robert said.

I tried. I picked up my head very slowly, and it all hit me at once -- the height, the swinging carts, the rusty metal frame of the Ferris Wheel, the big holes on either side of the cart that Max or Maeve could easily fall through. I screamed then and lowered my head down again. I felt sick, disoriented, dizzy. Maeve was moving around beside me. I tried to get ahold of her but that would have required looking up, and that could not happen anymore.

Robert said, "We need to switch places so I can have Maeve."

I just about lost it then. "NO ONE is changing positions on the Ferris wheel. We are not getting up and moving around," I ordered. I kept repeating these phrases over and over.

Finally Robert said, "You're making the kids scared."

I rolled my eyes, but he couldn't see that because my head was facing down. "This isn't some performance, Robert. I'm terrified! So many really bad things could happen at any minute," I said just as Maeve decided to stick her head out the opening of the cart. I guess she just wanted the best possible view even if it might contribute to her mother's heart failure. Robert held her legs secure, but it still made me feel incredibly vulnerable and fragile.

I don't know if I can truly express how happy I was when that ride came to an end. I told the ride attendant, "That was terrifying." I'm sure that wasn't the answer that he expected from riding the Ferris wheel.



After we all safely disembarked the Ferris wheel, it was time to leave the Fair. The kids were getting loony as nap time was approaching, and I was having a hard time walking in an upright position.

Thinking about our trip to the fair, I feel an urge to choose the biggest hit for our family. The choice is effortless, much more so than steak and cheeses. Here it is:



Yes, that would be a porta potty. Max was more impressed with this portable toilet than anything else in the entire Fair. It had a door that you could shut and a huge hole full of deodorized poop and pee. Fascinating stuff for a three-year-old. Max said, "Wow!!! It's a big hole!!"

I was more concerned that Robert didn't let him touch anything. Yuck. I didn't even dare peek inside that thing.

I am considering renting one for next year's Fair. I'd charge three tickets for admission. I'd paint the inside with glow in the dark paint. Maybe I'd even make the water in the hole glow in the dark so kids would think that their pee and poop glows too. I could probably hook up a sound system and play nice children's songs, like Raffi, in the background. I could name it something clever. How about "Drop Zone"? I'm seriously thinking I might be onto something here. I'll keep you posted.

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I Want All the Owls

Today was a dark day. I felt like this:




The atmosphere in which we wake up tends to set the mood for the rest of the day. It was Max's second day of school since Fall break, and my first day back on the school routine since I worked yesterday and was blissfully unaware of the chaos at home. I felt like I was dragging my unconscious children's bodies through quicksand, that's how slow they were moving. Except they weren't unconscious. They were loud. Max's new favorite question is, "Whatarya doin?" He probably says it 214 times a day, even when I'm not really doing anything at all.




For instance, if I move my body to the left, say three-fourths of an inch, Max will ask, "Whatarya doin?" If I get up and walk into the kitchen he will ask, "Whatarya doin?" If I saw my head off in the shower with an old razor blade, he will ask, "Whatarya doin?" So basically I have to commentate my every move. And I refer to myself in the third person, which is weird and probably a bit neurotic. It goes like this, "Mommy is getting dressed. Mommy's opening the microwave. Mommy's looking for your shoes. Mommy's scratching her nose. Mommy's peeing. Mommy's wiping. Mommy's putting Maeve in the car. No! No! Mommy is putting YOU in the car. Then Maeve. In case you are in the mood to scale our vehicle." I sometimes use advanced vocabulary so he doesn't understand certain things like climbing on top of the van. Plus, it makes me feel smart.

Along with Max's incessant questioning, there's Maeve's dramatic antics to slow progress towards preschool drop off. She's developed a defense mechanism to deal with Max's lack of physical or emotional boundaries. If he gets within 1 foot of her, she crumples to the ground, pulling her head all the way down to her toes like she's some sort of toddler transformer. And then she cries. A lot. With real tears and lip quivering.




We got to school ten minutes late, which I HATE. It makes me feel like a miserable, failure monster mama. And of course Max had to open and close every door on the way to his classroom. And I was mumbling under my breath, "HURRY UP!" while trying to maintain a casual smile and a "it's cool, no sweat" kind of attitude.
While Max was at school, I met my best friend at Playnation, this cool indoor play space. It was fun and I didn't feel like hiding in a dark abyss anymore.

I'm going to skip the part where I picked Max up from school and took him to McDonald's and let him have sweet tea, because that would be embarrassing. I didn't eat there though. I waited until we got home and had some yummy tortellini salad with green beans and olives. I wish I had just gotten a chicken sandwich. That pasta salad was my downfall. Well, technically it was the olives.

Let me paint you a picture. Max was very tired. When he gets tired, he becomes even more irrational than normal. I compare this mood to someone on the verge of a psychotic break. So here's how it went down.

I was trying to be considerate, knowing that Max loves olives, so I offered him one. At first he said, "No! I don't want owls!" He pronounces "olives" like "owls". Then he immediately changed his mind. "I want owls!!!" Maeve, as usual, was being an angel in the background somewhere.




This is one of the symptoms of preschooler psychosis: fickle decision making. I took a deep breath. "That's what I thought! Here you go," I said as I tried to put the olive in his mouth with my fork.

He immediately jerked his head away. "No!!! I want to do it!!!" This is another symptom of preschooler psychosis: fierce independence at all costs, even when it delays eating olives, a sacred act for the mentally stable Max.

"Okay, buddy. You do it." I know some of you might think I should have told him to ask nicely, but that's not a good approach with psychotic Max. Acting in a calm way is the best approach. Modeling level-headed behavior.

He ate the olive. I kind of lost track of things because Dora was asking a critical question about whether we should pick the pink or blue book to take to her sick old granny's house. And then that wretched fox started meddling. We were enraptured. Somehow I ate all the tortellini salad in my bowl. Including the rest of the olives. Just as I realized my grave error, Max looked away from Dora (she was absent-mindedly staring at us, and we remained tight lipped as usual) and said, "More owls, mommy!!"

I felt my body grow tense. I actually started to sweat with anxiety. Before I could respond, Max screamed, "NOOOO!" as if I had just stabbed Dora with my fork. Don't worry, I'd never really do that...

"I. WANT. MORE. OWLS!!!!!!!!" he screeched. He jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen. Along the way, he grabbed a chair and pushed it towards the refrigerator.

"Max," I said in a slightly raised voice. "I'll get you another olive." There was a Tupperware full of pasta salad in the refrigerator. All could be well. Oh how futilely wrong I was.




Max demanded, "I want ALL the owls!!!!" He used all of his thirty-one pounds to open the refrigerator door.

"Just wait," I said diminutively. I imagined that my voice was about as powerful as a little gnat's flying around the kitchen. I was starting to get irritated. He was out of control. And I kept having this vision flash in my head:




It quickly became apparent that the calm, sensible mothering approach wasn't working, so I turned on my alter ego who loses her shit and screams and flaps her hands around wildly. "Max!" I yelled, "You can eat three olives then you are going upstairs to nap!"

By this point Max had gotten the Tupperware out of the fridge and was sitting on the floor with it between his legs. When I gave him the news that his olive eating minutes were limited, he bucked like a caged bull, throwing his body back on the floor, stretching out his arms and legs into stiff, tense, immovable limbs.




Getting him into bed using reason was not going to work now that the third and most serious symptom of preschooler psychosis had emerged: reckless movements of his body to thwart my goal of getting him in the bed.

He was red in the face, crying hysterically. He had dropped two olives and now the world was coming to an end. I had to physically drag Max up the stairs. He was so loud that now Maeve was whimpering in the background. "Hold you, mama," she said. As I tried not to dislocate his arm in the process of getting him to bed, he sobbed, "I...Want... ALL...The...Olives." It turned from a demand to a woeful chant.




I hate using physical force to move my child from point A to point B. I'd rather he walk like a normal human being. But we have already established that preschoolers are about as far as you can get from the word normal. And much of the time I don't even think they are human beings.

The olive talk even continued in the bed. I lay beside him, letting him pick my fingers to comfort himself. He sucked on his pacifier, eyes rolling back in his head. I was nursing Maeve in an attempt to keep her quiet. Her eyes were wide open though -- a nap was obviously not in her immediate future. Occasionally he would startle himself awake and mumble through the pacifier, "I.......wah.....aww.....da....owls."




I snuck out of the bed quickly and quietly. Maeve looked at me conspiratorially, no doubt thinking, "At last some peace and quiet!" We sat on the couch and read books for a while, then I turned on Rango, her favorite movie. I was just beginning to feel my insides unwind from the tight ball that the olive predicament had caused. I was trying to force myself to think nice, happy thoughts about Max. He really is a sweet, caring little boy. Being intense isn't the worst attribute in the world. I mean, it will probably help him to achieve great successes as an adult. And really, begging for olives is better than begging for cookies or french fries or real owls, right?

Just then, I heard a door slam upstairs. Maeve and I looked each other, fear in our eyes. It was like Nightmare on Elm Street. I thought I was awake and everything would be okay. But Freddy (aka Max) surprised me yet again. "I WANT OWLS!" Max screamed from upstairs. I clutched Maeve, thinking about a safe place to hide.



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