These Things Always Happen to Us

About three years ago, I wrote a post entitled Poop and Run. Here's a snippet:

"So, one of my most embarrassing mom moments happened on our trip. The condo we stayed in had a nice, big pool and Cale loved splashing around in it. They also had a zero entry baby pool with fountains that was Cale's favorite because he was able to run free without the constraints of "mom and dad" holding him back. On about day three, we took Cale to the pool once again.

He wasn't really acting like himself. He wasn't "swimming" in the baby pool or getting under the fountains, he was just kinda standing there. This should have been our clue. I thought he was just tired with naptime being pushed back and his sleeping all out of whack. Then, suddenly I saw it. It was orangish brown and floating in the pool. It took me about three seconds to realize that it was coming from our son.

He'd pooped in his little swimmers and into the pool. And don't even get me started on swim diapers. Seriously, does anybody really think those things actually keep much of anything in? Not to get too graphic, but it wasn't exactly the kind you can just scoop out. Okay, I'll just say it. It was diarrhea. Horrified, I very nonchalantly,<b> pointed out the mess to my husband, and I think we were out of that pool and back to our car in less than a minute.

That was so wrong--fleeing the scene of the "accident", but I panicked. I wasn't thinking clearly.

Diarrhea had clouded my thoughts--and the pool.

Needless to say, we didn't make any more trips back to swimming pool. Partly for fear of a repeat offense, but even more for fear of someone recognizing us as the "poopetrators" from the other day."


Well, that was then. But plenty of embarrassing bathroom moments have happened since. Too many, really. In fact, something may be wrong with our children. We should probably get that checked out.

About a month ago in Lowe's, we had another one of those endearing child moments. As we were walking the aisles picking out items for the house we just built, we noticed our youngest son Keaton. He was doing "the walk".

You know what I'm talking about, right? Legs spread so far apart he can barely walk at all. And it's more of a waddle than a walk.

And it can only mean one thing: I've got something really big in here.

Knowing that he had a giant surprise for us in his drawers--I started towards him. Right before I picked him up, it fell out.


On the floor.

In Lowes.

It had made it's way out of his pull-up, smeared down his leg, and landed with a plop (I'm sure there had to have been a plop) on the concrete floor of Lowes.

Frantically I began looking for the kinds of things that good mothers have readily available at all times.

Like tissues. Or wipes. Or napkins. Or a small baggie.

I didn't have any of those things.

Luckily my mom was with us and she scrounged up a tissue from her purse. And without a second to waste, she scooped that thing up and headed to the bathroom.

Fearful of a second round, we scooped our son up, and practically ran out of that place--probably leaving a smelly fog behind us.

I've thought about it a few times since. Mainly my mom's part in the whole incident. That thing was pretty big.

And that tissue was pretty small. And thin.

It must have been a really uncomfortable walk to the bathroom, carrying it in her hand.


Thanks mom. And I promise we didn't laugh about it at all.

Okay, maybe I can't promise that.

A Leisurely Day Out With Two Kids (Snort)

A while back, my husband and I had an apparent brain fart and decided that we would try taking both boys to a movie. Our four-year old loves going to the movies and can sit through just about anything, cartoon or not, like a champ.

But then, there’s our two-year old. We tried taking him about four months ago to a new, very popular animated movie. He made it about twenty minutes. During those twenty minutes he wiggled, he made loud noises, and he bummed popcorn from the family sitting behind us who we happened to be acquainted with, thank goodness.

My husband had the brilliant idea that we should go watch Iron Man 3 in 3D at the IMAX Theater, in a town about an hour away. The IMAX Theater is a pretty cool experience, so I guess I let the thought of the ginormous screen paired with 3D graphics cloud my good judgment.

Well, when we arrived there was already a line coming out of the building. Because we decided to go on opening weekend, of course. Because we’re just smart like that. The only remaining seats were on the bottom row, second from the very front.

I literally could have stretched my arms and almost touched the screen.

Things were okay at first. That is, until the lights went out and the previews came on. I’ll tell you. There is definitely a difference in the persona of movie goers attending an animated, kid movie and movie goers attending a non-cartoon super hero movie.

They latter are not forgiving. I’m pretty sure I got disapproving looks before my child even started making any noises.

And before he even started making noises, I realized this was a completely ridiculous idea.

I had noticed that the ticket said the movie was about two and a half hours. Now, I didn’t think for a minute that my child would sit quietly for that long. Even if we did stuff him with endless popcorn, coke, and candy.

Well, after preview number one, I had to pull out the candy that I had hidden in my purse because we are too cheap to buy a $5.00 bag of “rip-off” at the movies. So we sneak our candy inside instead.

Don’t tell me that you don’t do that. You do, right?

Well, it’s pretty bad when the previews have only been going for four minutes and you already have to dig into your sugary-ammunition. There are only so many Skittles in that bag, you know? They need to be rationed.

Especially if they’re going to last through a two-hour movie. Which, of course there’s no way they ever would.

Keaton insisted on sitting in a chair by himself. He sat back with his little feet sticking off the end of the seat. There was a man sitting in front of him, on the very front row. He had leaned his seat back as far as it would go in an attempt to ease the strain on his neck, I guess.

Well, in doing so, Keaton’s feet were touching the top of his seat.

This was actually the man’s fault, since my two-year old son is about the size of a big cabbage patch doll. But I guess the man didn’t see it that way. He glanced back a couple of times giving us dirty looks as Keaton tapped his feet.

We tried to get our little one to stop, but my goodness, if you get a two-year old to actually sit down for any period of time you’ve performed a miracle. Asking him to sit and keep his feet completely still is totally unrealistic.

Not gonna happen.

Well, he tapped his feet once more, even after our warnings. (Imagine that.) This time the man turned around and said, “Get your kid!” I wanted to explain to him that he was practically sitting in my kid’s lap and that if a normal-sized human being was sitting in my son’s seat there is no way in you-know-where that he would be able to lean that far back.

Yeah, I wanted to say that.

But, instead I took that as my cue to snatch my son and bolt out of there.

As soon as we got in the lobby of the theater I felt the sweet relief of freedom. Freedom from the judging, disapproving eyes of Iron Man die-hards. Much of whom obviously must not have children of their own or else they might’ve had a little more patience for two-year old foot tapping.

Then, I felt the not-so-sweet dread of having to keep a two-year old occupied for over two hours, while my husband and oldest son finished the movie.

Luckily this movie theater is located in a promenade shopping center. But, unluckily I didn’t bring a stroller or anything (not that my child would have willingly sat in one). Shopping with a toddler is nearly impossible anyway. Shopping with a toddler, by yourself, and without a stroller, is dang near hopeless.

But, what other choice did I have?

So, off we went. On a “fun” shopping excursion.

After the first store, I realized that I wasn’t actually shopping at all. That wasn’t what this was. I was actually entangled against my will in this game of hide-and-go-seek with my toddler. As soon as he would get out of my arms, off he would go. I would frantically look around the store, sometimes spotting him.

Sometimes not.

If I didn't spot him, most times he ended up being found under a rack of clothing or in the dressing room. So, I resorted to holding him in the store.

Which is about as dang near impossible as taking a two-year old to the movies.

And try getting your items (none of which you had time to try on) on the checkout counter, get out your wallet, get your debit card out of that wallet, swipe your debit card, and enter your pin number. All the while holding a fairly heavy purse and a super heavy child.

A child who is in no way cooperating.

He’s trying with all his might to escape, like a wild animal that doesn’t want to be caged. He all but bit me. Even he knew better than that.

By the time I left that first store, I was sweaty, holding a purse, an agitated toddler, and bag containing items that I didn’t even get to try on. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I had bought.

In store number two, my son tried the whole hide-and-seek game once again. But, this time he was pretty easy to find. In fact, all I had to do was sniff. Of course, he had a dirty diaper. And by the smell of things, it was a whopper.

So, we left the store in search of a bathroom. We walked all the way to the end of the promenade only to find no bathroom. So, we walked all the way to the other end of the promenade. Still no bathroom that I could see.

Finally we stopped inside a small ice-cream shop and used their bathroom.

When I opened that diaper it was just as bad as I had thought. And realizing that in an attempt to carry less, I had thrown a diaper in my purse and left the diaper bag in the car.

So, I had a new diaper but no wipes. Sweet.

This often is no big deal. At least when it’s a number one. But, a number two is a much different story. So, I got some toilet paper wet and began attempting to clean my smelly son.

After ten minutes we emerged from the bathroom.

There was a sign on the wall that read “Only Customers Can Use the Bathroom”. So, I decided we better order some ice-cream. It was our duty as law abiding citizens, right?

Plus I kind of felt like I deserved it. As we were eating our ice-cream I looked at the time, nervously. We still had an hour and a half. An hour and a half. Are you stinking kidding me?

Lord help us. Okay, Lord help me.

Realizing that we better not go to any more stores for a while I decided to let my son down to explore. But instead of staying in the grassy area that I had let him down in, he took off for the beautiful, perfectly manicured flower garden that is displayed outside the theater.

He was romping and stomping right in the middle of all the flowers. I kept yelling at him to get out. But for some reason he didn’t seem to hear me. Oh wait. I remember the reason now.

He’s two-years old and therefore NEVER “hears” me. Also, he's male. Yes, I said it.

As people walked by, some laughed at the sight of my son crushing flowers by the second. Some shot disapproving looks our way. And some had expressions of pity. Finally I had to climb in myself and pull him out, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Seriously. That was THE longest two and a half hours of my life. I will now cross “movies” off of the list of enjoyable leisurely things to do.

Just one more thing my kids took away from me. Along with any shred of youth and energy I might have left in this tired body of mine.

Embarrassing Moments in Wal-Mart

As if my multiple trips to Wal-Mart each week aren’t bad enough, sometimes I am even forced to take my children. Both of them. Shudder.

This most definitely makes shopping much harder and more painful. From the endless “No, we don’t need that. No, that’s too expensive. Put that back. Sit down. Put your shoes back on. Don’t hit your brother. Stop picking your nose. Use your quiet voice. Don’t sit on the bread!” to the out-of-the-way detours in a desperate effort to bypass the toy section.

It’s exhausting. And I get looks. Most of the time they’re looks of pity. It must be bad when we’re walking down aisles and people are feeling sorry for me.

Sometimes it feels like we’re a freak show.

And what’s really annoying is when I see a mom with her five or six children all sitting calmly in the cart and walking along peacefully with her. How in the heck does she do that? What kind of trance did she put on them? A sedative? That’s the only logical explanation.

And I feel like a big fat failure with my two maniacs yelling and bouncing.

Last Friday afternoon, we decided to head to Wal-Mart to pick up an assortment of popsicles for my niece Kenzie since she had her tonsils out the day before. We spent about twenty minutes perusing the frozen goody aisle. Both boys wanted everything they saw and kept forgetting that we were actually there to get treats for their cousin.

After filling our cart with frozen items for Kenzie (and of course some for our household since I often cave in these situations) we headed to the check-out line.

This line seems to be the place where my children lose it. I mean, they’re not great throughout the store. But, it’s like all heck breaks loose in the line.

And the candy. Oh the candy. At hands-reach. Little hands.

Well, in this line on this particular afternoon one of my most embarrassing mom-moments happened. I got all our items on the counter while at the same time repeatedly grabbing bags of candy out of my two-year old’s hands. I was so glad when the cashier put my last item in the bag and gave me my total.

We were just about to get out of there. Then, I reached in my purse to grab my wallet. And my heart sank.

It wasn’t there.

My mind began racing and I immediately started sweating. Then, it’s like the Heavens opened and I found my checkbook. Overwhelmed with relief, I quickly wrote a check to pay for our items.

I had our sacks in our cart, ready to go when the cashier spoke the words I secretly feared: “May I see your driver’s license?”

The license that was in my wallet—the wallet that was sitting on the end table beside my couch from earlier in the day when I made an online purchase. Stinking online shopping.

I had no debit card or credit card. I had no ID. So, I had to hand each bag back to the cashier.

Now, this sucked for several reasons. First of all, I had just endured a trip to Wal-Mart with both my children. And it was all for nothing. Second of all, we had been in the store for nearing thirty minutes. Third, it was a little embarrassing to have to hand my bags back. Fourth, I knew that we would have to make yet another trip to Wal-Mart as soon as I could get my wallet.

And the fifth most important reason this totally sucked was my children. When I handed the bags filled with popsicles and ice-cream back to the cashier, my four-year old instantly began crying.

Which, of course, made my two-year old start crying. They were both screaming as I started to walk away, dragging their limp, lifeless bodies out of the store as quickly as physically possible.

Then, my four-year old began crying, “I HATE Wal-Mart! I HATE Wal-Mart”.

We really were a freak show. They are never going to let us back in that place. My husband is going to have to do the grocery shopping from now on. Wait a minute, maybe that’s not such a bad thing…

I guess I could have told my son that really it was actually mommy’s fault (not Wal-Mart’s) because I forgot the money at home.

But I didn’t think that pointing the blame would have done any good at that moment.

When we got outside, both kids still crying, it was raining. Of course it was.

After a frustrated call to my husband, we headed to the bank where he works to get some cash.

And then, because there was no other choice, we headed back to Wal-Mart to repeat the whole process. I would’ve rather cut off my arm. But there still wouldn’t have been ice-cream or popsicles so that wasn’t an option.

We retraced our steps in the store, a little faster this time. I had chosen to wear some pretty tall wedges on this trip. We were going to dinner later that evening and I thought I would dress up a bit.

Stupid move. What was I thinking? I’m a mom. Wedges are never a good idea. My feet were killing me by the time we left Wal-Mart.

On our way out, as we walked through the rain, I spotted our SUV. But the weird thing was the driver’s side door was wide open. My first thought was, “Did someone break into our truck?”

Then, I realized that in the craziness of things, I had forgotten to shut the door.

How do you forget to shut the stinking door? When it's raining?

Two upset kids. A second trip to Wal-Mart. Rain. Sore feet. Deteriorating mom-brain cells.

That’s how. I really don’t think I’ll have any brain cells left by the time they’re teenagers.

I quickly got the kids in their seats, the bags put in the back of the SUV, and then sat down in my sopping wet seat.

We were finally done. I opened up a popsicle for each of the boys to eat on the way to give the get-well treats to their cousin. I didn’t really care at that point about the potential mess that eating a popsicle in the car would create.

And I might have opened up a popsicle for myself to eat while driving down the road. I deserved it.

I actually deserved a whole stinking, giant-sized banana split.

It was just a typical afternoon with two small boys. Makes you want some sons, right?

Fourth of July--Fail

What says “Fourth of July” better than diarrhea and vomit? Right? Right?

Our two-year old woke up this morning with some sort of stomach bug. Poor baby. We didn’t figure out there was a problem until we got to the park and noticed him waddling around, awkwardly.

Which in Keaton-translation means “I’ve got a big, nasty, undeniably smelly, diaper situation”.

And because mamas are so lucky like this, he insisted on me changing his diaper. (I guess my husband has tricked our son into falsely assuming his fatherly-incompetence in many of the areas of personal hygiene). How do men do that?

As I changed him by the car, I kept looking toward the road behind me thinking there had to be some sort of dead animal nearby. The smell was nothing like I had smelled from my son before. It was a smell that usually oozes from a five-day old mushed possum or armadillo or something equally grotesque.

And of course the liquid mess had already covered the inside of his shorts. And of course I had no other shorts. And of course, we had just arrived at the park when this happened. And Keaton hadn’t even had any time to play.

So, there was no saying, “It’s time to go, boys!” So, he played in his diaper. I’m sure we looked like, “those people” as cars drove by and saw a diaper-clad two-year old at the park with no pants.

After several more diarrhea diapers, which luckily happened in the convenience of our home, with a bathtub accessible, we headed over to my mother-in-law’s house. (Which by-the-way is about to be our house because we are building again and our current house has sold. So we have to get out in a few weeks).

On the way, Keaton was being extra moody. He was whining and kind of whimpering. Then, suddenly he vomited. And vomited. And vomited. About four times. From his mouth, his nose, and I think maybe even his eyeballs. Okay, not his eyeballs.

But, believe me, it was a LOT of throw-up. And it was chunky. Hey, I’m trying to help you understand just what we were dealing with. And maybe trying to get you to feel an ounce of my pain.

We completed the smelly-twenty minute drive and then tried to get Keaton out of his seat, while trying to make as small of a mess as possible.

Which was impossible. I got Keaton out without too much trouble. But when I pulled his seat out, chunky vomit splashed out on both my legs.

Thank goodness he’s my child. If the puke had belonged to anyone else, well besides he or his older brother, I just might have died.

Or frantically attempted to be hosed off in a treatment facility for radioactive waste exposure.

When we got home, I also got the fun job of cleaning the truck of the puke that was covering the seat, some of the carpet, and the seatbelt. Because I guess being a mom entails having some kind of magical cleaning power that my husband does not possess.

It’s strange. I’m pretty sure I’m not even that good at cleaning.

No matter how much resolve and Febreze I sprayed on, the smell would not come out of that seatbelt. I wonder how much a new one would cost?

So, Keaton and I ended up staying home from the fireworks festivities. Luckily he didn’t realize he was missing anything. And thank goodness we had a small Fourth of July celebration at our house the night before and so he got to enjoy some fireworks and fun.

I got Keaton to bed early, since it was just he and I in the house. I did a quick house-clean, and then spent the rest of the evening drinking coffee and browsing Pinterest.

And then I was awoken at 1:15 am with horrible stomach pains--and other issues. Keaton passed his bug along to me.

Of course.

Was cleaning the puke-covered child, the chunky, liquid filled car-seat, and about six road-kill smelling diarrhea diapers not enough?

Looking at what I just typed, it’s no wonder I caught the bug as well. I really need to invest in a hazmat suit.

And never take it off. Ever.

Eating Out: A Family of Four

We know better. We really do. We’ve actually known better for quite some time now. However we still continue to do it. We go out to eat as a family.

In public.

Where people can see us.

I don’t know what it is that makes us keep repeating this mistake. Oh wait—yes I do. I hate cooking.

I didn’t used to hate cooking. But then “kids” happened. And my whole cooking experience changed.

What cooking looks like now: Throw unmeasured ingredients together in a pot as fast as humanly possible while the kids are sitting on the couch watching TV because I know that it will only be a matter of time until the screaming, hitting, and mass chaos will begin.

Barely get a chance to stir “said” food in between breaking up fights; filling up sippy cups’ trying to convince a two-year old that he does not “need” a third popsicle because we’re eating dinner soon; caving spinelessly and giving my two-year old the third popsicle just so that I can get some peace and quiet for a second; cleaning up the spills from the first two popsicles that my little one sucked on while toddling around the house; and mentally preparing myself for the mess that the third popsicle is going to make.

All of this, while also trying to load or unload the dishwasher, start some laundry, clean water bottles from school, and a super long list of additional things.

So, yes. Cooking is no longer enjoyable. It’s barely survivable. And half the time my stuff isn’t even good. That really ticks me off.

The one absolute way I know the prepared meal wasn’t any good is when my husband asks, “So…did you like that?”

If you don’t know, that’s husband for “That meal tasted like a giant ball of crap.”

He doesn’t understand why this question makes me want to throw the dishes at his head, one-by-one, and never cook again.

All that work and it wasn’t even good. What a rip-off.

So, we end up eating out a decent amount of the time. Even though sitting in a restaurant with two little kids is about as much fun as inserting a bobby pin into your eyeball repeatedly.

Which I probably would have done on several occasions had I been able to find any bobby pins. But now that I have kids, I can’t be trusted with the things.

Plus, doing anything to my hair that includes bobby pins, takes way too much time and would never happen at this point in my life.

I have exactly two hairstyles: Hair all the way down or ponytail.

That’s it.

Back to eating out. I think part of the reason we keep making the mistake is also because every once in a while our kids will do surprisingly well. Which I guess gives us false confidence that they are finally old enough to behave like normal human beings in a restaurant.

Instead of uncivilized cave people.

But, it’s like they only have about one good “eating out” experience in them a month. And by the next time, they’re back to their old ways.

Ways which include, eating on the floor under the table like a mangy dog. I wouldn’t even be that opposed to this, because at least they’re quiet under there and nobody can see them.

But, the problem is there is usually other food under the table. Food from earlier guests.

And if they’re not under the table then they are inevitably standing on top of their chairs or bouncing on the seat of the booth we’re in.

It’s like they forget what a chair is even for when we’re in a public eatery. They become wild animals, eating food with their fingers. And I’m not talking “finger foods” like French fries or chips.

No, they’re shoving their fingers in the mac-n-cheese like they’ve never laid eyes on a fork in their lives.

It’s embarrassing. Seriously, it probably looks like we give our children slop in a bucket for dinner on the back porch and just let them go at it like beasts.

The other day we were eating burgers, when two policeman that my husband knows sat down near us. They were chatting with my husband and one of them mentioned that his wife had quit working and was staying home with their small child.

As if my husband had read my mind he said, “I don’t think I could pay my wife to stay home with our kids.”

I was half-embarrassed, realizing that I probably sounded like an awful mom at this point. A mom who doesn’t like to spend time with her children.

I quickly stepped in and said, “Oh, they would wear me out if I was with them all day. They’re pretty wild.”

Just as I was finishing my sentence, a half-eaten corn dog flew by my face, just inches from hitting my nose, and landed near the table of the police officers.

I guess my youngest child was reading my mind as well.

Thanks son for stepping in and validating what I said about you guys being pretty wild. I can always count on you to do whatever it takes to get the job done. Even if it means throwing wieners.

At least now the nice police officer probably understands why I choose to be a working mom.

As much as I love my boys, I think having a little time away from them isn't a bad thing.

Sleeping With Two Small Children

I would’ve thought my sleep issues would be long gone by now.  I mean, my kids are four and two years old.  Don’t most people only deal with sleepless nights when they have infants? 

 

So why in the heck do my kids wake up more times a night than a newborn baby?  And they don’t go back to sleep nearly as easily either.   Why am I being punished?

 

I always thought I would never be one of those parents whose children slept in the bed with them.  As babies, both our little guys slept in their own cribs.  I always secretly smiled on the inside when I heard mom’s talking about the struggle of getting their babies to start sleeping in their own beds.

 

I had overcome that hurdle.  Well, really at that time I had never even encountered the hurdle.  My children slept in their own rooms.  Always had, always would.  And I was proud.

 

But, then our oldest child turned three, developed nighttime fears of some sort, and began begging to sleep with us.  Because he was “scared”.  Give me a break.

 

And so it began. 

 

By four years old, we were carrying his limp, sleeping body from his own bedroom to our bedroom when it was time for us to go to sleep.  We have concluded that it is just easier this way.  If we bring him into our room, he stays asleep and then sleeps through the night.

 

If we don’t, he comes barreling through our door sometime in the middle of the night usually awake enough that he’s either talking, crying, or begging for a drink or snack.  And believe me, it’s torture trying to get him to go back to sleep.

 

So, we had our little nighttime routine down and really I didn’t mind it all that bad. Plus, our child sleeps almost on top of my husband, so for me it’s practically like he’s not even there.

 

But then, our little sleeping world was rocked once again. 

 

My husband and I did a completely ignorant thing a couple of months ago.  We took the crib out of our two-year old son’s room.  And the number one reason this action qualifies as “ignorant” is because the kid wasn’t even climbing out of the crib. 

 

Nope, he was pretty content in the darn thing. It was US who decided it was time to move on.  It was US who decided that we were ready to get the crib out of his room. 

 

As my husband carried the pieces of the baby crib up to rest in the dusty attic, he also carried up our last remaining chances of uninterrupted sleep.  

 

And at point all heck broke loose.

 

Why did we do this?  What was wrong with the crib?  Besides the fact that it was covered in baby bite marks and smelled mysteriously of curdled milk, even though it had been cleaned a million times. 

 

Okay, it hadn’t.  But I had sort of wiped it down a time or two.

 

Our two-year old has figured out that his big brother sleeps in our bed and understandably he feels that he should get to as well.  And I guess technically he should, if we’re being totally fair and all. 

 

So, now he is the one barreling in at all hours of the night, begging for a drink, and keeping me from ever getting a good night’s rest. 

 

Ever again

 

And a good parent, who understood that this was a vital learning experience for the newly-toddler-bed-sleeping son, probably would’ve told the child no and sent him back to his bed. 

 

Because we don’t just get up in the middle of the night anytime we want.  Even if we convince ourselves we think we’re dying of thirst.

 

Night time is for sleeping.  And sleeping only.

 

But I guess I’m not a good parent.  I’m more of a sleep-deprived parent.  And if dragging myself out of bed to fill his sippy cup with apple juice will get me back to sleep any faster—then that’s what I’m doing. 

 

I can’t lie.  I also can’t be held accountable for my parental actions at 2:00 am. 

 

But, even after my two-year old finally goes to sleep, I still can’t get any rest.  I mean, for some reason he pushes me to the edge of the bed every night.  I don’t know how his thirty-four pound chubby body can press my—ahem—“a little more” pound body to the edge. 

 

It’s beyond me.

 

It’s like when he’s sleeping he becomes this immovable statue.  Like Thor’s hammer or something.  I try to scoot him. He doesn’t budge.  I try to roll him.  He doesn’t budge.  Sometimes I even try to pick him up and move him.

 

Oh, he budges when I do this, but he also gets angry and starts crying and then I regret ever having tried to move him. 

 

And within seconds, he has me pushed to the edge once again.  It sucks.  I mean, we have a king size bed and I am forced to sleep on a space about the width of a yard stick.  And I am much more than the width of a yard stick. 

 

Maybe I should just go sleep in his toddler bed.  At least then I would have more space. 

 

You know, these kids really have no right to be running the show around here.  They don’t work.  They don’t pay the bills.  They really don’t contribute to this household in any way whatsoever.

 

Yet, they get exactly what they want.  They get every room in our house.  And just so we’re clear, it’s not our house.  It’s not been our house since they exited the womb.  It’s theirs.  We just rent the space, take care of the space, and pay for everything that’s in it. 

 

They’re simply the landlords.  A position in which they have done nothing to earn, mind you.  But inevitably it’s theirs. 

 

And they suck.

  

 

"Easier" is not in our Near Future...

This morning I woke up not feeling too well. Sore throat, stuffy nose, symptoms that make you feel blah. Both boys had been struggling with cold-like symptoms for days,and had coughed off and on all night. So, I decided this would be a good day to take off work and go to the doctor. FYI: Taking both my boys to the doctor at the exact same time is one of my least favorite things to do. It's right up there with cleaning poop-splosions...which I got to do later in this same day...don't you worry. (It wouldn't be a story without poop, right?) And because we're lucky like this, it always seems to be the on-call doctor that we have to see each time we decide to visit the clinic. Us and about a hundred other people. Which means a much-longer-than-normal wait.

So, I dressed both boys and attempted to get them in the car on time, wiping Keaton's runny nose the entire way there on his shirt sleeve, my shirt sleeve...anything I could find at the moment. And of course once we were all in the car, Cale decided he needed to go to the bathroom. Why in the world he didn't figure this out five seconds ago...I don't know? Try asking a three-year old. You won't get very far past, "I just now had to go". Funny thing is, even when they're second graders, the excuse is still the same.

We made it to our appointment on time, amazingly. I was armed with little more than two sippy cups, which the boys had already pretty much chugged on the way to the doctor, and a bag of goldfish crackers. Thank goodness for those goldfish. After about twenty minutes of waiting, I opened the bag and I don't think Keaton stopped eating for more than a couple minutes the rest of the time we were there. I'm pretty sure when the nurse finally called us back, we left a nice mess of smashed crackers in the carpet. To be honest, I'm surprised there were any crackers left on the carpet because Keaton spent much of his time crawling under the chairs and picking up any stray he could find and...throwing it in the trash. Okay, well actually he was eating the fish and I know this was well past the five-second rule but cut me some slack. At the doctor's office, with two little ones, who were already in a bad mood before we ever left the house, and only one bag of goldfish to share between the two of them...it's all about survival. And if that means letting your kid eat off the floor, and pretending you don't notice...then so be it.

We probably waited a total of an hour and fifteen minutes (and they were busy so I'm not complaining) and by the end...I was tired. Of course I ended up not going to the doctor myself because after that...I didn't think I had it in me to sit in another waiting room with my two kids. Plus we were out of drink and crackers. Word of advice: Never go somewhere expected to wait with your kids if you don't have snacks or drinks. Don't do it. Don't. Just be sick. It's actually less painful.

On the way home, I put the pedal to the metal with only one thing on my mind. Nap time was near. Lunch first. But then the blessed nap time. A time when both kids are sleeping, the house is quiet, and I can do whatever I want. I usually end up cleaning during this time, but still, it's quiet. No screaming. No tears. Well, once they fall asleep, no screaming or tears. It's a sacred time.

After about twenty minutes had gone by, while I was attempting to clean out our closet, I heard a door shut. Since Keaton has yet to climb out of his crib, thank the Lord, I knew this was our three-year old, Cale.

I was a little annoyed because he still wasn't asleep. Plus he apparently was out of his bed which he knows is not supposed to happen. So, I headed that way to give him a "stern talking to". The minute I stepped into the hallway between the boys' bedrooms I could smell it. An unbelievably strong smell of poop. A smell strong enough that even in those few seconds I realized that it must be in multiple places. My heart sank. Literally sank as I stepped on into Cale's room. I couldn't see him at first, but then he stepped out of his closet. His hands were covered. There were multiple spots on the floor. There were places on his rug. I could see hand prints on the wall in a few places. I was speechless, partly for lack of the words to say and partly for fear of the words I might possibly say in that moment. All I could think of was Why? Haven't we been through this before? It's like a reoccuring bad dream. The poop-mare.

Cale told me that it was an accident, which is his excuse for everything bad that he does. Then he informed me that it was on some of his shirts. He had been in his closet when I first walked in. Greaaat. Still unable to say much I grabbed him up, took him to our bathroom, and put him in our jacuzzi tub. I began cleaning him, while the water was still cold. Of course he hated it, but in that moment I didn't have much sympathy. The water turned warm after a minute or two and I made him stay there while I went to clean up the mess.

Long story short. It was in so many places I can't even tell you. Door handles, light switches, the bathroom counter, sink, and faucet where he'd attempted to clean his hands up by himself. The cute little blue bucket that I keep beside the sink to store lotions and such was now filled with dirty, wet tissues. So bleach, water, the Shark steam mop, and I had a meeting in a Cale's room and bathroom. This was supposed to by "my" time. My me-time. I'll admit it. I wanted to throw a tantrum.

If you've read any of my blogs you're probably thinking, "Didn't almost this exact same thing happen before. Like more than once?" Why yes, you are correct. And yes, Cale is older now. Absolutely too old to be doing things like that. Welcome to my world. Sometimes it stinks.

We keep saying that things will get easier the older the boys get. But, I remember saying that exact thing about a year ago. And I would say things are harder now than ever. But, they're also better than ever. The boys, aside from all the bad, crazy moments, are so funny right now. They make us laugh constantly. This kind of makes up for all the other things they do. The yelling, the screaming, the crying, the fighting, the being-way-too-loud-in-public, the mess making, the...pooping. It really is all worth it.