Waking up to the smell of noxious burning is never a good thing.

See, I was under the delusion that since all three kids are home from school today, I might actually get to sleep in beyond five am. When my husband and kids all leaped out of bed at quarter past five, I assumed he would wake me when he wasn't able to supervise them any longer.

Uh, no.

The three kids were in and out of our big bed, and I drifted in that half-sleep, half-awake state that has been so common over the last eight years. I was aware, but not aware.

"Mommy, there's a leg bag in the microwave." My son shook my shoulder. It didn't occur to me to question him about this "leg bag" thing.

I immediately leaped out of bed, in fire-fighter mode. As I passed by the bathroom, my husband yelled "Are you cooking something? I don't like what I'm smelling..."

I raced to the kitchen, trailing kids, to find that my nearly-four-year-old had put an ankle weight in the microwave and turned it on. For two minutes. It was black, smoking and bubbling as I wrenched the door open, to be greeted by a cloud of foulness.

I don't know what I said, exactly, but it had a lot of primal screaming for punctuation. My kids stood in a semi-circle around my quaking frame, upper torsos leaning backwards like shrubs in high winds. (I just typed quacking. I might have been doing some of that, too.)

My husband appeared, and we rapidly fanned out, opening doors and windows. The indoor-only cat took the opportunity and ran out the door, to the howls and hysterical tears of my oldest. The smoke detector never went off. I don't know if that is a good thing, or not.

Yes, at seven o'clock this morning, you could have found me in the backyard, shaking a bowl of cat kibble and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty." At seven-o-five, you could have found me on the deck, separating my two oldest children, with one of my palms on one forehead, one of the other forehead. Every time the cat made an appearance, my daughter would grab at her, and my son would simultaneously charge, freaking the cat out and sending her scrambling under the deck.

"It is seven o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood is still asleep. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

I finally captured the cat, and locked her in the bathroom. Then I made a huge mug of coffee and turned on some Bob Marley. I've been walking around fanning the air in my house with a giant plastic lid to a giant plastic container, swaying my hips to the beat.

The kids are spending the night at Grandma's tonight. Every little thing is gonna be all right.

Our contest is live! Use that search function and get your answers in before Sunday night! Click here (or up on the "Fun") to play!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:58 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written especially for Mommybloggers.com by Izzymom

I was reading a post tonight that got me thinking about a really embarrassing moment that I experienced about 10 years ago. Of course it didn’t feel like a moment. It felt like an hour. An excruciating, in-slow-motion hour that still makes me cringe to this day.

I cordially invite you to share in a little skate down embarrassing memories lane…

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The boyfriend I had before I married my husband was an ass. Why I stayed with him for four years is mostly a mystery to me. I mean I understood that he manipulated me and guilt-tripped me into staying so many times when I was already out the door. But I never understood how anyone, even a guilt-inducing master manipulator could convince me to stay in a relationship that had become so totally dysfunctional and unsatisfying…but he always did.

Until one day when I walked out and never came back. We never really settled anything or hashed anything out. It was just over. Like that. And within a couple weeks, he had another girl living with him. It was then that I realized it wasn’t me that he had needed all those years. It could have been anyone. He just needed a warm body nearby because he hated to be alone. And that made me really angry with him for wasting four years of my life. And my pride was a little bruised. But I swallowed all that and moved on with my new boyfriend/future husband (who I happened to have met from the ex…nyah nyah!)

Fast forward a couple years. The huz and I are happily married. We’re doing great. Except me, forever hallucinating that I was fat, decide I need to get more exercise and conclude that the rollerblading craze that was sweeping the nation was the perfect way to achieve this. I nag the huz until he gets himself a pair of rollerblades, too, so we can do it together.

It’s gonna be GREAT FUN! Never mind that we are NOT exercising, fresh air, rollerblading kind of people. We’re doing it anyway, dammit!

So one day, I suggest that we rollerblade to our friend’s apartment and stop for a visit. I put on a cute white halter top and a pair of stretchy little shorts (it’s hot out!) and we proceed with the plan. We skate for a while and finally reach my friend’s apartment building but we don‘t see his car. He’s not home. Oh well…we turn around and start to go back the way we came.

As I’m crossing the road, I look to my right and I see it. The green VW bus that I knew so well is chugging down the street. It’s about a block away and coming right at me.

It’s HIM.

The ex.

I hustle to get out of the street, hoping against hope that we can get out of there without any interaction. I’m stiff yet spaghetti limbed. I’m in total slow motion. I’m all fucked up. And before I can do anything to stop it, I wipe out RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM! On my ass!

I look at him through the windshield and our eyes meet. I’m positive he recognizes me despite my braid and sunglasses. I turn away so I don’t have to see his reaction. I can’t bear it.

I make it to the side of the street, clomp up on the grass and skate away on the sidewalk as fast as I possibly can. I don’t wait for my husband. I don’t stop to inspect my numerous bleeding wounds, including some pretty bad road rash on my upper thigh right below my butt. I just want to disappear before I die of embarrassment.

Once we were out of sight, I asked my husband if he thought there was a chance he didn’t recognize us. Please say yes!

“Uh no...I’m pretty sure he did,� said the huz, just before he broke into gales of laughter while trying hard to bite his lip and look somber out of respect for my beaten and bludgeoned ego.

And to this day, he is not allowed to speak of the incident under penalty of divorce.

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For more from this week's guest, visit Izzy at her personal blog Izzymom or see what she thinks is cool at Cool Mom Picks. Oh, and be sure to visit her for your graphic needs at Designs by Izzy.

Posted by mommybloggers at 7:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

Friday Evening, as I prepared my traditional St. Patty’s day Corned beef and Cabbage dinner, my 18 month-old daughter sauntered into the room holding two small teddy bears. They were the kind of itty-bitty teddy bears they sell in the dollar section at Target. I don’t think the child has left Target once without a dollar animal clutched in her hands. I have to beg the cashier to scan it as quickly as possible to minimize the shrieking she emits from the time I wrestle the critter from her grasp to get rung up to the time her little stuffed buddy is safely back in her sticky, dimpled little hands. She happily chirps whatever the appropriate animal noise is. “ROOOAR!�, “Woof!�, or “EEE-OW�. My daughter just loves her some little dollar Target creatures.

For all the bitching I do about the consumerism that Americans buy into, in the end I am a spineless hypocrite. I could, feasibly, walk by the dollar section without handing my child a small stuffed toy likely made by children in a third world country, and she wouldn’t even notice. But these little animals make her happy. I mean, she LOVES them. We have nine tiny stuffed dogs lined up on her dresser and the plays with them every day. She walks from room to room, clutching them to her chest. We also have 2 bears, a “Tih-tee�, a couple of bunnies, an elephant, and a giraffe. They were a dollar each. Meanwhile the expensive toys we carefully chose for her gather dust in the corner.

So, the lesson she learns is that buying crap at Target is really quite satisfying. That, plus Target has a mysterious diuretic impact on the bowels of our people. My sisters and I share the same affliction. We call it “The Target Affect�. We now have our own subtle vocabulary to describe desperate diarrhea moments. When one of my sisters tells me she is having a “Target moment� I need not look farther than the sweat beading on her forehead to know she needs to get to a bathroom, pronto. Give any of us ten minutes of wide-eyed browsing in the aisles at all the stuff we could feasibly buy and take home with us, and suddenly we are turning on our heel and sprinting to the bathroom. All the consumer-based excitement and browsing apparently has a stimulating, affect on the bowels. The week after I gave birth to Maggie I was terrified of pooping. The trauma of childbirth does really strange things to your system that way. I limped around the house for a few days and finally thought to myself: “Target!� One trip for baby supplies, and one sprint to the Target restroom, and I was smiling again. Problem solved.

So Target really is not such a bad place, I suppose.

Friday evening as I stood at the stove poking our large slab of boiled meat with a fork, Maggie walked in with her Target Bears clutched in her hands. She looked at me, lifted her ittle bears into the air like "Rocky" and exclaimed “One! Two!�. My mouth fell open. It was the first time I had heard her try to count. It appears there is another redeeming factor for Target that I had not considered. Strollling the aisles of Target is the best non-chemical laxative known to man, and the little dollar animals Target sells are also excellent learning tools. Plus she likes to make them kiss each other, which I think is sweet. And the two bears cost me all of two dollars. One could take that a step further and consider that Maggie also posesses a more sophisticated understanding of additional meanings of the numbers one and two. Cough. You know. “Number one� and “number two�…. The child is certainly a genius. She gets it from her mother.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 4:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

The following entry was written by Julie of Mothergoosemouse.

Why are there toys all over my house?

The simple answer is that I have children, and children have toys. Therefore, I have toys.

But why are they EVERYWHERE?

There is an easel in the kitchen. Ten bottles of washable Tempera paint on top of the refrigerator. A Ziploc bag of crayons and a Barbie coloring book on the table. A Megasaucer, a Magnadoodle, and forty-eleven Peek a Blocks in the family room.

Two child-sized bicycles and a large box of sidewalk chalk in the garage. A lone sand shovel abandoned on the deck.

A complete kitchen ensemble in the basement, along with a dollhouse, doll stroller, and doll shopping cart. A felt board, a Leap Pad, three bags of Mega Bloks, and a pair of red-sequinned high heels for dress-up.

Upstairs, we have bookshelves full of books, dressers full of clothes, and enough bath toys to fill the tub, leaving no room for a child to bathe.

But here’s the really sad part: In the dining room, there is a ball pit. No table, no chairs. Just a ball pit.

And here’s the really scary part: Most of this stuff used to fit into a two-bedroom condo. Which is also the reason we have no dining room furniture. Yet.

I’ll admit it; Kyle and I are enablers. We allowed this migration to occur. While the girls are both little, it’s just EASIER to have ready access to their toys, especially on the main floor where we all spend most of our time. Having spent more than three years in a tiny condo, Tacy was really quite intimidated by the size of the house for the first several months we lived here. She no longer requires an escort to go down to the basement or up to her room, but she’s still not entirely convinced that the place is safe. Meanwhile, CJ is just learning to handle the stairs, and since she shows great affection for all things potentially hazardous to her health, it’s best to keep her in sight at all times.

Don’t get me wrong; if you come to visit, you won’t be knee-deep in toys. We insist that Tacy clean up what she’s gotten out, and as soon as CJ can understand the concept, she’ll be expected to help too. If Tacy drags stuff downstairs that belongs upstairs, she’s expected to return it to its rightful place before bedtime. The house isn’t a wreck, I promise.

Just don’t expect me to move that ball pit, unless you are delivering dining room furniture.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 9:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

What clears out a swimming pool faster than screaming “SHARK!�? Anyone who has seen the movie “caddyshack� can tell you. A floating baby ruth clears out a pool in approximately a nanosecond. In fact, it doesn’t just clear out a pool. A baby ruth in the pool catalyzes a screaming, disgusted mass exodus.

On one hand, I can say that we have our daughter potty-trained at 18 months. Hooray! It’s a miracle! We have a genius on our hands. Clearly such an accomplishment means we are master parents. We are practically professionals. On the other hand, instead of going in a potty chair or “the big pot�, our daughter considers our bathtub to be her personal toilette. Like clockwork. Put the child in a warm tub for more than seven and a half minutes, and dollars to doughnuts, a floater will eventually gently bob to the surface. This is my cue to shout “all-done!�, grab her under the arms and unceremoniously heave her out of the funky water in short order.

I am not sure what it is about the warm water, but it works like a charm every time. Madge + warm water + seven and a half minutes = floating terdlets. Every single time.

This could be considered a good thing. I mean our failsafe recipe for poop is certainly a reliable homeopathic cure for constipation. Speaking from experience, it hurts to watch your child struggle in pain to evict their own feculence. As a caring parent I am more than willing to don rubber gloves, fish around for floating terdlets, and soak her tubby toys in Lysol, as long as the end result is a happy child with a lighter load.

In fact, if this warm water laxative phenomenon last into the teenage years, we can use it as an extra-credit exercise when she reads Dante’s Inferno. We can drop Barbie and Ken into Malebolge, the ditch of excrement, and watch them suffer for their sins of flattery. If she is a real academic go-getter, she can videotape and edit her own reenactment of the eighth circle of Hell. Perhaps we can hook up some kind of tubing so that offal spews forth from their mouths when they speak.

A pessimist might be saddened, disgusted and disappointed by their child’s penchant for pooping in the bathtub. Not me. I see it as an opportunity to show off some good parenting, a homeopathic cure for constipation, and a potential multi-media extra credit exercise to help her gain a fuller understanding of a timeless literary classic. Chalk one up for our family! Way to go Madge! Keep up the good work!

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Nothing makes me want to burst into a fountain of sloppy tears more than seeing my daughter hurt. My heart gets pulled up into my throat and makes me choke, and I find myself wheezing for air. I get tunnel vision. All activity stops dead in its tracks. Seeing her injured just about kills me.

I don’t know how it happened, but Sunday at my parents, right after I managed to down half my weight in cheese and olives, but just before the Superbowl started, my daughter fell and hurt her leg. I didn’t see it happen. She was wearing her pink cowboy boots, and was surrounded by her doting cousins and aunts, who she especially likes to show off for. Apparently she got a little cheeky, and tried to defy the unforgiving laws of gravity. I was told she just kind of fell and her leg kind of went out, and she kind of landed on top of it.

You wouldn’t have known she was hurt by her expression. She was her usual kamikaze self, and too busy getting into three things at once to cry about a silly old malfunctioning leg. But she was limping badly, and every few steps her leg would buckle underneath her, and she would fall over. Watching her stuggle made every cell in my body grimace. I followed her around, grim-faced, observing carefully to see if I noticed any improvement. I didn’t. She continued her crazy cock-eyed walk. Then every few steps, her leg buckled again, and down she went. She looked up at me as though to say “What the heck is going on? I had this walking thing figured out just a minute ago..Help me!�

There have been a few occasions since having Maggie when I have wanted someone to tell me what to do. When my first instinct was to freeze up. Times when I wanted to flop to the floor and assume the fetal position. Times when I felt frightened and cowardly. Times when I desperately wanted someone else to take charge and tell me what to do. When your baby is sick or hurt, and you are scared and trying not to panic, a minute lasts an hour. That strange pocket of time when you know something is wrong, but haven't yet decided how severe it is, or what to do about it. It's easy to be overwhelmed because that sick or injured little human is the center of your universe. I don't think there is anything more frightening to a mother than the sight of her injured child. Then the realization sets in. I am the mommy. The buck stops at me. And you have to make a decision. You have to stay calm, take charge, and do the right thing.

There was the time she couldn’t keep fluids down and became sunken-eyed and lethargic. It was awful. I wasn't sure if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe she was fine, and I was a crazy overzealous mother. I agonized for a minute (although it felt like a year) and decided to err on the side of caution. We ended up taking her to the doctor who sent us right to the hospital so she could be treated for dehydration. There was the time we had to decide whether or not to fit her for a helmet for the worsening flat spot on the back of her head. Maggie had developed Plagiocephaly (flat-head) on the right side of her skull. One ear was crawling up higher and higher on one side and her forehead was starting to stick out. The doctor told us we could do it, or not do it. Again, I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but the decision was ours. We ended up deciding to have her fitted for a helmet which she wore for months, and her head rounded out eventually.

Here I was again, floundering between overreacting and taking her to the emergency room, or waiting it out to see if her leg got better on its own. I waffled back and forth, and finally decided I couldn’t take it another minute. The limping was tearing my heart to pieces. My perfect little girl just wasn’t walking right, and I had to find out if it was something big, or something little. My sister Betsy offered to come along, and off we went to go to Urgent care.

Maggie was not the least bit fazed by her injury. The waiting room had an enormous fish tank. Maggie’s idea of the heaven on earth is any place there is fish tank. Betsy parked the car while I got registered and tried to keep ahold of Maggie, who screamed and flailed in agony, wailing and extending her arms desperately towards the towering tank of her chosen creatures. Her fishies. Betsy arrived just as the child's head was about to explode, and took the sobbing toddler from my arms and mercifully, towards the tank where she smiled and stood, mouth agape. Mesmerized, she repeated “Shishee! Shishee!� Over and over again.

We were called in to a room where a rather stern nurse ordered us NOT to spin Maggie in the Doctors chair. By the way, any doctor or nurse who leaves you in a room for an extended period of time with a toddler, and then instructs you to not let said toddler play with something that is A. within their reach, and B. utterly irresistible to them, should be beaten within an inch of their life with a tongue depressor. And a rubber glove.

The doctor eventually walked in and checked out wee Madge. He pulled her legs this way and that, and observed her limp for himself. He bent her knees and rotated her hips, and finally pronounced her not broken or maimed. I was happy, if not slightly embarrassed by my apparent over-reaction to a twisted ankle. I could have a bone sticking out of my own leg, and I would refuse to go to the emergency room, but I am not taking any chances with that sweet girl. I needed to know that she was okay.

I know that wasn't the last time. There are many cuts and bruises in our future. I can handle cuts and bruises just fine on my own. I can handle the pedestrian fever or vomit like a seasoned veteran. I predict, though, that each time I find myself in that bizarre time warp of uncertainty, trying to decide how seriously to take the medical emergency at hand, I will err on the side of caution. I have no problem running the risk of being accused of having Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy. I am just fine with being crazy, as long as I know my baby girl is okay.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 6:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Picture a dim, candlelit dining room stuffed to the gills with people, and practically exploding with noise, movement, and quasi-organized chaos. People are crammed around the table elbow to elbow, like sardines. The air throbs with a life it’s own. Like a cross between the warm heart of a mammal, and a pulsing wound. Although hard to distinguish in all the chaos, if you listen carefully, you can pick out the noises of clinking glasses, people talking over each other, the crunch of a nutcracker, requests to please pass the salt, please pass the wine. Cackles of laughter. You might hear a faint choir singing in the background.

You look up just in time to see a discarded, jagged lobster claw fly just past the end of your nose as it’s tossed onto a bowl with the rest of the pieces of exoskeleton. Part of you wants to lock yourself in the bathroom to steal a silent moment and shake the noise from your ears, but if you do that, you might miss something, and you desperately don’t want to miss anything. Someone is pressing against the back of your chair, trying to wedge and shimmy through to the kitchen, and under the table, an animal is stepping on your foot. Your left knee is being jammed into the leg of the table. You are trapped. Wedged in like the plastic cubes of the game “Don’t Break the Ice�. You pray that you can hold your bladder until the end of dinner. You make an offhand comment that is met with peals of laughter, and your face warms with pride and unexpected self-consciousness.

Have you been transported in time to some medieval feast? Surrounded by hungry heathens, bumped by people rushing to the vomitorium? No. You are having Christmas Eve dinner with my family, thank you very much.

My Methodist grandmother on my mother’s side married my grandfather, who was (gasp) Catholic. At the time, it was considered quite the scandal. Her own mother refused to attend the wedding. A decision she later regretted deeply. I imagine my grandmother found the traditions and rules of Catholicism to be a little foreign and odd. She was an amazing cook, and had a taste for the finer things in life. When she learned she that it was not acceptable to prepare meat before Christmas day because of lent, she may have been disappointed. She loved a good roast beef. Chicken was apparently considered gauche at the time. My grandmother loved an excuse to put on a fancy dinner. The strange no-beef rule left her no option for dinner on Christmas Eve other than lobster. The tradition stuck, because… well.. who doesn’t like lobster?

So every December 24th, twenty or so people congregate at my parent’s house in the middle of the coldest, most landlocked state in the country. The state of Minnesota, practically smack dab in the middle of the entire continent. On what is close to the darkest day of the year, we order fresh lobster from a thousand miles away, and sacrifice them in the name of Christmas and by default, Catholicism. We squash ourselves around the table and try to talk over one another. The decibel level in the room is directly proportionate with the amount of wine consumed.

At a certain point your mind starts to shut down from over stimulation. It gives me a small amount of insight into what it might be like to be autistic. To sense so much going on all the time, that it becomes too much for the brain to process. Your mind becomes fragmented and your sentences are blurted out randomly. Much like a conversation between children. “My dad’s a Fireman!� to which the other party replies “I like cookies!� and the first person responds “My goldfish is named Freddie!�

This is what Christmas Eve dinners are like in my family.

My husband is one hundred percent Dutch. His family is even larger than ours. When we have dinner at their house, the scene is much different. People take turns speaking. There are silent moments in between conversations. Pauses. People pass things around the table in an orderly fashion. People don’t crack jokes during the blessing. The only thing tossed at the table is the salad. For some reason, things aren’t typically spilled. It’s all quite civilized. And it’s a nice way of doing things.

I am glad that my daughter Madge gets to experience the best of both worlds. When I spend time in one atmosphere, I tend to long for the other. The pendulum swings from unrestrained chaos and joviality to peaceful celebration and reverence and back again. Two lovely variations of the theme of family at Christmas.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Ah, Saturday. Truly, the one day of the week where I can stay snuggled into bed until I drift awake, rested and at peace.

*screeeeeeeeech*

When my first kid popped awake at 5:15 am, I pulled her into my bed, hoping to snuggle her into submission. Her happy cries of "Up! Mama! Get up get up get up!" woke the other two, and by 5:20 am, I had all three kids jockeying for position in my bed.

My husband did the sensible thing, and got up to make coffee. I stayed in bed, dodging the knees and elbows of three gangly kids, wishing for a magic cloud of sleeping dust to appear overhead. After feigning sleep for another few minutes, I tried shooing the kids out of my room.

"Hey! Everybody out! Go on now! This is a sleeping place!"

No dice. My son gave me a baleful glance and said "Wah wah wah I can't hee-uh you." Elmer Fudd the smart-aleck. The kids wrestled like puppies, giggling and occasionally yelping.

If I couldn't get them to stop, I figured I'd leave them to it. I slipped out from under the warmth of my blankets and shuffled out to the kitchen for my own cup of coffee. The kids trailed behind, peppering my back with a hail of questions. We made quite a ragtag parade, me in my shlumpy sweats, my oldest already bedecked in extra scarves and jewelry over her pajamas, my son muttering random dinosaur facts, clad in only his pajama top and a pair of underpants, and my youngest, hair like a lion's mane, chirping "Yay! Mommy! Yay! You got up!"

Yay. Yay, indeed.

While the kids twittered around the house, tra la la la la-ing about the joy of being awake early on a Saturday morning, I sat glaring into my mug, longing for a few more hours of sleep. I slapped my cup down on the counter and stalked back to my bed. I threw my body back down, pulled the covers up to my chin, and laid very still, eyes squinted shut. Hah! I was a parody of my children at bedtime.

Opening one eye, I looked over at the clock. 5:35 am. Oy. I snapped my eyelid closed, and willed my brain to relax. Muffled outside my bedroom, I could hear the kids engaged in some sort of drama. Unable to relax, I stood back up, marched back to the kitchen in a major snit. I grabbed at my coffee cup and sloshed the lukewarm brew down the front of my sweatshirt.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I stomped across the kitchen to let the dog out. As the door slid open, the cold morning air slapped me in the face, causing me to inhale sharply. My lungs burned from the temperature difference, but my brain cleared. My foul mood evaporated as I noticed the first light creeping over my back fence, turning the dew on my deck to a silvery sheen. The dog slipped past my legs into the warmth of the kitchen, but I stood there, dragon-breath billowing into the still-dark yard.

In the next room, I could hear my children. Their voices fell to stage whispers, and rose to shouts as they acted out a story about a Queen, an Animal Researcher and a Baby Jaguar. I continued to gulp lungfuls of bracing air, feeling the tension leaving my body. I slid the door closed, and felt a small hand on my back.

"Mommy? Whatcha doing?" My three year old beamed up at me from behind her unruly hair.

"I'm breathing, baby." She thrust her arms up at me, and I settled her on my hip. We stood together, our foreheads resting on the cool glass of the sliding door.

"Mommy?" She whispered near my cheek. "I breathing, too."

"Do you see that the sun is almost awake?" I turned my body so that her chubby face pointed in the direction of the sunrise.

"Up came the sun and dried up all the rain..." she sang to me.

She read my mind.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBacks (0)

My biggest fear in life used to be that I would die before I became a mother. I was terrified I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer, or hit by a bus, or eaten by a shark before I ever got down to the business of getting married and having babies. I was afraid I would never find the right man to marry. I worried I would miss "the window" for getting pregnant. I worried that I would have to figure out a way to have a child on my own if I didn't meet someone I wanted to spend my life with. It seemed like I wanted to be a mother so badly that it was bound to get bungled up somehow.

I look back on that time and I laugh. How funny it is to me now. I thought I knew what fear was back then. I know now that you really can't grasp the true potential of terror until you become a parent.

Back then I thought I would be really good at this whole motherhood shtick. I was certain I would just glide into my new role as a parent, cooing, soothing, and burping all the way. Like a pro. Overconfidence and obliviousness made me shortsighted. I laugh at that now too.

I was 31 years old when Jim and I got married. We got pregnant about 2 months later. It happened that fast. I secretly enjoyed watching people doing the math in their heads when they first learned that I was pregnant. I would coach them. "She will be born two weeks before our first anniversary". Twelve months minus one month is eleven months. Eleven. Not eight. Eleven.

I looked forward to meeting my daughter. I wanted to be done with the whole pregnancy thing and just get on with it already. My fears about missing the opportunity to have a child disappeared into the breeze as I neared my due date.

Then Maggie was born, and "the fear" came back. But it was different. It had grown teeth and claws. It was bigger and scarier than before. It had morphed into something else entirely.

My visceral reaction to the new title of mother surprised me. Those were the "deer in the headlights" days. I thought I would be a natural with an infant. I wasn’t. At all. I was awkward and jumpy and nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It felt like everyone could tell how clueless I was. I had created an imaginary audience and they didn’t think much of my performance. I was about to be booed off stage. They were on the verge of lobbing rotten vegetables at me. It felt like I was being judged by everyone. I didn't have a frigging clue what I was doing. I was a fraud and they knew it.

I didn’t feel ready for the responsibility of another human. Not just any human but an itty bitty human who could poop and cry and eat and breathe but couldn’t do much else. A little human whose mother was ME. ME. I was responsible for the physical and emotional development of a baby who would grow to be an adult. And I was doing a terrible job. T here was no turning back. I was in it, and I was in it deep.

It felt like Maggie and I weren’t connected the way mothers and newborns are supposed to be . I was going through the motions of feeding and holding and burping, but she didn’t know me from Adam. It creeped me out when I would go to her bassinet and find her trying to nurse the side of it. She didn't know me from her bassinet. What the Hell was wrong with me? I was an abysmal failure. I was failing my daughter. I was afraid I would never be a good mother. I was afraid Maggie would suffer because if it.

I was in bad shape. Toss in sleep depravation, a whole lot of stitches, a body that I no longer recognized and jacked up hormones and I was a mess. I practiced what you might call "fake it ‘til you make it" (a very useful coping strategy), we got into a routine, and things eventually started feeling a little better. Closer to normal at least.

And then the fear. It came back. And this time it was bigger than I ever imagined.

I fell in love with my daughter. I was swept away in absolute adoration. And that scared the motherloving crap out of me. When you love a child that much, they become more that mere flesh and blood. That baby is so much more than brain synapses and dendrite connections. More than their collective parts and movements and noises and expressions. That little person becomes the center of your world. They change you. They alter your body chemistry and your brain. They become part of who you are. They move right on into your heart and they never ever leave. When I felt the magnitude of that, fear gripped me like a vice. It crushed my lungs so I couldn't breathe. It buckled my knees getting out of the tub. It made me so cold my stomach turned.

My thoughts went all panicky and herky-jerky.

"What if something happens to her? What if she gets cancer? What if she becomes addicted to drugs and I can't help her? What if we get raided by terrorists and Jim and I are killed and can't be here to protect her? How would she survive? How can I prepare her now for possibilities like that?"

The world. It had me by the balls. I kept thinking to myself "I am so screwed".

I found myself obsessing about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. I wanted to set up camp next to her bassinet and monitor every breath. I wanted to check on her every 5 minutes every night. I would startle awake if she slept too long and think to myself "She could be dead right now. Please don't let her be dead." And I would hurry to her room to find her sleeping peacefully. I actually considered the pros and cons of staying up all night every night staring at her, just to make sure she was okay. It was about then that I realized that in addition to needing more sleep, I needed to let go a little and have some faith. I am not the worlds most trusting person, so just having faith was no small feat.

I found myself making deals with God.

"Okay God. I officially surrender. You've got me. Remember all that time when I wasn't sure if you existed or not? I am sorry. All those times I have used your name in vain? Sorry about that too. You know this baby I have wanted for basically my entire life? Her existence is all the proof I need that you are for real. I didn't really get it before. I do now. I require no further education, so if you were thinking of teaching me a lesson you don't need to. I have learned my lesson. Really. In case you didn't know (oh that's right , you're omniscient) if anything happens to her I don't think I would ever recover. Ever. My soul would be decimated. You've got me, and you've got me big time. You are one hundred percent in charge. No kidding. I finally get it. So please, please, please, have mercy on my heathen soul and keep this child safe from harm. I will do my best as an earth-dwelling human to keep her out of danger. If you could take care of the fate, disaster, apocalypse part of the equation I will be forever grateful. Thanks."

Maggie is fourteen months now, and still alive (Thanks, God). I don't worry as much as I used to. "the fear" doesn't grip me as often as it used to. Perhaps I have learned not to turn my brain to that station. Perhaps I get wrapped up in the day-to-day tasks and routines of parenthood. Perhaps I just take things for granted. It does creep up on me once in a while though, and the fear is just as overpowering and as menacing as I remember.

A friend of mine e-mailed me a quote from the book "Operating Instructions" by Anne Lamott. It reads : "one of the worst things about being a parent is being face to face with one's secret insanity". That pretty well sums it up. Although my insanity doesn't seem to be a secret anymore . I am one crazy momma.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night. We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest. "Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce. "MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door. "Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed.

Whew! As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling
youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper. We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house.

After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, and my baby's second and third waking of the night.

I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on August 20, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Sometimes in a family of 5, you need to sit the kids down and have a Very Serious Talk about attitude. (This week on a very special episode of Family of Five, the family pulls together for a Very Serious Talk about attitude. A must see episode for the entire family.) Of course for the children it is best if you can do this as a group. You are more likely to not be the only one taking the heat. We as parents know this. Which is why we did it one on one. Or rather two against one. (Seriously, did my parents derive this much giddiness from watching The Squirm that the kid on the hot seat does? Sick bastards we are!)

So we call in the oldest and start talking. We have this rule when we have these talks. You can say anything. As long as you are being constructive and not just trying to get some digs in and being ugly. If you are mad, let us know. If you feel like it is unfair, let us know. Say Anything.

Well, it can get tense when you have these talks. Especially when you are feeling like you are on the hot seat and getting the lecture. I am not one to do well with super tense scenes. My sarcasm and dry wit tend to overcome me before I am even aware of it happening. So I look at my son and say with a perfectly straight face, "So, would you like to talk about sex now? I know the word penis and I'm not afraid to use it."

*Cue shocked and appalled look from my son. He replies to me in a very preteen, angsty way, "Mooommmmmm!"

Seeing that I have pushed a button, demon mom kicks in.

"Seriously. Shall we talk scrotum? Which, by the way, is the plural of scrotum scrotums? Scrotumeses? Scroti?....."

*Shocked look from my son who is actually looking for something sharp to jam into his eardrums, but realizes he is stuck with nothing but his own fingernails that were trimmed that morning and would never work.*

"...I am sure it is probably scrotums. But don't you think that scroti sounds more scientific? For example, 'In our family we have a ratio or 3 boys to 2 girls. Therefore, we have a plethora of scroti in our home.' See? It just sounds more official and scientific."

At this point my son is writhing in agony on the couch praying for death or a psychologically freaked out induced coma to get out of this situation and never have to hear his mother say the word scrotum again.

Then I get The Stare. A glazed over look was behind The Stare. But nevertheless I know that the stares means, "Mom. You've gone too far. You can no longer shock me. Give it your best shot."

If you know me, you know that I just do not have the ability to walk away from such a challenge. Especially from one of my children. I stared back. Then, in my most perplexed and inquisitive manner, I looked at my son and asked, in all seriousness, "Speaking of this, I was wondering, since you are Mr Science, do flies have scrotum? I mean seriously. I guess that depends on whether they have a penis or not. Do you know?"

At that my son gets up, rolls his eyes and says, "I think this talk is over now, Mom. I mean really!" He walks out of the room. Only to hear his father scream from the living room, "Son, are you looking it up. Fly. Scrotum. Google it."

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are going to parental hell for this one. But damn it was funny!

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on November 15, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When the geek movement first arrived in my life, I did try to resist it. When my husband Clint had a BBS before we got married, I still vowed to love him in spite of the geek factor being blown off the scale.

I resisted becoming a geek.

Oh sure, I logged on, got a great user name and chatted with the other users, but I was NOT a geek. Honest. And yes, I did go with him to the sysop get togethers. (But man, those geeks can drink!)

Yet, I resisited becoming a geek.

After Zarek was born in 1995 I became a full fledged insomniac. Clint's answer? Show me the internet. Teach me how to navigate the World Wide Web. Our conversations went something like this:

Me: What do you mean I can find a website on anything I want?"

Clint: "Just type anything you want to know in that box and it will take you to that website."

Me: *typing* 'anything I want to know' *SMACK to the forehead* "Ohhh, you mean type the TOPIC of what I want to know?? Like if I type 'coffee' I can read all about the different brews?"

Not only did I find coffee related sites, I found PARENTING sites! And JOURNALS! And CHAT sites! (I could suddenly chat with anyone, anytime!) I really did have something new to do with those middle of the night sleepless hours. I was going to like this new Internet thing. (Thanks so much, Al Gore. I heart the Internet!)

Yet, I resisted becoming a geek.

Years passed. I set up a few different websites of my own. I discovered IRC and went to real live get- togethers with these people that I met in *gasp* a chat room. I joined an awesome online Moms groups when Gabriella was a newborn. Even starting my very own blog in 2003 didn't bring me to the realm of full fledged geek. It didn't matter that I wrote on the internet. Or that I actually learned HTML. Even the fact that I knew what people were talking about when they spoke geek. I wasn't there yet.

That moment arrived a week or so ago. It was in that moment that I realized not only had I arrived in the World of Geek, I just may have to try to be their queen.

Clint was in the family room with his laptop doing something geeky online. I was in the bedroom getting ready to call it a night when I had a moment of inspiration. I grabbed my laptop and (giggling like I am being a bad girl) sent him a very suggestive instant message asking him to meet me in the bedroom.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Perhaps my IM was too suggestive and not blunt enough. Fine. I can do blunt. So, I decide to send him a steamy IM that was in no way shape or form questionable about what I was talking about. Dirty words and all.

I struck a pose and waited...

...and waited

...and waited.

Nothing.

My first thought is, 'Oh my god! What if I IM'ed that to a friend or worse my Dad?!' In a panic I double checked and was relived to see that I had not propositioned either.

Then I got pissed. What the hell is wrong with me that my own husband isn't responding to a very blatant invitation? It then dawned on me that maybe it wasn't his fault.

I grabbed a robe, stormed into the family room hand on my hips and demanded, "Do you or do you not have porn blocking on your instant messenger?"

Stammering, he replied that he did and then proceeded to try to figure out why he was in trouble for NOT having porn on his laptop.

"Nevermind," I sighed turning on my heal and leaving with a pout.

Back in the bedroom, I gave it one more shot. This time it worked.

Can I just share something with you about propositioning your spouse through IM, though? It really does lose something when all of the "dirty" words are spelled with an asterick smack in the mid*dle of them.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on January 29, 2005

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

This post is about poop, but not just regular poop. Giant FLOATING poop. It's also about ice cream, cigarettes, coffee, and prune juice. Oh, and Scalding. This post is also about scalding.

Maggie and I met my family for ice cream yesterday. We shared a small scoop of blueberry yogurt and Maggie sampled the wares of everyone else at the table who couldn't resist her hopeful gaze and gaping little-bird mouth.

We followed up the ice cream with a visit to a small toy store that carries all sorts of fun things for kids. This should have been a happy experience, filled with wonder and giggles, but alas, it was not to be. Something was wrong. Maggie stood red faced, with tears straming down her cheeks. Her nose started to run. She screamed and screamed. She crouched and winced. She was trying to work out a poop that was just not working out. It was not working out and it was wreaking havoc on her little insides. It's very distressing to see your child in pain and not be able to help. This disruptive terd had taken on five adults and a child, and it was winning. We were helpless.

In desperation, we tossed some ideas around.

Feed her fruit? No. That would take too long. Coffee and a cigarette? No. Not until she is at LEAST 8 years old. Liquids! Prune juice! That's it! Prune juice!

We walked to to the local co-op to find some magical prune elixer for my little backed up baby.

I gave her the juice. Nothing happened. On the ride home in th car she seemed to calm down. I fed her a dinner of fruit, fruit and more fruit. More prune juice, more fruit. Then it started up again. The screaming in pain. It hurt just to look at her. In desperation, I started a warm bath.

She sat in the tub and instead of her usual larky splashing about, she stared at me as though to say "THIS is what you came up with? A BATH? Will you just help me already? This giant terd is about to kill me and you start a BATH???? THIS HURTS! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FIX IT. DON'T YOU GET IT?"

Perhaps that was more my own inner dialogue.

Maggie started wiggling and wailing in the tub. Helpless, I could see her pain was escalating. She stood up, screeching in agony. She gripped the side of the tub with both chubby hands, pressed her head to it, crouched over, and out it came. Emerging from sheer toddler willpower and the mouting pressure from within her tiny little colon.

This poop had absolutely no business coming out of the bum of a one year old. It was the meanest, hardest, biggest, ugliest poop ever created by a butt that small. So compacted, I thought the pressure must have formed a diamond inside. I was SHOCKED by the sheer size of this monster. Tommy two-tone. A marbled combination of three days worth of toddler meals. I nearly cried with relief for her. Having seen the sheer size of it, I wanted to buy her a toy or a sticker just for getting the damn thing OUT. My daughter, the bravest strongest, most determined pooper in the world. The diminutive queen of extreme danger-pooping.

I was feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out that a warm bath would help relax those muscles and move the poopy beast along. Jim donned rubber gloves and victoriously searched through the bubbles to fish the massive logs of excrement from the tub. We were quite pleased with ourselves. Giddy, in fact.

My pride turned to horror as I pulled Maggie from the tub and saw her red little legs. Overzealous in my efforts to work the fecal frankenstein out, the warm bath I had drawn was TOO WARM. I may have coaxed the culprit out, but seemed to have scalded my daughter's lower half in the process. "Is there no end to this madness Dear God?" I wailed, "WHY? WHY??"

Why? Do you know why? I think I do. It happened because, as a parent, you can't get too cocky. You think for one moment, you have it figured out. You and your co-parent are high-fiving eachother, oblivious in your pride and self-congratulations for emerging, victorious, from battle. And out of nowhere, you get knocked with a left uppercut you NEVER saw coming. This is to keep us on our toes. Ever vigilant of the next totally stupid moronic thing we, as parents, are about to do.

I carefully pulled Maggies Pajama bottoms over her chubby red legs. Mercifully, Her red legs slowly turned to pink and eventually back to their lovely normal flesh color. We let her play while we ate dinner. I picked her up for her bedtime bottle and story and she laid her head on me as if to say "Please. Just put me to bed already. This day. Let it be over. The poop. The burning hot water. enough already." She struggled to keep her eyes open through "Goodnight Moon" and I put her to bed, exhausted. She was out cold within seconds.

Another day of well-intentioned but grossly mediocre parental blundering behind us.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 1:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (0)