Pooping Princesses at the Park

I live in a big bubble with little crazies.
By crazies, I mean people under 5.
It's been one of those overwhelming, draining, fun, frustrating, blurry weeks.
Oh wait- every week is like that.

I know- the days are long and the years are short.

I am fumbling my way through this parenting thing, trying to be easy on myself on the days when I feel like an impatient, spiritually bankrupt piece of doo doo.
I change it enough, I start to feel like it.

I had no idea parenting was going to be like this....
Some days it's just fucking exhausting, trying to explain to my 4 year old why she can't have 4 candy canes in one afternoon, or why it's not nice to call her brother, "Bad Brother".

And, explaining anything to my 2 year old is really a mother- fucking joke.
I have been trying to teach him to be gentle with our kitten for 6 weeks. He's still choking her and biting her like a lion cub. I'm surprised she's still alive. (please dont call animal control- I have enough on my plate).

Change the sheets, do the laundry, wash the dishes, make the lunch, drop her off, pick him up, feed him lunch (pick all food up off the floor), put him down for a nap... listen to him play in his room and NOT take a nap until he falls asleep the minute we have to leave.
make breakfast, pack lunch, make dinner, iron shirts,clean up an occasional puddle of pee, do bedtime, read stories, spray fake ghost be-gone spray,(water in a green spray bottle).... the list goes on and on.

It feels like groundhog day.
The menial tasks that may be killing many brain cells by the day, by the hour, by the minute.
It's the repetitive task of filling and emptying the dishwasher that makes me feel like my head is going to explode.

Especially, because most of the things I do, become undone, or interrupted by the small children (animals) that live with me.

I really needed a good laugh by Thursday.
Emma provided me with that.
I can always count on her to do something that simaltaneously surprises, and humiliates me.

Emma's favorite friend is an adorable red haired, blue eyed 5 year old named Wisteria.
I really like her mom Tanya.
It's a blessing that I can have such great conversation with her while our girls run wildly.
They are a pair of whirling, giggling, dirty princesses in stained white tights and bright red glitter shoes.

Thursday, we sat at the school playground talking, while the girls threw their pretzels up in the air, pretending they were glitter. They wasted every bit of snack I had packed- oh well.

They went running up the hill together.
Emma pulled down her tights and showed us all her little bare butt- I yelled from the bench, "Emma! pull your pants up!!!" She laughed and put her tights back on.

Then, they disappeared into the bushes for a bit, probably innocent play I thought/hoped to myself.

Three minutes later they came running down the hill giggling, their glitter shoes covered in dirt.
Emma started shouting to me, "I pooped in the bushes mommy!"

Tanya and I looked at each other with that look.

"She did poop......FOR REAL!!!!!" Wisteria yelled.

I looked at my friend Tanya with that look, nodding my head - like what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Can I pretend like she isn't mine?

we laughed for a minute, and I was crying inside, knowing what I had to do next.

I liked Tanya's suggestion, she said, "Well, you could just go sprinkle some pretzels on it."

I grabbed my trusty travel wipes and took emma's hand.
I looked at Emma with that look I give her - you little shit, you little 4 year old hellian, you shit in the school play ground.?????? You actually dropped trough and took a dump!!!????? WTF kid? you know you aren't supposed to shit outside.... much less outside at your school.

Instead I said, "Emma - did you really poop in the bushes?" (another endearing trait about the 4 year old- they often lie)
"Yes mommy, I did." She said with a wicked, "I got you mommy" smirk.

We walked up the cold, grassy hill. I told her that pooping is not something we do outside. I told her the obvious- come and tell me you have to poop and I'll take you to the bathroom. Do I really have to cover this?
Silly me.

She was laughing inside.
They don't call them the "Fuck you 4's" for nothing.

She said sorry and she said sorry, assuring me she wouldn't do it again.
That made me want to throw her, and her poop tumbling down the hill.

She better not do it again.

I cleaned up her shit (disgusting) and put it in the ziplock bag I had used to pack the pretzels they wasted.
Thank god I had that bag.
Then, I walked all the way to the disgusting, dirty green dumpster and threw it away.


This was one of those days I would've called my mom and said, "sorry mom." and she would have said, "for what?"
"Just everything."
"SORRY"

What is a two-year old boy?

I know it's a pointless pursuit......

But I just can't seem to figure it out.

Why do I love this obtrusive, unruly, emotionally unstable, physically out of control boy?

Is a two - year old boy a maniac with half a brain?
A mental patient?
A crawling, climbing animal who turns red when he screams?
A living example of how immediate gratification can ruin your day, your life?
A milk addict that doesn't seem to require food?
A hair pulling, stick throwing type of dog?
A rabid dog?
Oh, I know! a dog with 2 arms and two legs, instead of 4 legs.
A snot leaking, pooping and peeing diaper wearing miniature cave man?
A deaf dog who likes to grunt and watch Bob the Builder?
Does he hear me?
Yes, he ignores me.
Apparently, I am an object to ignore.
He gets lost in bushes, closets, hallways, and hills.
He climbs on dressers, tables, couches and T.V. stands.
He takes old food out of the garbage cans at the park and eats it. Mainly crusty week old cupcakes and stale corn chips crawling with ants.
He screams, kicks, and rolls violently on the floor when I say no.
He pulls Emma's hair.
He sits in the litter box and smiles.
He grabs the kitten with violent vigor and won't let her go.
He smiles at me when I put him in time out.
He puts on my shoes and tears my closet apart when I'm on the phone.
He unfolds my laundry and throws it all over the living room.
He calls, cries and screams for me at 3am.
He writes on my hardwoods with crayon.
He pulls his diaper off and pees on the floor,in the bath and sometimes the bed.(duct tape is an item on my grocery list)
He puts wash cloths and stuffed dolphins in the toilet for his personal entertainment.
He shits in the bathtub monthly.

After all this abuse........
I do believe I would stand in front of a car if it was going to hit him and walk through fire if he was going to get burned.
Is this irony or just plain insanity?
I put him to bed at night and look into his big brown eyes......
it's then that I forget he's a screaming, pooping, mad man boy who runs me ragged.

Blood, Tears, and Fake Nails. (By Stacie)

It was  a cold, foggy San Francisco summer day.
My best friend Colleen lived up the block from me and we spent all of our time together.
I would say, "I'm coming up." and she would say, "I'm coming down."
This particular Saturday, I went "up" to see her.
We were playing house, one of our staple Saturday games.
We were about eleven years old.
A portion of  her house  was under construction, and we were forbidden to play there.
It was in the back of the house on the top floor.
It smelled of lumber, saw dust, and cold eucalyptus air.
Naturally, that's where we played house.

I was the "mom" and she was the other "mom"
We were in separate rooms (under construction) talking on the phone.
We each wore Lee press on nails.
My nails were candy apple red and Colleen's were hot carnation pink.
I was wearing my brand new white Esprit outfit, that I had begged my mom for at Nordstrom.
White, cropped, cotton pants and a white button down top.
It was Esprit, that was the important part.
All so stylish, it was 1980  something.

Mid- sentence, chatting on my imaginary phone, I sat on what looked like a beautiful love seat.
I was  so engrossed in my "mom" character, I missed the fact that it was a big piece of  thick glass covering a hole in the floor.
Suddenly, I was mid air, floating, falling, screaming bloody murder.
Chards of glass surrounded my face and ripped through my skin like claws.
Within three seconds, I hit the floor like a boulder dropped from a cliff.

BOOM.
It felt like my tail bone had been hit with a fifty pound metal bat.

I immediately jumped to my feet.
Okay, I could walk.
My heart was racing, blood was dripping rapidly down my face, my back, my legs.
Adrenaline was rushing like a ferocious beast through my trembling body.

There were no thoughts.
Colleen ran down the stairs and saw me, she screamed.
There were no words exchanged.
I looked into her terrified green eyes and we had the same silent thought- PHONE.
Get to the fucking phone now.
We need to call my mom NOW.
Blood dripped on her beautiful hard wood floors with every step I took as I made my way to the phone that gripped the wall.
I grabbed the cream colored receiver and the cumbersome cord got stuck in the one part of my hair that wasn't stuck to my bloody face.
I tried to dial my mom- 239-8989.
I couldn't get the buttons to push and  the 2 kept slipping.
"Fucking Nails!!!" I screamed as I tried to rip the plastic albatrosses from my fingers.

My mom had told me they weren't good to wear in case of emergencies.
I heard her voice in my head.
I finally ripped one off and threw it across the kitchen.
239-8989.
Done.

I ran for the front door, Colleen followed closely behind me, crying quietly.
She sounded like a whistling tea kettle, then I heard the screech of brakes.
I don't even think a minute had passed, and there she was, my mom.
She pulled up frantically in the station wagon.
She had on her cut off daisy duke jean shorts and a red t-shirt with a rainbow on it and a little bit of bird shit on her shoulder.
She had reversed backwards up the hill, which she did often, not just in emergencies.
"GET IN THE FUCKING CAR !"
I stood there covered in blood.
 My "white " pants were now red pants, completely saturated with bright red, fresh blood.
My hair was glued to my face with blood and tiny beads of glass.

"Get in the car!" She yelled.
"What Happened!!!!!!!!!!!!!" She said horrified.
I was stunned.
I opened the door and laid across the back seat, all I could smell and taste was metal.
I got in the car, my mom was trying to be calm.
She didn't succeed.
It was obvious this was bad.

We flew off  at about 60 MPH down our residential street.
I sobbed and sobbed, trying to get the words out, telling her what happened.
We both knew stitches were imminent.

She told me it was going to be fine.
That was one of her go to phrases, "Not to worry Stacie, it is going to be fine."
"No it's not mom!" I insisted, sobbing.
There was no way she was right this time.

The right side of my face was pulsating, my back was sliced up and it felt like a thousand bees were stinging me.
It wasn't enough to be on the way to the ER with glass chards in my body and face.

She couldn't resist.
"God damn it Stacie! I told you not to wear those god damn fake nails!"

She's Dead right?

My mom is dead.
I still can't believe it sometimes.
It's been 15 years and I think about her all the time.

I miss her.
I look into my daughter's big brown eyes and I understand what my mom felt when she looked at me.
I used to ask my mom,"what are you staring at?"
My mom would look at me and gently touch my face with her rough, warm hand, "You. I'm looking at you." she would say.
Now I understand.

I used to look at the furrow in my mom's brow while we rode together in the car.
When I'm driving, I look in my rear view mirror and see that furrow in my brow.
Now I understand.

I miss her.
I wish I had recorded her voice.
I can still hear it in my mind, but it's like a faded recording.
A comforting recording I play when I need  to hear her say,  "This too shall pass."
It's different when your mom says it.

Dead is dead.
That person is really gone.
I know right?
We know right?

There will always be a part of me that doesn't believe it.
I'm not analyzing why.
Somehow, I want the moment to be different, to be better, to be what I want it to be.
It is just the moment.
My mom is just dead.

I can still love her, miss her, and hold her in my heart while I  share her with my kids.

My daughter looked at a picture  of my mom this morning and said, "mommy, that's you!"
I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the kitchen.
"No, that's not me Emma, that was my mom."
"It is you mommy! " She insisted

I felt a sharp tingle squeeze my heart.
My chest got hot, my throat lumped,
Silently, I thought, wait......
That is me.

I love Emma the way she loved me.
Maybe she's not really dead after all.

You had one of those Days? I have one of those Lives......

I was raised in San Francisco.
When I was growing up, my parents had cocktail hour , they passed around joints and listened to Brazil 66.
My dad dropped an occasional hit of acid and hung a posters that said fuck the draft.

Before I was born, he painted every room in our first house a different color while flying on LSD.
He also had a perm and wore hawaiin shirts with thongs.
He drove a lime green 1969 porshe.

My mom had long dark hair parted down the middle and rich brown eyes, she liked to drink vodka with soda and a twist of lime, and she smoked benson and hedges lights 100's.
She wrapped my dad's porshe around a tree one night.

When we were teenagers,
My mom told us to drink at home if we were going to drink at all......I mean why take the chance?
My brother grew pot in my closet with tinfoil and hallogen lights.
Never mind that my high school uniform reeked of skunk.

He was an  innovative guy. He used to microwave the leaves from  the pot plants and we rolled joints and  smoked them in the kitchen on friday nights.
"waste not, want not!" my  mom would say.

My mom would sometimes pick me up from the 10pm movie with wine on her breath, or even a "traveler" in the car.

Needless to say, I grew up in an environment where drinking was accepted, not rejected.
Meanwhile, my curfew was 11pm until I turned 18, but I could smoke and drink at home.
Mixed messages sent me to therapy for a long time.....

We had a french exchange student named Christian who lived with us for a while.
He helped me with my french homework and made good crepes.

We also had a long lost cousin who lived with us, Bruce.
He was from Alaska and he had a ten foot boa.
We used to feed the boa live mice.
They would squeal and then sit like golf balls, slowly sliding down his throat.
Discovery channel shit.

I had a pet rat named Egg Nog and I loved her.
One night, my brother blew an enormous cloud of pot smoke in her face and killed her.
He blamed it on our dog.
I cried and cried.
My mom helped me bury her the next day.
I wrapped her  in my pink Benetton sweater and put her in a shoe box.
We dug a small hole in the back yard, and buried her next to a tree.
I cried more.

We also had 2 dogs, black labs, Tasha and Stormy .
Tasha was blind in her left eye, it had blue specks in it  and she ran around in circles a lot.
Tasha had a brother, Hawkins, but he was totally blind, and got hit by a car.
Stormy was our other dog, she was so sweet, she couldn't have hurt a fly, much less my pet rat.

We  also had a  green parrot named Daffy.
My brother taught him how to talk .
He would sit on my mom's shoulder and occasionally say "Hello.", or "Fuck You."
My mom sat at the oak wood kitchen table with a vodka soda every evening at about 6pm to  chat with her best friend.
There would be bird shit all over her shoulders by the end of her converstaion.

My mom drove a station wagon, the kind with the wooden panels, even in the 80's.
It had the kind of radio with knobs and plastic squares that you punched with your middle finger to change the station.
There were white t-shirts on the driver and passenger seat.
It smelled like dogs, cigarettes, and  an occasional christmas tree.

She had a bumper sticker that said, "you had one of those days? I have one of those lives."
And she really did have One of those lives.

Her mom died in a fire while smoking and drinking milk with whiskey.
She fell asleep and her mattress combusted.
We lived down the block from her, so the night it happened, we were just a dozen houses away.
My dad was a fireman at the time, he went to save her and she was already dead.

So many tragedies, perhaps not appropriate even for this blog.
Oh, not to worry, I'll end up sharing them with you.


I have written some haiku poetry about  my experiences as a child, so I thought this would be a good time to share one with you.

DAD, IM TRYING TO LOVE YOU

Cocaine up his nose
bottle under the front seat
dad you passed our house

My Meeting with The Master

(by Stacie)

It was a  steamy Saturday morning in Atlanta.
My husband had been out of town for more than a week.
I think I was going off the deep end, pretending like everything was fine.

Both kids desperately needed a hair cut.
It was also an activity, something to do, that made me feel like I was  doing my part to keep my kids looking somewhat civilized.
 Although, Emma was wearing a snow white dress with a huge rip in the butt, and Jaxson's diaper was duct taped (purple), and there was a huge dirt stain on the butt of his plaid shorts.

I looked into the window of Great Clips and the line was too too long.
Getting a  hair cut at the end of a half an hour line  is no bribe for a 2 year old and a 4 year old.

Then I saw a sandwich sign on the sidewalk to my right:
"Faith Barbershop"

Why not? I thought, let's go in there, how different can it really be?

I'm almost sure we were the first white customers they had ever had.
The '20 somethings' waiting in the front seats, all looked at us like we were purple smurfs.
Maybe they thought we were white martians visiting their barber shop.
After all, they were regulars.
I didn't care.
"how can I help you darlin?" the friendly barber said. "I'm L.J."
 Three black guys turned their heads and looked at us like , are you sure you know you're in a barber shop white lady? 

"They need a cut, both of em'" I replied.

He started with Emma, it took him about 15 minutes just to comb it out and sprayed it with water.
First  lesson, combing, not brushing. (I didn't think of that) No brush? No, there were no brushes.
It really wasn't that snarled. I swear.
I don't know what he was doing.
He bragged  to me, " I been cutting white hair for 20 years, a lot of black people don't know what they're doin', but I do."
First RED FLAG.
Bragging = Bullshit.

He was nice though, and who can screw up a kid's haircut?
More will be revealed.

Emma did fine for a little while, but then she started to get antsy, and  a little scared of what was happening to her hair. I think it was the combing.
I assured her it wouldn't be much longer.
Then, the tears started. She looked at me with that  desperate glimmer in her eye, Save me mommy, save me.
I didn't really want to make a big deal, so I assured her again, it wouldn't be long.
She was not assured, she cried more. (pretty normal for Emma.)

L.J. called me over and whispered to me, "your daughter, she's special, she feel the devil in that guy over there, so she's crying."
He was very sure his intuition about Emma was strong and right.
The man in the chair across from her did look a little different.
He had long jerry curls and a gold front tooth and he was tapping his feet to the beat of the music.
He had a very mean look to his eyes, like he had hate inside that he wanted to share with anyone who'd make eye contact.
I felt it, but I think Emma was just upset about the hair cut.
I was waiting for Emma to ask me out loud about his gold tooth but she didn't.
That would've really topped it off.

I was sure her tears were of  impatience and fear of L.J's comb, not the devil with the gold tooth.

I just made him think he was an intuitive genius.
"yes, she is special." I responded.
"I can't stand that guy." L.J. Said. "And she felt it, she felt it too."
I'm thinking to myself, really? It has NOTHING to do with the hour long
comb out, I mean "hair cut" you just gave her.
It's that guy, with the shitty attitude's fault.


Almost an hour later, her hair was cut. It looked exactly the same. what haircut?
Okay, the bangs were a little shorter, and it was combed like it had never been combed before.

Now it was Jaxson's turn.
He had already been waiting for his sister, so you can imagine his mood.
I eyed the place for a lollipop, anything to stick in his mouth.

I asked around, "Does anyone have a lollipop?"
The Devil with the gold tooth  looked at me and grunted,"No."

But then a nice lady at another barber chair pulled a stale one out of her drawer.
"Thank you!" I said with enthusiasm, like she was giving me gold.
It was yellow and flat, and stuck to the wrapper, it was so stale.

Jaxson sat in the chair and looked at me with that look- "What the fuck is happening mom???!"
I gave him the lollipop and he mellowed out.
Then, of course Emma started whining about how she
wanted one too. If she weren't a 4 year old, I could have said, "you don't want one, they're stale!"

Jaxson cried a little, sucked his lollipop, cried a little more, and  never took his eyes off L.J.'s scissors.

Okay,  less than ten minutes later, his hair was cut.
Kind of like how when you  chop celery and there are all those little wiry stray green things on each piece.  It was chopped,  and uneven.
Kind of like a bowl cut with layers.
Oh well, he's only two.

Just like my mother used to say to me when I'd be in a pool of tears over a bad  hair cut.
"It'll grow back."
Yeah, no shit sherlock.

L.J graciously told me to come back anytime.
"Sure, " I smiled, literally lying through my teeth.

Then, for the best part, he gave me his card.
It said L.J. Master Cosmetologist.

Oh Cave Boy- The Places you Go.

(by Stacie)
My son stood up in the bath tub the other night peeing and smiling with glee.
I thought he'd shed a tear of joy,  he was so damn happy with himself.

"MOMMY!!! I peed!  Mommy! I Peed! I peed!" he was filled with pride.

Okay, so peeing standing up is an accomplishment?
Okay. Not so sure how to react.
Would a new age advisor tell me to praise him so his self esteem isn't connected to his penis?
Or vice- versa?

This may have been the first prideful moment of his two- year old life.
As for myself, I haven't found the words for the kind of moment it was, aside from, well, disappointing in a funny way.
Also, relieved it wasn't poop, since he does have a history of  pooping in all parts of his world.
Let me tell you, shit in the tub is no picnic.
 It doesn't float, if you know what I mean.

Having a boy has been an eye opening experience in truly seeing the differences between males and females.
 I thought I knew a whole lot before I had him.
Truly, existing with a "boy''s" mind can be so simple, it's mind blowing.

His new favorite toy is a turkey baster which he insists on taking with him to school .
It was actually my mom's from the 70's, with a yellow top and lots of scratches on the plastic part.
It has spurted lots of juice and basted a lot of turkeys.

He nonchalantly walked into his pre-school class with it in hand.
The teachers just looked at me with that "okaaaay" look when he came in, holding it like it was normal.
He looked at them like "What the fuck are you staring at?" " This happens to be my favorite toy."

As the day progressed it became a rocket and a megaphone all in the same hour.
Not as simple as I thought.

When I pick him up from school I always ask the same question. " How was school?"
No answer. He just walks steadily to the car in his black, fake, suede vans.
"Milk mommy?"
When we get into the car.  I make another attempt,"Did you have fun at school today?"
He grunts, drinking his milk, and looks out the window.
Hm, I think to myself, is he ever going to tell me about school?
Probably not.
I couldn't get my daughter to stop talking after school.
Amazing.

We go to the park most afternoons.
He is usually holding a stick and making grunting noises or just violently slamming it against something, anything.
 He also likes to bolt like a horse.
One minute, I'll be enjoying the moment, the next , I'll be in a panic looking for him, thinking to myself, I'm never fucking taking him to the park again! (yeah, like that's not an empty threat.)

I kept hearing boisterous honking, over and over again, "HONK, HONK, HONK..."
(I thought to myself, give it a rest asshole.)

Seconds later..............
I turned my head and there he was, my son, standing in the middle of the street with two cars stopped in front of him, honking loudly, wondering, where is this kids dumb shit for a mother?

Oh there I was, running frantically to retrieve him.
I will never forget holding him in my arms and just breaking down, as I ran back to the park.

Literally, I cried out loud like I was alone, in front of everyone.
I have never made such an emotional scene in public.
Not even in my drunken hoe bag days.

I looked around at the moms and they all had so much love in their eyes.
They understood why I freaked out.
There were no words exchanged.
It was such a close call, I think they were stunned too.

We all stood there next to the green and blue monkey bars, watching
our little boys, un- phased, running around with sticks, grunting.

They knew the love I felt.
It was their love too.

They all love their  peeing, pooping, stick and rock throwing little cave boys as much as I do.

Suckers for Soccer

Emma started soccer last month.
She said she wanted to play and my husband was thrilled.
I was suspicious from the beginning, thinking she just wanted to wear the uniform. But I hoped it was just the judgmental voice in my head that is out to ruin shit, so I carried on and encouraged.

The first practice was so new and exciting and fun. Emma could not wait to go. She LOVED her new uniform, especially the number 11 on her back. Her dad took her to get the entire garb. She started wearing it around the house, shin guards and all.

We arrived at the field at 6pm, my two year old in tow.
He was more excited than Emma, acres and acres of grass, hundreds of sticks and dirt everywhere.

I forgot a blanket, so we sat on the itchy grass and got up and down, up and down, up and down.
Emma played, or kicked a soccer ball, and ran back and forth with other 4 year old mental patients. I don't think you really call it playing.

My son was like her shadow, running behind her and the line of kids, everywhere they went. The coach was nice about Jaxson pretending to be on the team, but it was only the first practice.
Little did he know, he would later run into a real game and almost tear down the netted goalie.

The first practice, the second practice, all went well. Fun for both kids.
Mostly sweaty and stressful for me, aside from interrupted conversation with a few moms I like, it was a long hour.
Probably because Jaxson thought he was part of various teams, when in fact, it wasn't even soccer practice for him.

So the big game was coming soon. Conveniently, my husband had to be out of town. We were both disappointed for very different reasons.

I still, to this day cannot tell you who won Emma's game.

She cried the second her feet hit the field. She wanted me to come with her everywhere. I tried to explain to her that that was just not possible.
Emma being Emma would not accept that reality. She dramatically tried to drag me out on the field with her team. "Mommy, I want you to come with me.....come with me, pleeeeeaaaaasssse come with me!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then I would say something rational, none of which penetrated.
I mean come on, why would it?

Then she had to pee, and Jaxson decided to take a big dump two minutes before the game started.
So, I had her crying to pee, and him needing to be changed, and no husband, and I have had to pee for an hour. What's gonna happen if I pee my pants?

It got worse. After the bathroom escapade sucked up about 10 minutes, we missed the beginning of the game and Emma barley played.
Emma was still crying, now blaming the team for being mean.
I threw out some More fake, calm, rational words of which she didn't listen to. Inside, I was just looking forward to bedtime.

Jaxson was running into the game while they were playing, and at one point he was running in circles inside of the goalie, about to tackle the net, so I grabbed him out, while Emma was hanging on one arm.
Meanwhile, the 20 ounces of milk in my bag spilled, so my phone, my keys and my wallet were swimming in a sea of milk. I had no way to clean it up, so I just used my shirt.

Now I smelled like shit, dirt, milk, and probably pee.

Emma was STILL crying.
Naturally, Jaxson started crying because he wanted milk.
I was on the verge myself, but had to politely tell the coach and his wife good bye.
"Thanks for everything!" I lied.

The game was over.
I had no idea who won.
Dare I ask?
Deep down, I could give two shits.
(Oh, and my husband will ask,"who won?"
My Response will be " I DON'T KNOW.)

We had to park like a mile away, so the walk to the car is longer than the game was.
The smell of hot spoiled milk, sun on asphalt, tears, sweaty faces and dirty hair.

"Emma," I said, " You don't have to play if you don't want to. It's okay if you don't like soccer."

She looked at me and sobbed, hair stuck to her face," I like the uniform mommy."

mortified to moved

To say that parenting has humbled me, is an under statement. It’s good to be humbled in life.
Being humbled is no novelty for me anymore; it's really a state of mind.
More than half the time, I have NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING.

I used to say," I was humbled today"- like it was a good experience, or a much needed wake up call.

Now, I am a little sick and tired of being humbled.
Do you find yourself trying to be polite asking to change a shitty diaper? Attempting to leave gracefully after your child has had a tremendous blow out? Or has thrown up all over someone's couch? Or, has said Fuck in front of everyone?

Must it always be a reflection of us? (Emma said, "What the fuck" yesterday)
Hmm, that's what I say.

I feel like parenting is a true spiritual teacher, not to sound new age, but really, who else can make you show your ass like a toddler can.
I pray more.

My mantra used to be-" I am calm and in control". I’m 38 and she’s 3. If that's not humbling, shit, I don't know what is.
My daughter has broken me down. I had to have a mantra to make it through the day. Now she's in school.
My mantra is now used for my 2 year old, that poor second kid, always getting the leftovers.

In Atlanta, we had perfect weather yesterday. It was a gorgeous fall day. I couldn't let my kids stay inside. We walked to the park. It’s 3 blocks away and it only takes us a half an hour.

The park was filled with kids.
Running, screaming, jumping.... all different colors, shapes and sizes. Babies cooing in swings, toddlers sliding, boys galloping with sticks, girls on the see saw.
It was a sea of color, noise, beauty and insanity.

We live in a diverse neighborhood and go to a diverse school. Simply, we live in
Atlanta and I don’t think my four-year sees color, or nationality.

Jaxson, Emma, and a group of screaming kids came barreling down the slide. Jaxson got stuck under some kid’s legs and he was crying loud, I mean loud.

EVERYONE stopped to look. I grabbed him.
He was fine. It just scared him.


Emma starts yelling, “THOSE BLACK PEOPLE, They hurt Jaxson on the slide.
I try to give her “that look” to stop her from saying anything more- Then again, “Mommy, THOSE BLACK PEOPLE……”

“ Emma, Emma”, I try to stop her mid sentence again.

Not again, please! God help me.
I am calm and in control.

“MOMMA I’M trying to tell you, THOSE BLACK PEOPLE!!!!”

Can I run? Can I crawl under the slide and leave her? Pretend she’s not mine?

I was mortified.

Meanwhile, a calm, sweet black girl was standing beside me the entire time.

I had to confront this in front of everyone… what choice did I have?

“Emma, “ I said, “there are people with white skin and black skin and brown skin, we don’t say that out loud, it can hurt someone’s feelings and it’s rude.”
Oh brilliant! I thought to myself, well that sucked.
Another book I’ll have to buy.

Then, to my surprise the sweet girl beside me said, “ Emma, can I tell you a secret?”
“Can you hold my drink for me?”
Emma looked at her sheepishly, ”okay,” she said.
The girl whispered in her ear that she was black and that Emma was white and only the inside of people matters and that black people get upset when you say that….” Trust me.” She said with confidence.
Emma said, “Okay.”

I was speechless.
I said ”Thank you, how old are you?”
She said “Ten.”
“Thank you”, I said again.

I had a huge lump burning in my throat.
I heard it in my mind again,”Ten.”
Tears streamed down my face.
I slowly walked back to the park bench.
What a day.
Well, at least I remembered my sunglasses.

I'm 2 too.

My two- year old son started pre-school today.
A few days ago, in anticipation of this day, I felt sad.

Well, not sad, I'd say sentimental.

This morning, after throwing a match box car at his sister, smearing his banana all over the dining room floor while laughing, and screaming out the window, standing on a dangerous step stool ladder; I was no longer feeling sentimental.

Then it was on with his back pack filled with diapers, thinking woo hoo! One less shitty diaper for me to change today.
BTW, this is not a new back pack, (first sign of second child syndrome). It was his sister's back pack. So, naturally, I took a big sharpie and crossed out her name and replaced it with his name- real classy.
Way to make the first day of school special.
I would have actually cared what the teachers thought when I started emma in preschool. But at this point, I could give a flying fuck.
I think with the second, all bets are off, and I can't imagine what would happen with the third. I Hope I don't find out.

After running after him throughout the house trying to get his shoes and socks on, convincing him we were NOT playing hide and seek, we were almost ready to go.
I also did try to take a picture for his first day, but he ran around the living room yelling NO!NO Pictooore! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
See why I'm so sentimental?

What a crock of shit.
Should I really make him take the picture? No, I'll just take the damn picture of the real moment- Here's my obstinent two year old's first day of school....... Click click.
And no, I'm not posting it in FB with a cute caption about how sad I am.

Now I'll Cut to, the pre-school open house last week. I went to meet the teachers. It was an open house of sorts where you and your child hang out in the class room, pretending like life is grand. You are also asked to fill out a meaningless questionnare, with questions like, "how will we know if your child is upset?" and, "what are your child's favorite foods?"
My answers were: he will scream, cry, or throw a tantrum. He likes milk and mostly throws all his FOOD on the floor.
Oh, and don't worry, I left out the part about how he loves to remove his diaper and then walks around with shit on his hands, and sometimes smears it on a wall.

There were many polite introductions with screaming two year olds who were not sharing trucks and blocks. Everyone was smiling, while trying to manage their small animals/2 year-olds. "Come on sweetie, share with your new friend." Underneath that smile was a tired, worn down mom like myself... excited to be leaving my child with another sorry sac for three hours a day, three days a week.

There is always that chipper mom who "LOVES this age", that I just can't relate to.
Oh, and yes, she was at the open house.
Her son was a genius, not that she said that, but you could just tell by the way he played with his blocks.
"He knows 24 signs!" she said gleefully.
Wow, I thought, 24!I guess you have time to count them.
Don't judge Stacie, don't judge I thought to myself.
Then she said, "He also doesn't really get that upset, he will point or sign for what he needs!" She told the teacher.
Spare me, I thought, he's two years old.... If a two year points at anything, isn't he screaming at the same time?

Okay, my higher self vanished after that comment.

Must be nice, I thought, I guess he's also potty trained and he can fucking read?

"He also speaks two languages," she said.

Last straw.

Wait a second, did she really just say that out loud?
EYE ROLL, and I don't care if she saw me, I live with a 2 year old.
I too have regressed.
I am 2 now too.

Okay, so my two- year old is starting pre-school.

It's a jungle out there: Do you live with small animals? I DO.

I remember when a shower was a mundane part of my routine, something I did without fail in the morning at the same time everyday. That was also when I worked at a "job"- the kind you get paid for, that automatically comes with adult conversation.

In that lifetime, I just thought.... oh, it's time to take a shower, like oh, I have to pee or, oh, I just have to make a phone call.... no big deal, it'll only take a minute.

That was then, This is NOW.

Currently,any of these activities can be in the background of my mind all day, and it may take hours to turn them into reality. Or not.

These small-uncivilized creatures we call children, can change these activities to such a degree, it becomes an unexplainable phenomenon. You must master the art of distraction while trying to keep these animals/small children safe, so you can do ONE thing.

Some days, it feels like you're trying to survive in a jungle, swinging from tree to tree, trying to accomplish something.... anything, two things.

After having my first born, a shower became a luxury. That is, if I got to take one.
She was this little, screaming helpless being that I could NOT leave alone for one second. I would put her in bouncies, swings and saucers just inches from the shower and feverishly wash my hair so I could get out fast. It was like these surges of post partum anxiety would fill my body with a “Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up…” message. There was a voice yelling at me, telling me to take the fastest fucking shower possible.
No longer mundane, certainly not relaxing. Honestly , kind of nightmare – ish.

As my daughter grew into more of a mobile animal, I would do things like stick her in front of Barney (shoot me now), or really take a risk and let her play with her toys on the bath rug.
That would result in my finding her covered in Desitin like it was face paint.
Or she would pull every baby wipe; every q-tip and an entire roll of toilet paper would be strewn across the bathroom and the length of the hallway.

Little did I know, there would be more shower and bath treats in store for me with my second born.
Then, there are two small animals to contend with, if you ever take a shower again.

And let’s not forget, they also need to be bathed regularly.

I decided I was NOT going to let them turn me into a fat, sweat pants wearing mom with filthy hair.
Most days I resort to letting them kill each other in the living room and my “inner secret rule” is: when one starts crying, I’ll get out.

Then, I started to experience the joys of bathing my two-year-old boy.

He stands up and pees and yells with absolute glee…. “I peed mommy! I peed mommy!” So it begins, being proud of his bodily functions...... very similar to another man I know.

And, a bath for him has also become a game called: creating a fucking flood for mommy to clean up. I stupidly leave a goddamn cup in there every time, and he pours water out of the bathtub every night.

When am I going to learn?????? Last night I found myself wringing out yet another towel and draping it outside. Yes, I am white trash and I hang the fucking thing over the porch- the front porch.

This is getting rather drawn out. Who knew bathing could be so complex?

I am truly saving the best for last.

As I was pulling the drain up in the bath tub last night, I felt a soft, squishy thing in my hand, and no, it was not a bath toy.

My throat closed up like I was going to vomit.
“OH NO!!!” I yelled.

“I pooped!” Jaxson said with pride. Seriously, he was so excited.

As if the huge turd wasn't enough, the small balls of shit started to float to the top....
the smell of johnson's baby wash and shit. sense memory, sorry.

“Oh god Jaxson, seriously."

I have a son who shits in the bathtub.

Or would it be cuter if I said, “poops in the bathtub?"

I mean seriously, what the fuck?

when life gives you lemons......make lemonade.

My mom is dead. I miss her terribly and think about what it would be like if she were here for just one day to meet my kids.  I do believe she is always with me, but some days it just down right sucks that she's gone.

I'm just not spiritual enough to be eternally okay with not seeing her, not hearing her, not being able to call her after my kids go to bed. 

I have so many questions. The one thing I want to ask her is , "Okay mom, tell me the truth, was I as a big of a pain in the ass as emma is?"

I do think I know her answer. "Yes, Stacie, you were."

 I was alone last week. My husband was on a business trip and I thought about my mom a lot. I thought about how she did it as a single mom, and how hard it must have been. I knew it was hard, even as a little girl I would sometimes see the sadness in her eyes, how they would tear up when she would drive us home from school.  

She was always there, she was always the most non judgmental, loving, sarcastic person I knew. She was it. She was my mom. 

I know I am like that for my kids, even though I haven't done anything perfectly. I didn't learn from  perfect examples. Who does? I guess that's the point.

 I had this memory I wanted to share. I think this may  be the shittiest entry I've done because it's not that funny. I guess I'll just show it.

I grew up with a poster in my kitchen I will never forget. It was cobalt blue,

covered with bright yellow lemons that looked like they were cascading down a hill. At the bottom it said, ”When life Gives you Lemons, Make Lemonade.”

My mom would be sipping vodka tonic with lime, stirring the spaghetti sauce, and yelling up the stairs, telling my brother to turn the fucking music down, (Motley Crue).  Every time she sipped her drink, her lips would purse up against the glass. The ice would make that clinking sound, like pebbles tapping a glass.

With each swallow, her shoulders seemed a little softer, and the crease in her brow loosened.

She’d make a funny face with dripping spoon in hand, kicking her back leg up, and look at me and say, “Stac, when life gives you lemons! Make Lemonade!”

 “ yeah, okay nut ball” I would think to my teenage self, whatever that means.

I didn’t really know what it meant, except that I did think, lemons make lemonade, big deal.

Okay, make the most out of life, isn’t that what we all naturally do?

When Life Gives you Lemons, make Lemonade.

At that time I was 14 years old . I had no idea the lemons that would be handed to me. I had no idea how I was going to make my lemonade, especially with out my mom.

Across the kitchen there was a cutting board counter. It was a worn piece of wood with lots of knife marks and it smelled like garlic.

There was a glass case in the corner that sat there quietly. A Marlboro light 100 was enclosed in it, and the words…

“ In Case of Emergency Break Glass” were painted in red across the case.

One night I looked at the poster and looked back at the Glass enclosed cigarette.

It was a mixed message. Live life to the fullest but stuff your emotions with a cigarette and maybe a drink. 

My young mind understood that things weren't one way or the other. Things were messy and confusing and didn't make sense. contradiction wasn't just a part of life , it was the core of life.

“Mom, when life doesn’t give you  any good lemons, do you smoke that cigarette?”

My mom said, “ yep, that’s exactly what you do.”

Memories or Nightmares?

My daughter Emma turned four in May. She just started pre-school last week. It has been fantastic for her, and for me.

Will you judge me if I say.... Truly, a dream come true?

I watched her yesterday, before she knew I was there to pick her up . She was talking, laughing, truly socializing with her classmates. So grown up.
It dawned on me, she's a real person.

Shit, I remember when she was a baby.

 A wave of sadness came over me,  just for a minute.

When she was a sleeping baby, she was amazingly peaceful and sweet.

When she was awake, she was crying . And, when I say all she did was cry,  all she did was cry.

I tried everything: slings, baby carriers, Moby wraps, bouncing her on balls, the three S's , I shushed her so loud I almost cracked my own head open.

   The graco cuddle swing became a  permanent piece of furniture in our living room. We put her in that thing so much we had to replace the fucking batteries once a week.

I walked her, I paced her, I strolled her, I bathed her. She cried.
I turned on the dryer, the vacuum cleaner, the blow drier, the baby einstein music,. She still cried.

In the car, all she did was cry.
At times, I wanted to jump out  of my own window. unfortunately, I was driving.
My husband and I discovered the static station on a.m. radio. We blasted static. She stopped crying.  Was static the only thing that would quiet her? What a cosmic fucking joke.
 I imagined myself in a straight jacket being hauled into a room yelling, "Static, STOP THE Static, PLEASE just STOP THE STATIC!!!!!!!!!"
My life had been resolved to constant nursing , crying, and the occasional blasting of am radio station static.
I looked at my husband and I cried.

I nursed her. She cried in between feedings. On a good day, she would violently pull off while feeding, and scream at me.
I was miserable.
It was my turn to cry, I had no nipples left, and no self- esteem.

I was desperate for answers. I looked at other new moms. They were perfect at it. They looked thin and cute. Some even wore bikinis at pool play groups and nursed. Really?  
I was modest, I needed my hooter hider. It looked cute, but the damn thing made my boobs sweat like there was no tomorrow. There wasn't, all the days ran into each other.

The carrier with their little bundle of joy was always sleeping, quiet and demure.The  carrier with mine, was  filled with a bundle of red faced screams and curdled breast milk throw up.  
They're babies weren't crying 10 hours a day. WTF?
I was a fat, tired, inadequate mom with breast pads, and maternity clothes on.

This was not what I envisioned.   Elastic waists,  and boobs like cows, sexy.

I went to my doctor- she said Emma had colic and was allergic to my milk. (I read into that, "allergic" to my milk metaphor). Thinking on some subconscious level, she was allergic to me, as her mother.

I eliminated milk, cheese, ice cream, nuts, red meat, gluten, bread, pasta, and mostly all food from my diet, so I could nurse her without the crying. I guess it helped, but I was too fucking delirious to truly know.

My hair was on fire all day and most nights.
 I ate ground turkey and goat cheese for dinner every night and guerilla munch cereal for breakfast with goat milk. Let me tell you, DELISH.

Not my vision of living happily ever after with my newborn.
 I slept from 8pm until 1am for  about four  and a half months.
And by sleep, I mean next to Emma on a bed, a couch, a floor, or a rocking chair.

I do believe I suffer from some form of permanent brain damage from this period of time.

My heart though, my heart will never be the same.
I think it's a little bigger, after falling in and out of love with that red faced screaming colicky baby.

No one tells you what it's really like.............
(especially if you're as  lucky like I was.)

Balloons are the bane of my existence

Balloons, so sweet, so colorful, and so cheerful. Oh, and those convenient long ribbons for strings that cut my daughter’s circulation off her little wrist every time. 

Watching them float away in the sky for lost children, for celebrations, for birthdays, graduations, open houses. The list goes on and on.  Those goddamn balloons symbolize so many things in life.

 I cannot  get away from them. They fly over banners at car lots, they float on random street corners for garage sales, they are at every birthday party (except mine),any party, baby showers, grocery stores, and mailboxes, in songs. Will it ever end?

I want to take a guerilla size safety pin and pop every single last one. Oh, and one day I will.  Mark my words. When my kids are older, and less likely to be scarred for life, I will fill my kitchen with 200 balloons and pop every single last one with a vengeance and laugh. I like the number 200, it's enough for them to understand that I'm not fucking around.

With each pleasant POP, I will say, “This is for ruining the grant park festival!” POP. “This is for the 20 minute car ride of hysterical crying on 4^th of July, 2010!” POP. “This is for slipping out of my daughter’s hand in moving traffic.” POP.

“This is for being at every fucking grocery check out aisle with a picture of Dora, or spider man on your butt.” Do you really have to do that shit??????? I was just about to get out of Publix unscathed, you bastards.

We went to a birthday party yesterday. My kids  played with the bundles of balloons almost the entire party.

If they weren’t scratching each other’s eyeballs out for a bundle, they were running around in circles with them.  It was fine for them to fight amongst themselves, but when other kids got involved it was just embarrassing.  “ You need to share, you need to take turns,” “It’s not your birthday today.”    All of those words, in one ear and out the other. Balloons, always the priority.

The party came to an end. Both my kids left with yellow frosting stained faces, one shitty diaper, ( I had avoided  for almost an hour), and farwell party bags in hand, (to fight over later).  They each got a balloon to go!

Fucking fantastic.

The way home from the party was the highlight of the morning.

My 2 year old was crying because his balloon wouldn’t stay still. WTF? I can’t explain the properties of helium to him. (or was it the shitty diaper?) That had to wait for home.

Emma just kept wining that the string was too tight around her wrist, “mommy it’s too tight, and it’s tooooo tiiiggghht.” 

I blasted the radio. Now it’s Madonna, “Like a Virgin” and screaming with whining. All I could see in my rear view mirror were balloons.

“You mother fuckers,” I grumbled under my breath.

“You’re DEAD when we get home.”

The Pool USED to be relaxing

Remember when the pool used to be quiet, serene, rejuvenating? Perhaps even a place where you would take a nap, read a book, look cute in a bikini?

You’d pack a small bag, usually cute and colorful. You’d bring a book and a towel, Maybe even a diet coke and your phone, a mindless magazine.

When you have kids, you have to pack a twenty pound fucking suitcase in the form of an Ikea shopping bag.  You need towels, swim diapers, diapers, snacks, sippy cups, dry change of clothes, wipes, goggles, dumb swim toys that get lost.

The only relaxing moment I have, is when after the two hours, there is no shit in any of their swim diapers. Now that’s a sigh of relief .

Fortunately, the pool we go to has a no entry part with four fountains. This is designed for the newly walking babies who can’t swim. So of course ,my daughter has to stand on top of a fountain , head cocked with her pippy long stocking braid, yelling,

“ It tickles my vagina! It tickles my vagina!!!!!”  She then looks to the boy next to her, “Does it tickle your peanuts????”

 I pretend she’s not mine.

Yesterday, I decided to take my two year old son to the pool, while Emma was at school. I told him we were going to the pool, so the entire car ride to the pool he screamed and cried. “ I wanna go to the pool. I wanna go to the pool. I wanna go to the pool.”  Nothing moves fast enough for a two year old. “ We are going to the pool buddy.” I tell him, hoping for quiet.

He continues screaming.

Am I really going to try to reason with this mental patient? WTF? Don’t I know better?

I blast the radio. Coldplay, and screaming.

So relaxing.

We arrive. It takes a fucking hour just to get ready to get into the pool. His swim diaper, his bathing suit, his sunscreen. All while he is squirming around like I am applying torture to his every body part.

Then, I have to put on my swimsuit . As I’m sucking in my muffin top with all my might, and adjusting my saggy boobs, he is pulling all the toilet paper off the roll. I finally find my other thong in the midst of toilet paper. 

Oh, how I love my post 2 babies later body, just the way the spandex of a bathing suit accents that pooch. I notice all summer attire seems to accent my muffin top and waist…. What waist?

The pool feels good. It’s 120 degrees in Atlanta right now, so the water is nice.

Jaxson won’t let go of me.

He is kicking my muffin top, scratching my neck, and pulling my top down saying ,” boobs, boobs”. 

He finds a plastic tea kettle and fills it with water. He pours it over my head, fills it , pours It over my head, fills it, pours it over my head.  “Jaxson,” I say, “ Stop pouring water over my head!” I laugh trying to seem like a “fun mom” to the people around me. He continues to pour and fill, pour and fill, pour and fill. Then also head butts me when he gets the chance.

After one hour (5 hours in mom time) I decide we're leaving.

He has a temper tantrum because he doesn’t want to leave. I mean we were having so much fun.

It takes another hour to get him changed. 

No shit in his swim diaper though..........highlight.

As we are walking to the car I am thinking, now can I relax?

Hope he takes a good nap.

I mean, Come on, that was the whole fucking point to this exercise.

All the things I judged parents for, BEFORE I had Kids.......

I was delusional before I had kids, about having kids. I just thought it was all about being in control and having good boundaries. I thought my kids would listen to me. Well I was wrong. I think it is because I am their mom that makes it so they  listen to me.
 In fact, when Emma was a 2 year old, I used to tell her NOT to do things I wanted her to do and TO do things I didn't want her to do. That was literally the only way I could  get through some days.
Today I wanted a kiss from my 2  year old son so I told him, "NO KISSES." what do you think he did?

Before I got pregnant, I would watch parents I knew, interact with their kids and Think: I would never do that.

This is just a small list of all the "I would never's" that I have done  :

1.) I haven given my kids many many lollipops and cookies , and candy of all kinds to bribe them.
2.) I have told Emma Shrek is coming if she doesn't listen.
3.) My husband and I  have discussed sticking them in the shed  for a few hours, just for a break.(discussed doesn't really count.)
4.) Emma hit Jaxson so many times before he turned two. So, when Jaxson hit her for the first time, I had to run into the laundry closet and close the door, I was laughing so hard.
5.) I left both kids crying in the front room once, and drove around the block calling my husband crying        because I was going insane.
6.)  I Yelled like a nut case in the grocery store with people staring at me, and said "KNOCK IT OFF!"
7.) I had a huge temper tantrum once in the bathroom by myself and threw the bath toy container at the wall and it shattered into a million little bits.
8.) I let Jaxson play in the dog water at the park and I don't put hand sanitizer on him.
9.) I have thrown away TONS of  pooped in pants and underwear. Who really wants to soak shit?
10.) Allowed Emma to wear the same shirt and tutu everyday for 3 months so I didn't have to deal with the temper tantrums. (I washed them.)

The Man in Charge.

Emma is 4. She still believes there is a "man in charge" every where we go.
This man is watching and she will pay attention to the rules when he is present.

I know it is a scare tactic of which I am about to explain, but I was desperate.

Emma is not just will full ..... she is W I L L F U L L times a million. I found that things friends would tell me to do to help civilize, or control her,  would NOT work for Emma. Everyone else seemed to have a handle on it. It was blaringly obvious that Emma had the handle on me.

It all started a year or so ago at Bessie Branham, our neighborhood park.
She used to scream bloody murder when it was time to go. Many, many moms  knew me as the mom they felt sorry for with the out of control 3 year old. I mean she would kick and scream and really freak out. It would resume in me having to carry a flailing child out of the park almost daily.
It was so routine, I stopped feeling embarrased. Somehow, I think that's a bad sign. Just the beginning of a mother's life with no shame.

So, I started to point to the top of the hill at the park and say to her " the man in charge lives there and he sees everything we do at the park.  He is going to come down here and tell you to leave if you don't stop.... (insert behavior here)"
She always wanted gum at the park. (I'm the dumb shit that allowed her to have gum in the first place.) "The man in charge doesn't allow gum at the park." She would spit it out. (in my hand)
If you have a temper tantrum, the man in charge is going to tell us we can't come back to the park EVER.
When things got really bad, I told her the man in charge would take me away. I know, I know,  I took it a little too far. I only said that once, soon realizing it was borderline mean. Okay it was mean.

Now I know you are thinking, what a good idea! I think I'll use that-
Here iare a list of all the places where The Man in Charge lives:
 The Pool, Target, Lowes, Home Depot,  Publix, Kroger, random city sidewalks, airport gates, Ross(if you're making dumb decisions like myself), any waiting room at a doctor's office or otherwise, really, anywhere in public will suffice.

Pooper Scooper

The neighborhood moms host a play group once a week. We do this so we can possibly have one endless, interrupted conversation. At least it's a conversation of sorts.  Contact with another adult who can form logical sentences with out crying is pretty important right now.

 I hosted this particular week. My daughter Emma was running around with her pink pee stained princess dress, playing with all of her friends. With each new 3 year old, the noise level got higher and higher.

Some of the moms had babies too.  Quite a few moms were new to the neighborhood and I had never met them, so I wanted to make a good "impression"- what ever that means. It's not like I had make up onor even a cute outfit. My first impression "management"is deteriorating slowly.

I did make muffins (not from scratch) . It's been 15 minutes, and all of the muffins are demolished. Some are half eaten, one is squished, with a random straw sticking out of it, and the rest are crumbs on the floor. Anyway, Jaxson was still sleeping as people were arriving so I knew he would wake up soon.
So .... he starts screaming. "Oh that's just my son waking up" I laugh. All the moms do too, obviously a familiar sound to all of us.

I bring him out on the couch with me and he is being very sweet. He has his little half bald head nuzzled into my neck and all the ladies are talking about how cute he is. I start to smell poop, but I ignore it, I am too afraid to face what might be happening.  Suddenly, Jaxson turns his head and slides his hand across my face. Smelly, runny, brown shit is being smeared clear across my face, and into the strands of my hair. I want to DIE, and maybe vomit first.
"OH MY GOD" I yelled and everyone was looking.
"IS THAT POOP?????!" one of the moms asked loudly.
I was mortified. "Um Yeah " I cried, (because I was seriously crying inside.) "He has a habit of scooping poop out of his diaper and then it ends up on his hands.... it is so gross" I say. (I mean really?
What the fuck can I say? I have shit on my face and in my hair.)

I pop up off the couch to run for the sink, to rinse and soap, repeat, rinse and soap and repeat. I also have to remove all the poop from Jaxson's hand. It doesn't get any better than this.

Well now, the play date has barely started, and I get to smell like shit until noon. So much for image management.

Summer Mornings 2011 :Emma and Jaxson

OH MY GOD. If I have to split up another screaming match, clean up another piece of poop, get another cup of milk, or fetch another band aid for a wussy boo boo...I am going to snap.

This has been my basic routine every morning this Summer:
Emma comes in at 7 am or 7:15 (if Im lucky) and whispers in my face before my eyes are even open..LOUD, 4 year old whisper, "MOM will you WAKE UP." of course, I submit.
Then, Jaxson starts to scream from his crib because if Emma is awake, he's got to be awake.
I stumble into the kitchen, bleary eyed to fix my coffee. Oh, and I do have a husband, Matt, He is still sleeping.

Emma is following me the entire time and also wants to help me make the coffee. My willingness to allow her,  only depends on my patience level, which is usually low. Then it is time to get Jaxson (or Jaxsaroni as my husband and I like to call him, story for another time).  He is usually grinning from ear to ear,  jumping to escape his crib, which is  wet with pee and he is always  soaked. Yes he does wear a diaper, and yes, it is an goodnight huggie. He just drinks so much fucking milk- I think he pees a gallon a night. I proceed to change his pee soaked diaper thinking I can't wait to wash my hands.

But you see, changing his diaper is a whole process because it is duct taped. So I must remove and replace each diaper with duct tape.  I place a large piece of duct tape (color depending on what surprise in the rainbow my husband purchased.) across the front of EVERY diaper he wears, or he will rip it off within seconds.  I must duct tape his diaper because he also likes take his hand, stick it down his pants and scoop his poop (no pun intended ) and smear it on things. (more on that particular pathology for a different entry.)

So where was I ? oh!!!!  We have barely gotten to  breakfast.

After the hygiene process, and duct tape application, Emma goes to the bathroom by herself  (Thank God.) and I usually let them watch a show like Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Jaxson calls it hot dog.

Then I make breakfast , usually whole wheat waffles with lots of butter and small amounts of syrup .
Syrup that I try to find without all the crap in it. Emma eats pretty well since she turned four. And Jaxson throws all of his food all over the floor and chews up waffles and spits them out. Then he starts slamming the table with his mini fork like a sledge hammer.  He's 2, but really? It sucks to clean up EVERY morning.

So basically it's really an entire 2 hours to do 4 very simple tasks.

Can you imagine what the rest of day is like?