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"