(My) Parenting Truth: It Burns. A Lot

Let’s just say it’s Saturday night. You’re down one kid to a weekend sleepover, and it is a couple days into Spring. You thought it was supposed to snow today, but really…it was rather lovely instead. You lolled around all day, putting off groceries and strangely enough, when five o’clock rolled around you had beer, but not anything to make for dinner.

The request for tacos for dinner finds you at Chipolte, which no one eight and under enjoyed (surprisingly, even their tortilla chips are “spicy”). A quick run to Dairy Queen, and several brain freezes later you’re back home, riding the kind of high moms ride when an outing goes unexpectedly well.  

You decide to up the ante a little bit, perhaps ease the sting of a no-movie-night, and hang a glow stick from the shower head while your boy showers. Showering in the dark with a pink glow stick dangling above his head is right up his ally. Unfortunately earlier in the day you prematurely activated the glow stick, so it loses its glowiness by showers end.

Yet there’s your daughter. She wants in on the glowing tub action. Of course. And she’s not happy with only a half glowing glow stick. Still, you’ve got your “outing-went-well-mom-high” going on, and you fill the tub with water remembering that there are leftover glow bracelets in the cabinet. Leftover, from like three camping seasons ago.

Squeals of excitement and crack-shake-crack-shake. Crack. Holy EFFING shit. Crack and the mother-effing-poisony, juicy, goopy glow shit squirts out and penetrates your helpless eyes. You saw the light. And it was frigging purple. And it was frigging shooting straight towards your face.

So there’s screaming. There is lots of screaming: “Marc! Marc!! Maaaarrrrrc!!!” And “Gills get out of the tub baby. Get out of the poison water in the tub.” Because in all of your confused pain you, like a good and protective Mama, you throw the broken glow stick into the bathtub. With. Your. Daughter. She’s not emotionally scarred for life at all. Nope.  So the screaming. It’s coupled with rubbing. And spitting. Because spitting always helps.

Instinctively you throw your head under the faucet and start flushing your eyes. Pleading with your stunned and maybe-not-so-good-in-a-crisis husband to find the empty container and read what it says to do in case this mother-flucking-shit gets in your eyes.

You know what it says? It says one may experience “temporary discomfort.” You know what. That’s bullshit. Discomfort doesn’t cover it. Temporary…as in my eyes still sting almost three hours later.

And the truth? Parenting highs are fricking stupid. And dangerous. At least for me. Tonight reminded me that when I am on a parenting high, I do stupid things. Like remember some fancy idea from Pinterest (I assume) on how to make bathwater glow in the dark. If only one of the kids had thrown a tantrum while we were out. Bath time would have been so much less painful.

(Pure, burning, evil)

 

(Mother frickers are STILL glowing in the trash)