(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)



(My) Parenting Truth

One afternoon you'll be sitting at your kitchen counter. It will have been a crazy morning. But by now the baby will be napping and you'll be writing about your oldest son, shaping your love and worry into words. You will be distracted by your nervousness; both anxious and worried about documenting your feelings surrounding his behavior.

You will, once again, be only half paying attention to your third child. The one who is, by now, accustomed to only ever having half of your attention. Which is a post for another time. Guilt to chew on later. A whole 'nother set of anxiety and worry.

You will be typing and playing, which is by now, something you're accustomed to doing if you ever want to get a blessed word written.

In your peripheral vision you will see your little girl climb up onto the kitchen counter and drag two over sized Halloween plates out of the cabinet, clank two forks out of the silverware drawer and slam them down in front of you, giving you your salad. With peanut butter sauce. And vanilla ice cream made of glued together cotton balls. The game of the moment is restaurant. And you'll click clack away on the keyboard and take air bites and uh-huh and yup and I love you too sweetie through the next ten minutes.

Then your four year old will ask you, perhaps sensing your exasperation, perhaps wanting to draw you further in to her game..."Mom, do you want me to get you a glass of wine? I know you like wine." And you will twist your face to find hers, search her beautiful chocolate eyes, full of hope and wonder, and consider a few things.

1. You love this child.

2. You know she can reach the plastic cups, she can scale rock climbing walls with astonishing ease.

3. There is half a bottle of white wine in the fridge. You checked while packing lunches.

4. It is on a low shelf.

5. She can open the fridge door by herself. You've seen her do it in order to get to her beloved Dora yogurts.

6. You are kind of thirsty.

7. It is Monday.

8. It is after Noon.

9. She really wants to help you.

10.Who are you to deny this child the opportunity to make her Mama smile?

11.You buy bottles of wine with screw on caps for a reason.

12.You are an average mother. It is entirely possible that your kids will end up in therapy for something you denied them; a slight or oversight somewhere along the way. Isn't becoming your mother's bartender at the ripe old age of four as good a reason for therapy as any?

13. You love this child.

Cheers!!