You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category.
Years from now, I may have to explain to a medical professional—potentially court-appointed—that I was the person who introduced my two youngest children to cannibalism.
We were on our way to watch Liam’s acting debut in his Drama Camp’s six-scene play called “Potions 4 Peace.” In accordance with my modus operandi, we were running about ten minutes late. I hustled the kids into the Flynn Center’s elevator. Henry lifted up “Piggy” (his ever-present companion) to push the button for the third floor. For the millionth time, I tried not to think about the germs that are undoubtedly embedded in Piggy’s stuffing.
The elevator rose two levels and stopped. We could hear the muffled shrieks of excited children and the buzz of parents being affable on the other side of the door. The door, however, remained closed.
Oh crap.
We were stuck.
I am not normally claustrophobic but the thought of being trapped in a tiny metal box, three (or more) stories up, for an undefined amount of time, with two small children, without books, games, food or water…it made me dizzy.
Eventually, someone in the performance space came over to investigate who was repeatedly ringing the elevator’s bell. I explained the situation to her and she promised to get help. Satisfied that we would be sprung soon, I returned my attention to Nora and Henry, who were making the transition from confused to panicked. More white than brown was visible in their eyes.
“Are we going to be in here FOREVER???” Nora squeaked.
Looking at Henry, I said with all the gravity I could muster: “I say we eat the Pig first.”
Henry squealed and put Piggy behind his back. For him, Piggy’s dissection is a fate far worse than death by elevator.
My intention was to distract—not frighten—them, so, I smiled. Henry immediately realized that his mother was making a sick joke and started giggling.
I continued the game. “Piggy is too small. I suggest that you eat me first. I’m bigger so I’ll last longer. Where do you think you’ll start? My ears?”
Henry giggled again. Nora smirked, and then they both embraced the game with a startling fervor. Fingers! Elbows! Armpits! I began to second-guess my distraction strategy. “Ok, ok, guys,” I said, “You know that we don’t eat people.” More smirks and giggles.
A voice crept into our coffin. “Stay calm. The fire department is here.”
Fantastic. We would not become the Donner party.
Another voice, this one was apologetic: “Umm, I’m sorry, but, we need to start the play.”
Multiple Miss Mary Macks later, the doors opened onto a darkened room in which ten-year old wizards were hatching a diabolical plan to take over the world.
I hurriedly thanked the bevy of ax-wielding firefighters for rescuing us and then slunk to a seat. My cheeks were on fire.
“Reducto!” shouted a wizard, completely in character. True professionals, the drama kids hadn’t missed a beat. The show had gone on and I, for one, was thoroughly grateful for it.
Henry dislikes going to the potty alone. He insists on having someone with him while he’s perched on the porcelain throne. 
I’m not sure why he considers the act of elimination to be a social event. In my experience, group trips to the bathroom were limited to middle school dances.
His urges tend to coincide with this-is-not-convenient-for-mommy-moments. He invariably informs me that he has to go potty when I am up to my elbows in something else (cooking dinner, doing the dishes, digging in the garden, etc.) and would rather not be chanting: “Push it out, push it out, waaay out.”
I realize that this is his way of getting attention, but there comes a time when enough is enough.
“Mommy, come with me,” he begged while doing the pee-pee dance. And I suddenly decided that the Dictator needed to be challenged. “Go ahead,” I said. “You can do it. Go to the bathroom by yourself.”
Thus began the contest of wills.
For half an hour, we were at impasse. He became a sobbing, whining, whirling maelstrom; I became an implacable, inflexible, unyielding element. Henry was going to go potty by himself, even if I saw St. Peter as a consequence. He wound his body into the shower curtain and tugged. I sat on the floor in the hallway with an issue of National Geographic and ground my teeth into nubs.
“You can do it!”
“I caaaaaaan’t!”
“Yes, you can!” (See how I absorbed the election propaganda.)
“I caaaaaaan’t! Help meeeee!”
“If you pee in your pants, you will be wet and Mommy is not going to help you change. Just pull your pants down and sit on the toilet.”
“Nooooooo! I caaaaaan’t! Mommy! Help meeeeee!”
I stared at Mayan ruins.
That’s when the screaming began.
“Henry!” My voice was sharp and I knew it. “Just pull your pants down and sit on the potty! You can do it! I know you can!”
He stopped screaming and faced the wall.
Silence descended. Finally, when I was on the verge of giving in, he flipped up the toilet lid, pulled down his pants and scooted himself onto the potty (sans stool). He peed.
“I did it!!” His eyes were crescents as he beamed with satisfaction.
“I’m so proud of you for doing it all by yourself!”
“I went potty all by myself!”
Thank the good Lord.
I am out of patience by about mid-afternoon every day. Some days, I’ve lost it by mid-morning and on one day thus far, I lost it less than half an hour after I woke up.
In my own defense, on that day, I had not had any coffee and was obliged to repeat myself ad nauseum for twenty minutes.
“We’re late. We have to go. Please put your shoes on.”
“Put your shoes on, please.”
“Do you have your shoes?”
“You’re ready! Great! But where are your shoes?”
“Your shoes are in the shoe bin; get them on your feet.”
“You still aren’t wearing shoes!? Get your shoes on right now!”
“Yes, your socks go on first! Put on your socks!”
“Fine, don’t wear socks. Just put on your shoes.”
“What do you mean you only have one shoe?! Wear two different shoes, I don’t care, JUST GET THEM ON!”
I am constantly struggling with and within myself. Can I do this? What the hell was I thinking? Because quite honestly, it was easier to pay someone else to watch my children.
I was standing with two moms at a playground today and my mind began to wander.
Why do moms judge each other? We’re so critical of one another. We spend so much time complaining that we don’t want to keep up with the Joneses but then WE TRY AND DO IT. It’s exhausting. Can’t we call a truce? Let’s all admit that it is hard to manage a family. Let’s all admit that we are not perfect (Hello? Do I have to remind you of Jailbird Stewart?). Each of us does the best she can. I freely admit that some days my best is I-don’t-care-as-long-as-you-don’t-burn-the-house-down. Some days, I can give myself a pat on the back. Mostly though, it’s moment to moment.
Let’s give ourselves and each other some slack. Easy to say. Hard to do.
This morning, I went to the Echo Center with my oldest son, Liam, and 18 of his third-grade classmates to learn about “Ecology, Culture, History and Opportunity” in the Champlain Basin.
We rode in a school bus, which was louder than I remember it being. Much louder. But it was worth it—if only to observe the following exchange:
“What are these pictures examples of?” asked the Echo Center instructor brightly.
Blank stares. Scuffling feet. I glanced over at Liam to find him surreptitiously trying to retrieve a plastic ax from under his seat (it was a prop). Realizing that she had stumped the crowd, the instructor started the word for the kids, drawing the syllable out in a sing-song, “It’s PUH….”
You could almost see the light bulbs popping over their heads. “POLLUTION!” they screamed.
“Uh, no,” she said, looking startled, then deflated. “I…was looking for…POPULATION.”
Same difference, really.
OINKtales 
Recent Comments