Be careful little children what you say

The first part of this post has been deleted to protect the innocent (or not so innocent, as it may be.) Mother's Day Guilt got the best of me.

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Today I had the following phone conversation with Allison:

"Allie, I am going to the drugstore to get Mother's Day cards and then I will stop and pick up Mataia (her friend) on the way home. I need you to do your chores. If they are not done by the time we get back, Mataia can keep you company while you finish them"

"My Saturday chores? I have to do my Saturday chores?" incredulously.

Deep breath. "Yes, Allie. There won't be time to get them done tomorrow."

"NO MOOO-OOOM! I am not doing my Saturday chores! It's Friday!"

"Fine." I said. "Then I am not picking up Mataia. See you at home"

Click.

There was a couple of minute pause and then my cell phone rang.

"Hi Allison"

Quietly. "You hung up on me."

"Yes I did. You argue with everything I ask you to do and I was sick of listening to it."

"But you hung up on me."

"Yes, I did."

Meekly "I'll do my Saturday chores."

"Great!"

"Will you still go get Mataia?"

"Yes, I will. Please call her and tell her I will be there in twenty minutes"

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And then later in the same car ride I called my husband and had this conversation with him:

"Hi Honey. I got a phone message on my cell from Brandon asking me if he was still grounded. I was getting a pedicure so I didn't answer it. Did he talk to you?"

"Yep" he said cheerfully "I told him what we talked about, that since he was so vocal yesterday (i.e. he yelled at me) about always being grounded that he should know the answer to that. If he's always grounded than obviously he must be grounded now."

I sniggered. "And what did he say?"

"He said he was joking. And I asked him how funny he thought the joke was now."

"Awesome!" I said in genuine vindictive glee. "Love you, honey. I'll see you at home."

Because what every WME really needs is a partner in crime.

The long awaited post about pee

At my own blog I heralded the writing of this post almost a week ago. But what can I say, sometimes my errors in parenting judgment make me cringe to type them, even here among the worst mamas. It doesn't help that Karen has been racking up points for what actually amounts to good parenting. Although the gambling/bookie thing did redeem her somewhat in my eyes.

Last Friday night Ben had a make-up t-ball game. We decided to all go as a family and then go to dinner afterwards. He was running around in his t-ball shirt for about thirty minutes prior to time to leave, but without pants. When it was time to go, we instructed him to use the bathroom and come get his pants on. When he did, we realized he had peed all over his long shirt. "Crap" I said to The Man. "Well, he's got to wear it anyway. We don't have another shirt."

"Okay", shrugged The Man and proceeded to tuck the wet "Cubs" shirt into his white pants, cringing a bit as he did it. Little did I know that this would be the more mild of the urine related incidents of the night.

After the game we headed out for Mexican and then decided to stop by Lowes for some things The Man needed, some apparently worthless weed killer, and some new play sand for the kids. As I was taking Clara out of her carseat to put her in the cart I noticed her dress was a little wet. I thought she must have spilled some of her milk from dinner on herself.

Stupid, stupid me.

Well as anyone married to a man would know, there is no such thing as a quick trip to the local hardware store. Forty-five minutes later, I was watching the man debate an employee on the merits of certain kind of self-tapping screws. And well, the natives were getting restless. Clara, in particular was moments away from a complete meltdown. So I decided to take her out and let her walk for a bit while Shane finished his discussion. As I picked her up I noticed she was soaking wet. Pee running down her legs, pooled in the seat of the cart and dripping all over the items in the cart below her. Playsand (fortunately in plastic bags), the darn self-tapping screws, and weed killer alike.

Doing what any worst mama would do, I had an immediate adverse reaction to the fact that I had just coated myself in urine and plopped my sodden princess right back in the seat in her cart. She started screaming and I scrambled in my purse for something to sop up the mess. I found some kleenex and a couple of babywipes. I started trying, uselessly to mop up the items we were going to buy. Giving up, I walked up to The Man, and said

"We need to leave. Now."

As I was explaining the situation, he noticed a trail of urine dripping onto the floor. Quickly grabbing Ben's spare underwear (which for some inexplicable reason I had in my bag, but not another diaper) he wiped it up and we practically ran for the register. Fortunately the sand was so heavy (200 lbs) that the check-out boy scanned it without touching it, but we did put the weed-killer and screws on the counter. When we put them back in our cart The Man and I both noticed distinct wet streaks left behind. We flew out of the store with our purchases.

Once at the van I pulled out the emergency supplies and got Clara cleaned up and changed. We put the purchases on some towels and wiped down the cart as best we could. Then we left. But, I just can't get it out of my head that we actually made the check-out boy, unknowingly touch Clara's urine. Because I couldn't bring myself to mutter the words "Don't touch that, my daughter peed on it."

Ignorance really is bliss.

Of breast milk and beer

I've been absent lately, not because I haven't been doing a lot of worst mamaing, but because I've been forced to maintain a blog that no one reads for a work event. It's taking all my time. Besides, Kate's been keeping me in line. She tells me raising my voice when I speak to her is "very rude". I suppose I should be proud...

I wanted to bring you an email my friend sent me, because it seemed so very fitting for our discourse here. This is a tale from Anni, whose son Cyrus was born on Thanksgiving day last year. I used to have a glass of wine while nursing Kate because, I reasoned, the alcohol couldn't possibly get into my system that fast, and then by the time she was ready to eat again, it would be gone. I worried the sight of it was a tad, er, inappropriate, but my desire for wine outweighed my desire to be socially acceptable. This is just one of the many reasons I'm friends with Anni:

We were just up on Mackinac Island for a couple of days and I wanted to
tell you about a high point in my yet-small experience as a vacationing mother.
We were in a bar having dinner (well, waiting for the food). We
ordered beers and they came in those really tall slender glasses. I was
breastfeeding Cyrus and drinking my beer. (I think I breastfed in every
establishment open on the island, since there are only a few places and since it's
before tourist season.) There was this nice couple sitting across from us
trying not to notice. But then I knocked my beer all over myself (and a
little on him) and broke the glass all over the place. So I had to
disengage him from my boob (he protested) while mopping up beer and hoping there
weren't shards of glass in his clothes.... The nice couple nicely
continued to not notice. There was so much beer and glass around that we
just switched tables and Cyrus went over to the other boob. Then the food
came and we ate. When we left the nice couple gave us a big smile and said
a hearty goodbye -- was it sympathy or just amusement? We played it cool,
you know -- who doesn't spill a beer on your breastfeeding baby every now and
then? and having a kid made me even clumsier (though not as much as when I
was pregnant -- I was a total train wreck then).

Derby Day

"Ross! Lars! It's the First Saturday in May! Get down here - you need to make your picks!"

The boys, who've been playing kitten-hockey in their room, come thundering down the stairs. "These are the picks for dollars, right?" Ross asks, eyes shining, as he looks down at the list of horse names and silks. They consider the choices and make their selections for Winner, Trifecta, and Lastfecta (a family invention to name the trio who will stagger over the line last). Dimes (for Winner) and quarters (one for each 'fecta) are gathered and Chris calls (his mom) to place our bets.

Yes, yes, our young'uns are already enslaved to betting on horses. Don't call us between 6:00pm and 6:08pm tonight - we'll be glued to the fastest two minutes on television, hoping to win.

Getting To Know Our Neighbors

It's never good when the boys swoop into the house and go directly to time-out. It's worse when they twist chairs from the dining room into the front hall, where a parent has more freedom to move than in the tiny space in the back hall by the stairs where they usually sit. Half my mind on making dinner, I tuned in to the lecture in the next room.

"...you don't throw a rock at someone! Even if she's annoying!"

Wait. Threw a rock? What? I skidded out of the kitchen with a thundering, "WHAT DID YOU DO?" The perpetrator looked up as best he could with his chin superglued to his chest. His brother sat looking equally miserable. Chris walked aimless circles in the living room, hands on his head as if watching a train wreck.

With a burst of self-righteousness, Ross cried out, "She (the girl nextdoor) was annoying me! She was STARING AT US!"

"Maybe she wanted to play ball with you guys. Did you think of that? It might have been nice to ask her to join you." I tried for calm and reasonable but might have sounded more incredulous.

Head still hanging, Lars put in, "She's not allowed to play in our yard anymore. And we can't go into hers. Because of the stick." My brow furrowed in confusion. The stick? I thought it was a rock. Before I could say anything, Lars continued, "The stick I hit her with last week when it was an accident and I said I was sorry."

Heart in my shoes, I recapped for clarity. "So let me get this straight. Lars, you hit her with a stick last week so she's not allowed to play here anymore. Today, she was looking into our yard wishing she could come over and, Ross, you threw a rock at her?" Chins come up off chests just enough to nod. I let this sink in, unsure what to do next. I fight an urge to join Chris and circle the living room with my head in my hands. Whose kids are these?

Ok, grip. Must find a grip. I take a deep breath, "Ross, you will write a letter of apology and bring it over after dinner, so you can also apologize in person."

His head snaps up, "What? I can't... I mean, you can't... I DON'T WANT TO GO OVER THERE!" I try not to smirk. I might have found a grip! Contrite or not, the rock thrower had the upper hand for a bit there when I didn't know what to do with him, but cornering him between a writing assignment and an embarrassing social call has clearly reasserted my authority.

It took two drafts but a lot less whining than I anticipated for Ross to write his apology. He finished just after dinner and we went over to deliver it. The closer we got, the slower Ross moved, so I manually propelled him the last few yards to the neighbors' door. I also had to knock, as aliens seemed to have replaced Ross with a lifelike replica rendered in Jell-o. Terrified Tangerine knees or not, Ross managed to hand his envelope to the girl's father, who answered the door, and croaked out a request for the girl to come to the door. While we waited, her little sister filled the time with oblivious conversation as only a five year old in a princess gown can. At last, the girl appeared, also wearing an elaborate ball gown. "I'm sorry," Ross blurted out.

The girl smiled and immediately said, "It's ok, I forgive you," at the same time as her little sister inquired loudly, "For what?" I thought their father was going to burst a lung, he was working so hard not to laugh. Ross took the rising color in his cheeks as a sign of anger though and shrank back into me, unable to say any more.

I nudged him gently and quietly said, "Ross, you need to say what you're sorry for. It's not a secret - just get it out. You'll feel better; everyone will feel better." The girls' father tried to look kindly and used one hand to urge his younger daughter back, away from the door. I could feel Ross' heart beating through his back. We stood there a bit and I whispered, "If you don't do it now, we'll have to come back and try again tomorrow."

"I can't," he whispered and buried his face in my stomach.

I looked up apologetically. "I guess we'll be back tomorrow," I said out loud.

"Bye, Ross," said the girl with a tiny wave at the back of Ross.

"We'll be here," smiled her father. I think he knows how difficult this is, even though I get the feeling his son (now a high school senior) never pitched a rock at another kid.

By the time this is over, Ross and the little girl nextdoor may be old enough to date if a restraining order doesn't get in the way...

Shoe stand off

If you read me over at my personal blog, you already know that Lindsay and I have been battling the terrible not-quite twos. I know at some point between two and three they become much more rational, but it is already starting to feel like forever.

Since we returned from vacation, Lindsay has decided she does not want to wear shoes. Since nearly every interaction could potentially result in a tantrum, I tend to only stress things I feel are very important - either for safety or sanity reasons. An example of the latter would be you must sit in your own chair for a meal and not on Mama's lap. There's nothing unsafe about lap eating - it's just exhausting to constantly have a toddler on top of you. I haven't insisted that she wear shoes. I've asked her a couple of times to let me put them on and accepted her no, and brought her shoes with me for the ensuing arguments about playing on the playground or getting out of her stroller.

"Wan pick fower."

"You may get down if we put on your shoes first."

"No wan shoes."

"Then you may not get down."

I have been letting her out of the stroller a few feet from the door so that she has to take a few steps on the asphalt path and brush rug before getting in the door. She complains, "Feet hurt. Pick me up, peas." I refuse: "This is why we must wear shoes."

But in the back of my head I have this nagging feeling: maybe she grew out of the shoes along with the clothes? They seemed fine the last time she wore them. Maybe I should see if Marshalls is stocking those white Stride Rite sandals already? Am I teaching my nearly 2 retail therapy?

April's Winner

Congratulations, Joy. As you predicted, April is yours. You are this month's Worst Mama.