Emergencies: Part II

So we know what the kids consider to be an emergency (earlier post). Perhaps, I should mention what they don’t consider to be an emergency. Really, it’s just the oldest that seems to have this problem.

This started when he was very little. He was about two years old and he had been playing with his cousin when he came out of the room crying a little. I knew something was wrong because he only cried when he was really, and I mean really, hurt. He was whimpering and holding his little blond head as he approached me but then he stopped halfway across the kitchen, sniffled, and said he was ok. I decided that was not the case and got up to check on him. Yep, he was bleeding from a gash in his head. That’s his idea of ok. It hasn’t changed over the years.

Last year he went snowboarding (the Walmart kind) down one of the snow-plowed hills in our complex with friends. When he came back early I asked if he was ok. He said he was but again my mom sense took over and I asked a few more questions. Turns out he had fallen. Hard. He thinks he hit his head.

Thinks? What the hell does that mean?

Boy: “When I opened my eyes my head hurt.”

Me: “When you opened your eyes?!”

Boy: “Yeah, I guess I blacked out for a second or two.”

Me: “You GUESS you BLACKED OUT?!”

Let’s go to the emergency room…again. It’s like walking into the bar at Cheers. Everybody knows your name.

M.O.S: Mom On Strike

I’ve had it. I’m on strike. I’m tired of the whining, complaining, moaning, mumbling, and bitching that accompanies anything I ask the boys to do. God forbid I should ask them to wash their clothes or put their things away. I’ve thrown most of their things away (or so they think), shouldn’t that be enough of a deterrent? I give them an allowance when they do their chores, shouldn’t that encourage them? Ugh!! Even when it comes to washing their own clothes all the middle child has to do is request it and I will start it for him. The older one is old enough to work the washer himself. The house doesn’t need to be immaculate (hahahaha! sorry, even the thought of that is funny). I don’t expect them to do much, but as members of this house I do expect them to help. Even the little one has to help clean up her things. But since I can’t get anything done without having to hear them bitch and argue (loudly), or bang cabinets and doors, breaking things… I have officially gone on strike.

I will continue what I normally do for my daughter and I, and the boys will get my love and the essentials they need. If they want anything done, they will need to do it themselves. They will also need to keep their mess confined to their room or it will be thrown out. I’m tired of the mounds of laundry piled high in the tiniest of laundry/storage/utility closets that they claim don’t need to be washed because they still have clean clothes. I’m sure they are using the word clean rather loosely here. Whatever.

If you need me, I’ll be on the couch with a bottle of wine. 🙂

Things My Daughter Says II: It Could Be The Vagina Monologues

No lie. It is Saturday morning (ok, technically it’s the afternoon) and I am being lazy. A couple hours ago I decided that I need to get up and shower and that my daughter needs one too. So, in we go. The following is the true conversation of what transpired:

Daughter: Are you peeing?

Me: No

Daughter: Why do you have hair on your vagina?

Me: *sputtering shampoo as I attempt an answer* Because I do

Daughter: Do all mommies have hair on their vaginas?

Me: Yes, I suppose so.

Daughter: Do Grandmas have hair on their vaginas?

Me: *thinking carefully about the topic of conversation that might happen at Grandma’s over Thanksgiving dinner* I don’t know

Daughter: What about aunties?

Me: *OMG, I can’t believe this conversation is still happening!* I’m not sure

Daughter: What about uncles?

Me: *Phew, I can answer that* No

Daughter: Why not?

Me: *Oh shit! Now what?* Because uncles don’t have vaginas

Daughter: But [name of brother 1 and 2] have vaginas

Me: *treading into unchartered territory here* No, boys don’t have vaginas

Daughter: Then how do they pee?

Me: *F*&%, when will this end?! I let out a giggle and attempt to control myself.* They use the toilet

Daughter: But how do they go pee?

Me: *damn, I knew she was too smart to let that go. My laughter is now involuntary and all attempts to control it are futile*  They have a penis   *there I said it!*

Daughter: *very excited to understand this new concept* Is that on their vagina?!

Me: *how can this NOT be over! I can’t contain it, I laugh so hard I pee in the shower!*

Daughter: Mommy! You peed!

At least the subject has been changed.

I know you are reading this, Mom. Consider yourself forewarned.

A Moment Alone

Like so many people do after New Year’s, I joined a gym. Only I did it back in December so I was ahead of the game, or so I thought. I typically go to the gym 2-3 times a week. For those of you doing the math that is roughly 18-27 times. If you’re starting to feel bad, don’t. Out of those 18-27 times, I have worked out a total of 4 times. That’s right, four. I have paid about $100 for this privilege. That’s about $25 per workout. So what was I doing there all the other times? My son has his soccer clinic next door, hence my reason for joining this gym. I mean, if I’m going to be stuck here for an hour I might as well make the most of it.  Yeah, I decided the most of it was dropping the other two kids off in the play center and then taking an hour long nap.

Best  $100 I ever spent.

Beats the .4 seconds of alone time I got in the shower this morning.

I love this gym.

An Emergency: A Child’s Perspective

I am in the process of trying to teach (and reteach) my kids what constitutes a true emergency. I am also trying to emphasize that this rule should be followed when I am in the bathroom.  I never get time to myself and sometimes alone time only happens in the bathroom. This is where I check my email, catch up on Facebook, and *gulp* may even blog (just a little!). At any rate this time is brief and precious and I do NOT want to be disturbed unless… there is an emergency.

Now my definition of an emergency and their definition differ dramatically.

My example of an emergency: someone is bleeding to the point of unconsciousness and/or has become recently detached to an appendage

Their take on that: someone fell off the couch and is not hurt; she can’t find her other princess shoe and now must limp around because she refuses to take the other shoe off; someone sneezed

My example: the house is on fire

Their misunderstanding: the remote is lost or beyond reach and he/she is too lazy to get up and get it (but they can knock on the bathroom door to ask me where it is); they want to play on the iPad but don’t know the passcode and so must bother me for it right now because it cannot possibly wait one.more.minute

My example: someone is breaking into the house

Their interpretation: right now is the perfect and only time to go outside therefore it cannot be squandered and they must bang until I accede; they want dessert; someone farted

I would buy a dictionary but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t help. But if I do I will be sure to have them also look up the word “boundaries”… because clearly, they have none.

The Things My Daughter Says

Being four gives you a certain amount of leeway and a natural naiveté that lends itself to saying really embarrassing things without a hint of shame. My boys went through this stage so I shouldn’t be surprised. I just don’t remember my boys being so vocal. Whenever I take my daughter into a public restroom I brace myself for what she might say.

When she was potty training I would cheer her on with song and dance, clapping, cartwheels… whatever it took to get her excited about using the toilet. This to her was normal. I also made sure she knew the correct terminology for her body parts. Yep, that word… v-a-g-i-n-a. God forbid she said that in front of anyone of the male variety. I thought it was kind of funny to see them squirm. Until it was my turn.

We were at the town pool and I had to use the bathroom. I carted my daughter off and squeezed the two of us into a ridiculously tiny stall. As I began peeing, my daughter – with all the enthusiasm of a proud four year old – began to cheer me on. “Yeah Mommy! Good job going pee on the potty.” I managed a thank you – after all what was I supposed to say. Then she said it… she dropped the v-bomb. “Your pee is coming out your vagina!” I felt my face grow flush as I heard the gales of laughter from the stalls on either side of me. I thought of staying in there until the women left but knew that wasn’t going to be an option since my daughter was already crawling under the stall door. Thankfully the laughter was coming from other moms who had been through or were going through the same thing.

Her latest obsession is my boobs. Today in the checkout line at Target she looked up at me lovingly and said “Mommy, I really like your boobs.” I thought the guy behind us was going to choke on his coffee.

The Little Things

It started Thursday afternoon. I had just picked my daughter up from daycare and my car was on empty. I could have stopped on my way to pick her up but the gas prices at the station just down the road from daycare were so cheap and my budget so tight, that I waited. While picking up my daughter I was informed that Friday was picture day. My mind scrambles as I’m trying to piece together this new information. I thought the pictures were next week. I thought I had time over the weekend to find her some clothes without stains or rips or sticker glue. Aaaarrrgh! Now I have to add a stop to the store. There better be a clearance rack.

As I process this new information, I pull into the gas station. It is immediately clear that I am not the only person who knows how cheap the gas is here. There is a line of cars and I am six cars out and on the border of the main road. I pull up so I am on the bumper of the guy in front of me to allow room for cars behind me. What pulls up behind me however, is a massive oversized truck, whose driver is obviously more important that anyone else here and demands that the seas part and allow him in. HONK! HONK! I mumble under my breath. HONK! HONK! I throw a dirty look in my rearview mirror. The honking continues until finally I roll down my window and demand to know exactly where the hell he’d like me to move?! I’m sure he had choice words for me but I had gone deaf from the honking and couldn’t hear them. The guy next to me gives me a thumbs up.

After waiting half an hour and multitudes of preschool songs to get my gas, I drag my daughter off to the store to find her picture worthy clothes. After searching through the clearance racks for clothes and several times for my daughter, we settle on a cute sweater and a couple other things she needed for the upcoming winter. I set everything on the counter and my daughter loudly announces that she needs to use the bathroom and runs off in that direction. I chase after her leaving everything behind. We finish up, ring out and leave. I return home feeling better about the next day. Until I get home and empty out the bag.

Where the frack is the sweater?!!!

I call the store. They are closed.

The next day is Friday. My alarm doesn’t go off. My coffee maker decides today is the day to screw with me. My daughter screams like I am beating her because I tell her she must take a shower with me and wash her hair for her pictures. I forget my lunch on the counter and wonder what a tuna fish sandwich will smell like at the end of the day. I am defeated.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, day.

Btw – the sandwich did not smell very good when I got home. But at least I get better gas mileage than that jackass from yesterday. 🙂