Motherhood Uncensored

Mommy laid an egg

As a parent, using the bathroom alone is a luxury.

I'm not sure why it's so surprising since you give up your right to privacy when you have kids.

What, you didn't know that was what you were signing when you left the hospital?

And if you're like me, you adapted pretty quickly, with the bathroom door suddenly lock-free and revolving. No quiet respite to catch up on emails or flip through an old catalog.

Hell, I'm lucky if I get a private wipe.

Then your kids get old enough to acknowledge their sense of smell, which miraculously sends them running but not without some sort of embarrassing comment that ends in a chorus of "Ew gross!" by small, ungrateful children who, as I remind them, used to sit in their own crap BY THE WAY.

But during that week, I tend to be a little more discreet than usual, which is easier in a house with four bathrooms than it is in a small condo with one, which was the case this past week on our family ski vacation when my son walked in after I had just done the desperate tampon search and rescue.

Don't tell me you've never done it because you, like me, had the one friend who accidentally put a tampon in with a tampon already in which then got stuck except she didn't know and it started to smell and hurt and then the doctor had to tell her that it was an old tampon that was rotting inside her vagina and now you can never change a tampon without replaying that entire story in your head even though you don't even need a string to get a tampon out anymore.

I digress.

So that is perfectly fine (or at best, relatively fine, mostly ridiculous) when you can lock a bathroom door, but when your son walks in, well, it's mildly upsetting.

"MOM, YOU'RE BLEEDING FROM YOUR HEINEY!" he screeched.

Maybe "mildly" was putting it a little lightly.

"Vagina" I corrected him, as I bumbled around, then offering to explain it to him after he shut the door, much to my husband's audible disdain, which was actually less complicated and more comfortable than I expected.

He stared at me while I gave him the Emergency Menstruation Talk: Version 5-Year Old Boy with an expression of horror and fascination which is much like how I imagine my face looks when I'm watching a UFC match when someone is getting the shit pounded out of them and you don't want to watch but yet you just can't flip the channel.

Or Hoarders.

I asked him if he had any questions and he shook his head, slowly backing out of the bathroom, watching me as if I might pull a dancing rabbit out of my armpit next.

Then he turned around and yelled "MOMMY LAID AN EGG IN THE TOILET! LIKE A CHICKEN!" which then sent all my kids running in.

Imagine their disappointment when they didn't see an actual egg in the toilet.

And my evil grin when I served them eggs for breakfast.

 

January 19, 2047

His phone went right to voice mail so I called his house and she answered.

She always answers.

"Oh hi! It's..."

She cut me off.

"Hey! Sorry, no, he's on a trip again..."

She kept talking but I got distracted by the kids screaming in the background.

The phone beeped a few times.

"Oh God! Kids! Why do they always grab it when I'm talking on it?"

I smiled.

"Anyway, he got the gift. It's amazing. And I know he meant to..."

I know, I know. Call to say "thanks," and "how much he loved it."

"Oh I know he's busy. Just glad it arrived safely," I told her, sighing.

She must have heard.

"If it's any consolation, he couldn't put it down. He had to bat the kids away from it."

I laughed.

"Oh good, well, you know, I was just cleaning out and I found it. Thought he'd get a kick out of it."

"Well, he really..."

Kids again.

"I'm sorry, I have to run, but when he's back I'll..."

I cut her off.

"Sure thing. Just tell him I love..." 

She hung up.

My phone buzzed.

"Can't believe u saved my Rockets blanket. Mayb u'll sing me a little Stars Shining, 4 old times sake? Heh."

I texted back.

"Check your voice mail, son. Happy Birthday."

He's 5 today, 35 tomorrow. Love you, Drewboo.

Kids talk the darndest ways

I remember the first time my son said "orange," his longstanding favorite color. It wasn't really anything special, until my husband pointed out that it wasn't "aujun," the way he'd said it since he could talk.

Unlike Quinlan, who we dutifully corrected like some ridiculous parenting book told us to do so she'd speak properly and not require a private tutor and years of therapy, we just let it go.

We even committed the cardinal sin and called it that ourselves.

Oh shush, you do it too.

One of my own fondest childhood memories is recalling all the crazy shit my brother would call things; I still call helicopters "hoppo poppos," although, unfortunately, he does not.

These days, the funny words are fading fast, with Margot (and soon Bridget) keeping the dream alive, doing things "mybyself" and asking to read "The Turfin Tollboth" at bedtime.

And, like Drew, she begs us for some "beef turkey" after my monthly shopping trips to Trader Joe's.

I still correct Quinlan's "brung," "getted," and "more better," but I can't help but let the kiddisms run their course, as they always seem to do, often unnoticed.

To me they are the last bastion of my babies' childhood, the reminders that my kids are still kids, like LEGO pockmarks on my ass and crushed Cheerios under my feet on the kitchen floor, oddly comforting when I know full well it will be over soon enough. 

So beef turkey it is.

And beef turkey it always shall be.

So, tell me the funny things your kids say or used to say. Then do yourself a favor and go write them down.

The Littles

This week, my husband took the older two kids on a whirlwind tour of Philly and the Jersey Shore while I stayed put with the littler two.

Since he had the help of his parents and my mom, and well, I had our sitter for a couple of days and um, just two little kids, we've both basically been on vacation.

I have to chuckle that I actually think two kids is a break, but it is. It's really one step below a week at the spa.

With the two of them, there's no fighting whatsoever. There are simultaneous naps where the house is completely quiet for two straight hours.

No cooking. Very little cleaning. And no guilt about a couple of television shows while I get a little work done.

It's magical.

I realize that having all the kids together means they do occupy each other. And in some cases, I do a little less with the older kids are around because I put them to work.

It's the first time in a long time that I actually emptied the dishwasher.

But I don't care how great it is to have all the kids together to keep the others entertained, there is something about the quiet and simplicity of the two that I've appreciated.

It's also amazing how much they miss each other, clamoring to talk to each other (and not me) when they talk on the phone.

"I want to go to the playgwound wif evweyone, Mom" Margot told me. She then listed off all the members of the family, in case I had forgotten. 

It's all she knows.

And as much as I appreciate the bit of respite this week, I feel the same exact way.

Just ask me how I feel tomorrow afternoon when the hurricane arrives.

And I'm not talking about Irene.

Just don't ask me about the weather

Last month, our babysitter offered to take the kids to her church's Vacation Bible School. And since I wasn't about to turn down three hours of free daycare provided by the Lord himself, I agreed.

On the second night, there was a huge thunderstorm, which knocked the power out and apparently sent my son into an anxiety-fueled tizzy that we've been paying the price for ever since. 

Nothing is ever free. Ever.

My middle two kids have always been a little nervous with thunder and lightning, but the combination of him being without us, the loud boom of the power box popping, and the teachers insisting on singing a loud praise song through the outage did him in.

So he came home fairly traumatized, telling us "the angels are bowling" nonsense and reciting ritualistic prayers begging God to make the rain stop, even after the babysitter attempted to medicate him with Chick-Fil-A ice cream.

He now jumps at any and all loud noises, which wouldn't be such a big deal if we weren't directly under the take-off route of the extremely busy Atlanta Airport.

I'll take "Is that Thunder or a Jet? for $200, Alex!"

But worse is that someone must have mentioned the word "tornado" to him, which has spiraled (heh) into an obsession with rain clouds, tornado sirens, and shelters ("Dear Jesus, Thank you for our basement, Amen!), not to mention earthquakes and tsunamis, and yes, even hurricanes, to which I (and my husband, the pilot and weather expert) spend a large portion of my day reassuring him of the rarity of those occurrences in our world, but especially in Atlanta, Georgia.

Just don't tell him about the earthquake that hit here in 2003. Damn Internet.

I'm just waiting for him to discover floods so he can start constructing an ark out of legoes in our basement. On second thought, that might keep him busy for a couple of years.

Just the other day, we were having our daily "What are you thankful for?" discussion at dinner, which he generally turns into some massively heavy conversation about cumulo-nimbus clouds, but had astonishingly been devoid of all things atmospheric when we got to Margot, who said, without even batting an eyelash:

"I'm fankful we're not talking about the weather!"

We all tried hard not to laugh, but we couldn't help ourselves. I think even Drew cracked a smile.

Amen to that, kid. A-freaking-men.