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Apparently I’m being ‘rewarded’ late in life for never having woken up with a hangover. The reward is small, loud children who wake up at the crack of dawn. To be fair, I’m not sure dawn has cracked at 5.45am.
As I’m lying in bed, completely unable to open my eyes…or even move. All I can think is, ‘what have I done to deserve this?’
My eyes are shut, but there’s a person sitting on me. Sitting. On. Me. While bouncing. As if I’m the human equivalent of a bouncy castle or a trampoline. The yelling and crying start immediately, so loud that even the third brother who is ensconced in a water bath, can hear it and starts protesting. As if to say: ‘get them out of here.’ I couldn’t agree more. The bouncing is preceded or followed by ‘I’m ready for breakfast…I’m hungry for breakfast.’ And the dreaded: ‘it’s your turn.’ Amazing how quickly kids catch on.
In theory Jason and I are taking ‘turns’ getting up with the hangovers. But mornings such as these bring on more bargaining than an auction. ‘I’ll give you $5 if you get up with them…..I’ll give you $10 if you get up with them….I’ll get up two days in a row if you do it today.’ This week I find myself playing the pregnancy card. ‘I’m growing a human’ is the only phrase I have the energy to say. It’s my trump card and it usually works.
The thing is, once I’ve been woken up, it’s really hard for me to go back to sleep. So even if I’m not the one getting up, I’m just lying in bed. Awake. But lying in bed in relative quiet is a nice alternative to what’s happening downstairs. Until my solitude is rudely interrupted by a little person carrying a can of Tinker Toys half his size. Who climbs up onto the bed with said Tinker Toys and starts banging on the container like a drum. Right next to my head. Also the little person stinks, because his diaper contains something I cannot stomach to see at such an early hour.
Luckily his father comes to my aid and changes him 2 inches away from my face. So, even without looking, I can get the ‘full experience.’
As someone who shall remain nameless lamented to me today. ‘I’m not a morning person. You knew this when you married me. And then you gave me these awful spawn. Awful……’
Counting down the hours until nap time.
I don’t know what it is about being in gestation mode that causes one to lose significant brain power, but it is most definitely the case where I’m concerned.
I actually wrote in my firstborn’s pregnancy journal, nearly five and a half years ago, that ‘my brain feels foggy’. And it did. I mean how else do you explain losing a purse? While walking?
It was November 2003. Jason and I had met some friends for lunch after church. Afterwards, we went our separate ways. He went back to school to work on his thesis, and I went home, via the grocery store. I picked up a few requisite items – if (my faulty) memory serves I bought apples and ice cream to make apple crisp for Mr. Johnson. I paid for said items and left the store, which was less than two blocks from our apartment.
The next day I discovered my purse was missing. I turned the apartment upside down looking for it. I retraced my steps through the park. Went back to the aforementioned grocery store. It was nowhere to be found. I had to cancel my bank and credit cards. I even had to get in touch with the Indiana Driver’s License Bureau to let them know my license had been ’stolen’. And of course the purse I’d lost wasn’t just any old purse.
It was a purse I’d admired on a trip to Paris. That Jason had somehow found in London – without my saying anything to him about it – and bought for my 29th birthday. A purse with a story. And I just lost it…while walking…or something.
With this pregnancy, I haven’t detected that tell-tale ‘foggy’ feeling. But that just confirms my suspicion that, in all likelihood, my brain never returned to its normal, semi-useful state again. Basically I’ve been living in a blurry fog for a good five years now. And apparently I’m getting dumber by the second.
I drove to a friend’s house for coffee several weeks ago. I’d only been there once before, about three months prior, and didn’t have an address with me. Because non-pregnant Nicola usually has a decent memory and is the sort of person who can find a house even if she’s only been there once before.
This particular house was in suburbia, in an addition where every single road has exactly the same name. Maybe that’s just a Calgary thing – I’ve noticed it a lot here – and it makes absolutely no sense.
So I drove around for thirty minutes and could not find her house. And then I realized I couldn’t even remembered what her house looked like anyway. Brick, vinyl siding, white, grey, orange. I hadn’t a clue. And, since we don’t have a cell phone, I had to drive back home like a dog with my tail between my legs. Jason greeted me at the door with a ‘what happened?’ To which I replied ‘I couldn’t find her house.’ A phone call later and I was on my way to the right destination.
Fast forward about two weeks and it happened again. I was due at another friend’s house, one I’d actually been to several times, though I still didn’t know the exact address. Once again I drove around for thirty minutes looking for any sign of familiarity…and drove home when it became clear I was not going to find it. Once again Jason greeted me at the front door, this time with an ‘are you okay?’ A glance at my countenance revealed I had not been in a major accident, so he continued: ‘you can’t keep doing this…I don’t like it when people call me asking where you are…I worry.’ I know. A phone call later and I was on my way. Again.
And then it got cold and snowed, despite my hoping we’d emerged from winter coat season. I looked for my gray jacket – couldn’t find it anywhere. I figured it had to be somewhere in the house, so I settled for wearing my black one in the interim, which was just as well since it’s the one that actually fits me at the moment.
A search upstairs and downstairs yielded nothing. The coat had to be somewhere else. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d worn it, much less where I might have worn and subsequently left it.
And then we were at church on Sunday. We were helping the boys get their jackets on, when I glanced over to the left-hand corner of the coat area. I saw the tell-tale fake fur trim and the gray poly exterior of my missing jacket. Who knows how long it had been hanging there.
In my experience, pregnancy brings about two things besides a steady gaining of weight: a desire for a sloppy joe sandwich and a phenomenon that is best described as preggo-brain.
I remember when I was pregnant for the first time. We were living in London. One day I decided – out of nowhere – that I HAD to have a sloppy joe. The only slight problem was that one couldn’t just go to the grocery store and pick up a can of Manwich. Because they didn’t sell Manwich in fancy London. So I did the next best thing: consulted a Rachel Ray cookbook that my sister in law had given me, which just so happened to contain a recipe for ‘homemade’ sloppy joes.
I followed the recipe, eagerly anticipating the sloppy joe goodness that would soon be mine. But, of course, it didn’t taste at all like I remembered the sandwiches I’d consumed as a church youth group member.
Somehow when I was pregnant the second time, the craving never hit. Or if it did, I don’t remember it. (See previous reference to phenomenon known as preggo-brain.) But the third time’s the charm, because the craving reared its head with a vengeance on Sunday. As I walked by the church kitchen on my way to the parking lot I saw bags of hot dog buns. I’ve no idea what they were intended for. I certainly didn’t smell anything resembling a hot dog or a sloppy joe. But, in an almost Pavlovian moment, with that simple sighting, my lunch plans were set. In stone.
I charged Jason with going to the grocery store to pick up the Manwich and ground beef and buns. He returned with the ground beef and the bread. But no Manwich. ‘I couldn’t find it anywhere,’ he apologized. (How could that be – this is Canada, they sell everything American here, don’t they?) Realizing he was dealing with a very specific request, he’d taken it upon himself to bring home a substitute. A package of French’s sloppy joe mix.
I had my doubts, but had no recourse other than to proceed with Plan B. I certainly wasn’t going to make another trip to the grocery store just to see if he’d happened to walk by the Manwich display.
My doubts were confirmed. French’s and Manwich were not the same thing, at least not in my mind. But who really knows at this point since I can’t even pinpoint the last time I actually had a bonafide Manwich sloppy joe sandwich. Perhaps I’ve artificially inflated my fondness for ground beef in spiced tomato sauce. Served hot on a cheap bun. Preferably with some cut up carrots and cucumbers and ranch dressing for dipping. And chocolate chip cookies for dessert.
Could it be that sloppy joes were never that good?
But I digress. I decided to call the fake sandwiches ‘fanwiches’ instead of manwiches. It just seemed wrong to call them by any other name. What was most perplexing to me, however, was how much the boys LOVED them. Mr. G carried on about what a great lunch it was and how he loved ‘this’ kind of food. And the Hen ate an entire sandwich all by himself. Enough said.
Though, to be fair, when I offered my oldest another fanwich for dinner, he declined. ‘We already ate that today,’ he responded, as if to say it was good, but not that good.
The topic of pets is a popular one around here lately. Perhaps because Jason has been saying he wants a dog for the last two years or so and has transferred his own dream to his sons. I mean, we’re not really in a position to get an animal of any kind, much less the kind of dog that would satisfy his (‘their’) yearning. What with living in rented accommodation and moving a lot and having small children that are quite needy and helpless in many respects.
But with our oldest wanting a baby sister named Maggie and being denied that wish on both accounts, I felt compelled to offer him a small carrot. We could get a (girl) dog (in the future) and name her Maggie. So the pet discussion has morphed into ‘when we get a dog…in a few years.’
But Mr. G announced the other day that he wanted a kitty instead. ‘I thought you wanted a dog,’ I reminded him. ‘Oh, I was just kidding’ he replied. ‘We can just get a kitty.’ Ah, a five year old who ‘kids’. And this after I swore up and down that I would never in my life get a cat again once we’d said goodbye to our long-suffering Pukeli. A nickname (bestowed on her by our oldest) that I just realized was quite appropriate since she spent a lot of time puking.
And last night he expanded the pet conversation even more. ‘Why don’t we look at this pet book and see what kind of pet we might want to get,’ he suggested. [By pet book he meant a vintage picture book that features about 6 different kinds of pets.]
‘Maybe we can get a hamster,’ he began. And all I wanted to say was ‘ew, disgusting, I don’t want a hamster.’ But I’m trying to mold a mind, not (mostly) trying to superimpose my opinions and preferences upon another. [I do make an exception where my husband is concerned. My opinions and preferences should be his as well.]
‘Well, are you going to clean out the cage?’ I inquired. He agreed. ‘Hamsters poop in their cages,’ I enlightened him, ‘are you going to clean out the poop?’
Just like that, the hamster lost his allure and we moved on.
‘Maybe we can get a lizard…do they poop or pee?’ he asked hesitantly. Since I certainly don’t have an exhaustive knowledge of the animal kingdom, I gave him a common-sense answer. ‘All animals poop and pee.’ They do, don’t they?
Plus I really don’t want a lizard. One of the women in my local book club owns a dragony/lizard type creature and I was the only member in the group who refused to touch it when she brought it out for ’show and tell’ one night.
‘Well, we don’t need to get a bunny,’ he decided ‘because bunnies live outside.’ Yes, they do – like squirrels. They’re nature’s pets.
I left the room for a minute only to be summoned back by an excited: ‘I’ve found the pet we should get!’
Curious, I retraced my steps so I could take another look at the pet book. He pointed to an illustration of a web containing a small black spider.
There are mothers who insist on getting out of the house as often as possible for fear they will go crazy from being confined with their offspring.
I get it.
But the mere thought of actually taking my offspring anywhere…wears me out. Clearly, I’m no Mrs. Duggar if I’m too wimpy to take 2 small boys out in public by myself. But, typically, when I take them to, say, the grocery store, the five year old gets out of the cart to help ‘push’ it or to crawl underneath it like a stowaway. (Gross.) When the one and a half year old catches on that his brother is ‘free’, he wants to get out too. Except he doesn’t push the cart – he runs away from it. And with his toddler tunnel vision, it means he runs directly into the path of oncoming carts and I have to constantly abandon my own cart to stop/retrieve him. While ignoring the dirty looks thrown my way from other customers who are just trying to navigate a grocery store aisle without near-collisions with a pint-sized member of the human race. Understandable.
But on Thursday, Jason left at 7.30am and wouldn’t return until 11pm. Which means not only was it a long day, but if I didn’t go to the store to pick up a loaf of bread or cheese, we would go hungry. Also, I needed to kill some time.
So I sucked up my laziness/apprehension/dread and drove to the store. I loaded the boys in a cart with a couple of Thomas books from the library, and we were off – to navigate the insanity that is the Superstore. It may be the grocery store equivalent of Wal-Mart. The place is never not crowded. Weekday, weekend, morning, afternoon or evening – it’s filled with people. And the checkout lines….
As we moved up and down aisles, looking for strange ingredients for a salmon salad I hoped to make, Mr. G started asking for things. Can we buy some popcorn? Well, I never buy popcorn, so I figured what’s the harm. Sure. Maybe we can make popcorn and watch a movie when we get home, I suggested. Well, popcorn led to apple juice (rarely on the list), which led to cookies (ditto), which led to Goldfish crackers (ditto).
Why am I letting you have all these things, I wondered aloud? He just grinned. I attributed my indulgence to the fact that there hadn’t been any whining or tantrums. Then again, I was buying everything he wanted – there was nothing to complain about.
Let’s have a party when we get home, in the kitchen, he suggested. Great idea, I responded enthusiastically. While secretly wondering if Goldfish crackers and popcorn and cookies and juice could do double duty…as a party and dinner.
There’s something particularly endearing about the level of excitement kids have for the little things. A party in a kitchen?! But he was psyched about it. He talked about putting pillows and blankets in the kitchen. He unloaded the entire cart of groceries at the check-out, and loaded them all back into the cart. He carried all the ‘party snacks’ into the house. Retrieved 3 bowls and cups for our feast. Opened the juice by himself and poured some for all of us.
And, as with all things anticipated with great excitement, it was over rather quickly. I mean, how long can you sit on a kitchen floor and eat goldfish crackers. Or popcorn. Or a box of cookies.
But it was fun while it lasted.
If someone could tell Gilligan that his hat is too small for his head, that would be great.
In honor of Earth Day, I decided not to complain about the snow that started falling just before noon. Even when the itty bitty flakes that barely left a mark, turned into larger flakes that stuck. To the ground and the car, the shrubs and the trees. I mean, it’s just so boring to have three days of nice weather. In a row.
‘Should we go to Starbucks?’ I suggested to Mr. G when I picked him up from preschool. He paused thoughtfully and concurred, after a while, that it would be a suitable after-school activity. Of course I’d neglected to bring along a travel mug, which means I didn’t get a free cup of coffee from them in honor of Earth Day. Which was my reason for going in the first place.
Instead I got a vile latte. Why Starbucks, why can’t you produce ‘espresso’ drinks that actually taste of espresso?
Before we went in, G and I had a discussion about what he could order. ‘I want a chocolate milk,’ he announced. Well, since it was snowing I thought a hot chocolate would be a better choice – and also since the chocolate milk (for some reason) costs about $1 more than the hot chocolate…..I ’suggested’ he get the hot chocolate.
But, naturally, once we got there he ignored my sage instructions and picked up a chocolate milk. I was in no mood to argue with him right in front of a bunch of strangers, so I let it go. And ordered myself the vile latte and a hot chocolate for the Hen.
We sat down at a table to drink our beverages, partly because I couldn’t carry a child and 3 beverages out to the car, and partly because it would kill a good twenty minutes of potential late afternoon meltdown time. ‘This milk tastes a little weird,’ G announced. I didn’t think anything of it, since he’s always commenting on the way things taste or smell these days.
Two minutes later he announced that he was ‘done’ and pushed the (obviously full) carton to the middle of the table. That’s when I noticed the carton contained plain, white, 1% milk. Not chocolate milk. I didn’t draw his attention to this fact, since I was not going to buy him another drink. I suppressed a little smile – on the inside – as he stared longingly at his brother.
Who was sitting on my lap drinking his hot chocolate through a straw. It might just be my imagination, but the moment Henners sensed he was being watched; that his beverage was being coveted by another, his drinking slowed down dramatically. He held the cup, just so, and sipped from the straw as if he had all the time in the world. Avoiding eye contact with his older sibling, who was leaning all the way across the table at this point.
‘Do you want to try some of my chocolate (not!) milk,’ G asked his baby brother, in hopes of ‘making a trade’. The Hen set his cup down for a second and tasted the milk. He pushed it back to his brother. And turned his attention back to his hot chocolate.
About halfway through he tired of the beverage – they’d made a ‘tall’ instead of a ’short’ – and set it down on the table. He popped his pacifier back in his mouth, signaling he was DONE.
‘Can I have the rest of his hot chocolate,’ G pounced before the little one could change his mind.
‘Sure.’
The man of the house celebrated Earth Day a little differently. I’d gone to the basement to transfer a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. I noticed a heavy sodden package of some sort, lying among the wet clothes.
A travel pack of Kleenex belonging to you-know-who.
I put the clothes in the dryer and walked upstairs to the office where the professor was working diligently. The same professor who, in the past couple of weeks has given me several free lectures on ‘not wasting’ things – like leftover food or red peppers.
I tossed him the package and ’suggested’ he unfurl every sodden piece of tissue, allow it to dry. And reuse it.
Which, smart man that he is, he did, seeing that he is a vocal conservationist and all. Although he admitted using the newly dried Kleenex ‘is not a pleasant experience.’
Dinner has been a mostly casual non-existent affair around here lately. Yesterday, which I’ve dubbed ‘the-day-I-wanted-to-run-away’, I decided to go on strike and not make anything for dinner.
After enduring a morning at the park, making lunch and baking cookies, volunteering at the preschool, and then ‘the afternoon-from-hell’ I decided my family could just go to bed hungry. We picked Jason up from work. I looked at him: ‘did you want to eat dinner tonight?’ I asked in a tone that suggested there was nothing for him at his domicile. He looked at me quizzically, ‘didn’t the kids already eat?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh, well, I guess I’ll just eat that frozen pizza or something.’ Good answer.
So we went home and baked said pizza. The men were starving, since it was after 6.30 at this point, and helped themselves to a makeshift appetizer of chips, and salsa mixed with sour cream.
While sitting on the (flour, powdered sugar and crushed strawberry covered floor).
When the pizza was finally ready, G and I walked in the kitchen to retrieve it from the oven. ‘It smells awful’ he remarked. Honest, like his mother. And it did…smell awful. Apparently there was some kind of gorgonzola cheese on said pizza which made for a rather smelly kitchen. And rumbling tummies at bedtime.
So today I knew I had to step up and produce a dinner-esque meal.
Perhaps the boys were scared by the number of times I spoke to them through clenched teeth yesterday. Because they behaved considerably better today. We had a friend and her little girl over for coffee. And they couldn’t have been kinder. Of course, this only reinforced my suspicion that, if I had a girl, things would be a little more balanced chez Johnson.
When they’d left, Mr. G stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Did you say I was kind to Cindy (his mispronounced version of her actual name)’. I hadn’t, but was going to commend him for his excellent behavior. ‘Yes, you did a really good job today.’ I praised him enthusiastically.
‘So, can I get some allowance?’
I guess good behavior isn’t its own reward anymore.
Morning coffee was followed by an afternoon park date in which no one was critically injured or woefully disobedient. So we got home and I made stirfry while the boys watched an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine and rifled through destroyed a bag of crackers.
When I summoned them to the dinner table, G was in the middle of building a house in the kitchen. He requested that we eat in the kitchen, because as far as he knows, that’s where we eat, and since he wasn’t sure ‘that the house was quite stable.’ I suppressed the urge to say: ‘whose child are you?’ Because I know the answer.
In the end he joined me and the Hen at the table. ‘This smells good!’ he announced, adding ‘you’re such a good cooker.’ As if he was thinking: if I tell her she’s good at it, maybe she’ll cook a little more often.
After dinner we went for a walk around the neighborhood..since it’s supposed to snow (again) tomorrow. On our way home we stopped to chat with a resident, whose snazzy red ‘63 Porsche was sitting in the driveway. Jason chatted with the owner, admiring the sporty vehicle. Before long, our oldest and their son climbed into the car together. Acting the best of friends despite the fact that they’d nearly beat each other to a pulp at the park two days before…over a bulldozer. And the Hen wasn’t going to be left out. He demanded to be released from the stroller and toddled over to the Porsche – content to sit in the backseat while the big boys sat in the front.
Men.
Dear Lord,
Please let the ultrasound tech be wrong and let this next baby…be a girl. Sure, I understand the teenage years will be rough. She’ll probably hate me. I get it.
But at the same time, she probably won’t…throw strawberries on the kitchen floor and crush them with her bare feet. I doubt she’ll grab a bag of powdered sugar and dump it out all over the same floor, or stuff her hands full of pistachio shells and sprinkle them on her brother’s head…onto the office floor. I doubt she’ll trip her brother on a concrete surface and chip his tooth. And she wouldn’t think to take the last remaining Easter Egg and crush it to bits and dump it all over the (office) floor, too. I’m guessing she wouldn’t disobey me by running through standing water on the aforementioned concrete surface..laughing maniacally as I sternly implore her to stop.
I can only assume she wouldn’t take her brother’s sippy cup from the kitchen and hold it with the spout facing downward – spraying water wherever she went. Or dip her feet in moonsand and walk all over the house leaving a trail of blue dust. Or take her Triscuit crumbs and dump them on the floor right AFTER I finished vacuuming. And, when I insist that she vacuum up said crumbs, she complies only to ‘accidentally spill’ the contents of the filter all over the kitchen floor.
I’m just guessing if this baby was a girl she wouldn’t do any of this…and certainly not in a 2.5 hour span of time.
If it’s not possible for this baby to be a girl, could you double my husband’s salary without increasing his hours? So that we can get a nanny and a cleaning lady and many prescriptions of xanax or whatever it is that people take these days to calm themselves?
And if all this is not possible, please let this baby be more..like me..(minus the temper).
Thanks.
I really don’t mind being pregnant. I mean, the morning sickness all day nausea gets a little ‘tedious’. Especially when it lasts for nearly twenty weeks. But, truthfully, I’m so grateful that it’s just nausea, and not puking, that it seems bearable. I honestly think if I’d had pregnancies like some of my friends have had – I would have exactly one child.
One of the things that I like least about growing a human, is getting weighed. Often. Once a year for a physical is one thing, or whenever you can muster up the courage to see the truth at home. But every 4, 2 and 1 weeks?! For twenty eight weeks?
I have minor panic attacks prior to a scheduled ob visit. Because I know I will be weighed and, presumably, judged, if only by myself. When I was pregnant with our first – in London – it was a thing of beauty. I was never asked to step upon a scale. Not even once. Of course, we had one at home, and I had a general idea of where things stood. But the medical community had no idea how much I weighed and didn’t seem to care.
When we lived in Muncie, and I was pregnant with the Hen, I had to endure the judgment of the scale. The office I went to had the the sort of scale where they slide a metal thingy around until a ‘balance’ is achieved, which can sometimes take a while. Instead of a handy digital scale that displays your weight within 2 seconds so you can get off. Every time I went in for an appointment the nurse would start the scale at 100lbs. And move up, nano-inch by nano-inch for about ten minutes until she found the right weight.
Seeing as I haven’t weighed 100lbs since about the 8th grade, it seemed like an exercise designed to make me feel like a whale. Why couldn’t they just glance at my chart, note my last recorded weight and start THERE? I may have snapped something to that effect during one particularly testy time.
By the end of the pregnancy, I debated if it would be too ‘casual’ to wear boxer shorts and a tank top to my appointments. So as to eliminate the possibility of having a slightly inflated weigh-in. When I went to the hospital at 1am during an episode of false labor in my 40th week, they directed me to the scale around the corner from the admissions desk. To see what, exactly? If my weight had ballooned in the two or three days since I’d been weighed?
In Calgary, the scale makes a regular appearance in the pregnancy experience, I’ve learned. But here they weigh you in kilograms instead of pounds. So it’s tempting to think you’re doing okay…until you multiply the number by 2.2 and realize…you’re not.
I met my ob for the first time a couple of weeks ago. I was horrified to note that in this teeny tiny office, that probably sees the same amount of patients as the sprawling Muncie complex I used to frequent, the scale is in the waiting room.
Admittedly, obscured by half a wall. But, nonetheless, right in front of the reception desk. Within eyesight of those lucky enough to find a seat in the minuscule waiting room. Luckily, it’s a digital scale this time. At least the nurse recording the number doesn’t announce it out loud. I most certainly would have given her the look of death had she done so.
Having my weight checked during a prenatal visit is something I can at least accept. Begrudgingly. But at my sons’ doctor’s office…..not so much.
I took the boys for their ‘well-checks’ a couple of weeks ago. Mr. G stepped on the scale as he was asked, and the doctor recorded his weight. Mr. Hen didn’t quite ‘get’ the concept of the scale and refused to stand on it. Even for a millisecond. I looked around for the infant scale – the kind we always used at our former pediatrician’s office.
‘Twas nowhere to be found.
‘Well, why don’t you step on the scale with him and I’ll record your combined weight and subtract it from yours,’ the DOCTOR suggested.
Uh, come again?
First of all. Why was the doctor weighing my kids/me? Didn’t they have a nurse for the job? Second. I don’t even let my own husband around when I get on a scale – why would I let someone else’s husband, a semi-attractive male stranger, observe my well-kept secret. Third. I’m pregnant. And wearing clogs and a coat. And I was just weighed – YESTERDAY.
But, not being one to rock the boat, I did as I was told. Nothing like having your weight inflated by thirty pounds. Hence my decision to drive PAST the doughnut shop on the way home.
I told my friend Carrie, whose two sons go to the same doctor, what had happened….how I’d had to get on a scale in front of the doctor. ‘What did you do with Collin – or did he stand on the scale,’ I asked.
‘We used the infant scale,’ she replied.
Not what I wanted to hear.
I really feel like I was a better mother when I only had one child. It’s not that I necessarily had more patience – though I probably did – it’s that I made more of an effort to let my oldest (then, only) do ‘interesting’ stuff. At least, stuff that I considered interesting.
I’d put him in a high chair or a booster seat and give him watercolor paints and brushes and paper. Or, put containers of water or flour or lentils or dried beans before him with various little vessels (aka measuring cups) and cars, so that he could do whatever he wanted. And though the clean-up was always a little time-consuming, it was worthwhile (in my estimation) because it kept him occupied for a LONG time. Plus, I figured, it was making him smarter. Or something. Montessori-light.
Well, the Hen is beyond the nineteen month mark and I’m pretty sure the kid has never sat before a bowl of flour. Or lentils. I rarely let him paint because now it is twice the mess to clean up. And the Calgary home has carpet instead of easily cleaned hardwood floors. And I’m beyond paranoid that something disastrous will happen to the vile taupe carpet and we’ll have to replace it.
But today, when Mr. G came into my room and asked in a whiny voice ‘can I watch a movie,’ I decided they needed to do something more ‘interesting’. ‘Why don’t you play with flour,’ I suggested. Because I’m utterly stupid. There was a significant amount of excitement and we walked to the kitchen – outfitted with linoleum floors – to get everything ready.
I rolled up the rugs. I got out the bread-flour-laden-with-flax-seeds (an ‘oops‘ purchase that was used only once) and the measuring cups. It was fun. All were happy. I’d go in periodically to sweep up whatever was lying on the floor so as to avoid having a flour trail throughout the house.
But, then, I let a few too many minutes go by.
I walked in the kitchen and found les incompetents lying on the floor. The remains of someone’s bowl(s) dumped all over the floor.
‘Look, we’re making snow angels’, my oldest remarked.
I see.
As soon as my youngest saw that I was looking, he got down on the floor to make a snow angel too. Though he didn’t quite ‘get’ that you were supposed to put your head all the way down on the floor. And move your arms up and down. He rather resembled a snow beetle.
And of course, it couldn’t end there. Mr. G started scooping up hand fulls of flour and…..stuffed them into his brother’s diaper. Because that’s what you do.
The floury clothes were removed in the kitchen and both boys went upstairs for a bath. They were mad when I washed their hair, but what choice did I have, there was flour everywhere. To quote my oldest, ‘I [had] no choice today.’
Did I mention the flour contained flax seeds? For some reason the Hen ended up with the lion’s share of flour/seeds in his hair. Which didn’t come out after just one washing. So now it looks like he has a severe case of enormous lice in his blond locks. I tried combing it into a respectable state – we were going to look at another house to rent after all, and I didn’t want the landlord to think we were un-hygienic. But there was little to be done.
Save another bath, of course.
I put the boys to bed. At 6.58pm. Because we‘d seen quite a lot of each other and needed some space. The Gort was downstairs within fifteen minutes. ‘We forgot to read Stuart Little,’ he reminded me. Not out of any particular attachment to the book – just because he had run out of paper to draw upon and still wasn’t asleep.
‘Okay, I’ll be right there. I just need to get a drink of water.’
I got the Brita filter and poured a glass of water. Or, rather, started to pour a glass of water. I heard a rattling noise. Like there were rocks in the top. And then I had a flashback.
I suddenly remembered seeing said Brita filter in the middle of the kitchen floor a couple of hours earlier. Having assumed that Mr. G had poured himself a drink, I didn’t think much of it, and put it back on the counter.
I lifted off the lid. The compartment was filled with rocks and cars. All covered in flour.
Neat.
