Monday, July 11, 2011
Dropping The Bomb
There are times in a Mom's life when you're having a horrid day and your kids push all your buttons and by God's grace you respond with self-control and kindness.
This is not a story about those times.
This is a story about the other times - the times when you're having a perfectly fine day and yet you still find yourself on the brink of sanity...and then you lose it. This is the story that you don't tell your spouse for fear they won't leave you alone with their children anymore. This is the story you don't tell your neighbor because she'll never ask you to babysit again.
This is a story about being an average mom on a below-average day. I'm sharing in the hopes that you'll give yourself a break the next time you lose it and maybe laugh instead of cry.
The Squirt and I had been tooling around the front yard for half an hour or so when I decided I should make the most of having only one kid awake and go for a run on the treadmill currently taking up space in our garage. (Another story for another day.)
I figured this was a brilliant plan since Squirt enjoys the garage. There are lots of fun things in there, boats, bikes and of course a mini-van to play in. So I lace up my Nikes and head to the loo (Brit speak for potty) before starting my run. The Squirt is of course on my heels and I ask him point blank, "Hey bud, do you need to go potty too?"
For whatever reason, I accept his reply as the gospel truth and we head out to the garage. I'm literally just stepping on to the machine when I hear, "I go tee tee Mom." I look down. Yup, big puddle.
- Big sigh -
I step off, get a towel, say it's ok buddy, remove his shorts, remove undies, sop up the mess, throw everything in the washer, head back inside, get new undies, new shorts, share a loving big smile and head back out to the garage.
Phew. Ok, let's get a move on.
I set the workout for 30 minutes (a tad ambitious...my conscience chimes in) and start running. 5 minutes in and I'm dripping head to toe. "Breathing" is more like sucking air in through a damp cloth. Running in a garage in the summer in Georgia is a completely idiotic idea I realize. But the Squirt has figured out how to work the windshield wipers and is happily clicking headlights on and off - this is certainly no time to be a quitter.
Every few minutes I have to answer a question like, "What dis Mommy?" or "Mommy run all done?" but I'm feeling pretty empowered by my Super Mom self as the workout winds down and I reach the 5 minutes remaining mark.
That's when I heard the unfortunate declaration. No way...he didn't really say that did he?
"What was that buddy?" Oh yes. Yes he just said that.
I GO POOPY MOMMY.
"Oh buddy..." I jump off the treadmill. Irritated - only 5 more minutes! Hot - why is Georgia so friggin' hot? Dripping - who goes running inside an un-airconditioned garage Katie?!
I open the car door and hoist out a bow-legged toddler. He's doing the poop-in-my-undies waddle. I'm sure you can imagine. We're holding hands, but there's no sympathy in my heart as I march him inside. Why oh why hasn't this kid figured out pooping in the TOILET yet!?
He's reluctantly tottering down the hall and whining about the turd caught up in his Incredibles undies and I'm really very sweaty now. Also teed off. About my cut off work out, about having to change another pair of undies, about the incredibly slow way this kid is walking. Why didn't he just TELL ME he had to go back when we were in the bathroom!?
We reach the bathroom and I plop him down on the toilet. The potty training books tell me I'm supposed to get the turd out of his undies and into the toilet without pulling the undies down somehow. And he's whining now. A high-pitched, donkey-bray kind of eeeeeeaaaaaawwhhhhhh whine. And squirming. The turd is too close to his hiney for comfort. I'm squatting in front of him, the backs of my thighs sliding off my sweat-slick calves when he decides he's had enough. He defiantly stands up from the potty, which in turn magically releases the turd from its Incredibles prison and sends it sliding to the floor via my forearm.
It lands. And as it does, I drop it.
You know the one.
If you've never dropped it then we're probably not friends. Or you're my mom. In which case, you're an exception to the rules.
I drop The Bomb loudly and emphatically and turn with a spent sigh to the Squirt, now seated contentedly atop his turd-free hiney, who looks right back at me and shouts with a straight face, "F&@*!"