Why the hell do we have a deck of cards in the bathroom anyway?

The fricken universe is reading my blog. I know so. How do I know so? Because in my last post, I mentioned the fact that from time to time my children take front row when I'm using the restroom (I refuse to use the p word again—refuse!) and not three days later I was struck with a nasty bout of food poisoning.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Universe to E. coli and Staphylococcus: "That whiny Mrs. Mullet thinks she has it so rough with the occasional bathroom performance. Let's really give her something to bitch about."

The vehicle of destruction? A fish sandwich.

A fish sandwich brought to me by my Mulletville Corp co-workers, who invited me to meet for lunch and said they'd bring me something off the menu from Mulletville Restaurant. Why did I eat something made in Mulletville and why did I eat something brought to me by people who have been picking up my slack since December? They probably asked our fellow workers to use the bathroom and then wipe their hands on my fish sandwich.

They were probably trying to kill me.

They achieved something much more painful than death.

First came the chills. Then the fever. Then the crippling stomach cramps. And then... the trips to the bathroom.

They started in the middle of the night. They continued on to the morning, when Chuck left for a freelance gig, despite my pleas for him to not leave me alone with two children in my condition.

Bastard.

The children quickly took their seats.



And again for a repeat performance.



Matinee? Sure! Grab a seat.



Mom's hunched over in pain? Let's look on!



Dinner performance? But of course.



It was one hell of a day. The bright side (there's always a bright side after one has recovered from a near death experience with an ambiguously named "fish" sandwich) is that I realize I have grossly overestimated my children's entertainment requirements. I knew they were content doing pretty much anything with me, but this makes me rethink that whole trip to Disney bologna.

Really, I'd like to see Mickey Mouse be such a sport on the can. At one point when I caught my breath I actually stopped to practice numbers with Junior using a deck of playing cards I found in the bathroom vanity.

"What number is—gasp! moan!—that, honey? Seven? Correct!"

Mother of the year? Yes indeed.

Which side of the rope are you on?

Before my maternity leave and when I was working full-time, it always bothered me to hear stay-at-home moms say, "I'm so sick of my kids." The women who bemoaned days at home and summer break because their kids were around all the time seemed, to me, to have a lucky problem.

Claiming you're sick of your children is a luxury; it denotes an abundance of time spent together. An overabundance, some might say.

As a working mother, I didn't have that luxury.

Now, after five months of being home full-time with two children under the age of five I can honestly say that I've reached the point at which I could pull out my hair and cry, "Make them disappear!" I know what it feels like to be eaten alive. There's no off switch for Junior's mouth. He questions everything. Diddly wants to practice standing and to see the world. He grabs for everything.

And for God's sake I can't count the times I've had to poop with both of them sitting in the bathroom with me—Diddly in the bouncy seat and Junior (who doesn't want to be left out) sitting on his stool, as if they're audience members at a silent and awkward show.

The thing is, they're happy sitting there. They're happy to do anything, as long as it's with me.

It's bittersweet then, this summit I've reached of I-need-a-break-they're-suffocating-me. I always wanted to be here because it's born of bountiful time together, but it won't go on forever. I only have two and a half months of maternity leave left. For a lot of women, especially those in the United States, they've had far less time than I.

So yah, the bittersweet summit. I'm not sure how to get down from here. Or if I even want to.

In this pickle party house

Of boogers, farts, potty humor and stinky feet, Chuck found the perfect card:





I guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Happy Mother's Day to me, to you and to all the great mothers out there.

We've gone too far

Before I had children I swore I would never, ever talk about poop.

Ever!

It's impossible, though. You're forced to witness the most intimate functions of your children's bodies; inevitably, you find yourself discussing it with your partner, your mother, the neighbors, etc. I've never liked it, but I accept that it happens.

I don't quite understand people who are interested in it just because. Like my friend's sister, who picked Diddly up, stuck her nose in his rear and gleefully announced, "Someone did a stinky!"

A stinky?

Understanding that you might succumb to this unsavory terminology as a parent might actually be good birth control.

Children, of course, like to talk about what comes out of their bottoms. I watched my friend's four-year-old for a few hours the other day. Within five minutes of being at my house, she told me what poop is ("food your body doesn't need"), what she'd eaten that morning ("pancakes"), and what her poop had looked like ("a big snail").

Co-workers, too, like to talk about poop; specifically their inability to do it in a public stall.

It's unavoidable.

But oh my gawd, do we really need an app to track it?



One that records the details of what comes out?



One that reassures you that if you find a "surprise" you can email the details to your doctor? (The app makers—Similac—don't say what they mean by surprise. I'm guessing they don't mean something fun like a leprechaun or a nip of vodka. I'm guessing they mean something really troublesome, like a receipt for lingerie that you never got or a neighbor's pet.)

Why isn't there an app for vomit? That also comes out of children's bodies and often indicates a health problem. Green poop? Maybe. Green vomit? Yes, especially if there are surprises in it too.

To finish off this poop extravaganza, I'd like to leave you with the one commercial that makes me cringe with embarrassment for the human race. Whenever this commercial comes on I picture a living room full of five-year-old boys bursting with juvenile excitement over this masterpiece of potty humor.

Or dads.



Aren't you glad you stopped by today? I sure am.

It's the easier concepts that are harder to grasp...

Once upon a time, in 1996, I was single and had my own apartment.

(God, that sounds heavenly.)

During that time, my diet consisted of cereal and beer. Occasionally I baked a cake. The directions always called for the batter to be mixed, but I refused to buy a whisk. I used a fork, and I'd spin it really, really fast. The batter was always lumpy and my wrist was sore but oh no, I was not going to buy a whisk.

For some reason, I had it in my head that whisks were reserved for bridal showers or wedding registries. I knew I'd get married someday (at least I hoped I would); ergo, I'd have a whisk someday.

To dream.

Sometimes my mother helped me baked. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the fork, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the fork.

When I got married a decade later, I finally got that whisk. Who needs fine china? My kitchen was complete.

My mother happened to open my drawer one day and see it.

"Finally!" she said. "A fricken whisk."

"I know! I got it from Aunt Such-and-such."

"That's all you got from Aunt Such-and-such?"

"Yah, why?"

"Because whisks are $5."

"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were expensive. I thought that's why you registered for them."

"No, stupid. Is that why you haven't had a whisk all this time?"

"Yes. Why did you think I didn't have one?"

"I thought you had a whisk hang-up."

"Why would I have a hang-up about a whisk?"

"I don't know!"

"Why didn't you tell me they were only $5? Why?"

"I don't know!"


**********************************************************************

Once upon a time, in 2011, I was married and had another baby.

(God, I miss that apartment.)

During that time, the baby wanted to be rocked to sleep. He'd fuss and cry while lying flat, so I had the brilliant idea of putting him in his car carrier and swinging it with one arm. Sometimes in the middle of the night. For a long, long time. Sometimes for so long I got blisters.



Sometimes my mother helped me swing the baby. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the carrier, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the carrier.

For some reason, I continued to do this. Even though the carrier weighed 100 pounds and the baby weighed 15 and I was beginning to look like a body builder.

My mother happened to find me one day, assuming the pose (that's how it's known in the house: "assuming the pose." See?)



"Listen, jackass!" she said. "They make things that'll do that for you."

"You mean swing the baby?"

"Yes. Some of them are only $50."

"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were really expensive."

"No. Is that why you've been swinging the kid all this time?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired I can't remember. Why didn't you tell me they were only $50? Why?"

"Because I'm actually getting some definition in my arms."

"Oh. Well, here. You can swing him then."

I went and took a nap. I'm not that slow, you know.

Now I need a swing. Or some hand balm.

Woohoo. Another sandwich

I finally did it. I hard boiled eggs for Easter. There were some, um, casualties, but without your egg-pertise (da dun dun) I wouldn't have had this lovely bowl of...eggs.



Or this:



Next up: Figuring out what the fuck to do with leeks. I mean really. What end do you even use?

A lesson in cats and potatoes

Did I ever mention that we took Junior out of preschool before Diddly was born? My maternity leave started in December and I wanted him home with me and his new brother.

Taking Junior out was a welcome relief. He never really took to preschool; drop-offs continued to be a disaster, even after five months. And holy hell, the price tag for three days a week could have provided food for a small continent.

Besides all that, Junior was going through a phase where he wouldn't go to the bathroom without first removing his pants. When I picked Junior up at school, his pants were always on backwards. Always. When I asked the teacher about it, she said he wanted them that way, and who was she to stand in the way of his personal expression?

Personal expression my ass. The truth was she didn't want to help him put his damn pants on. I know that because Junior told me as much.

For what we were paying, his pants should have been washed and pressed and on correctly.

Since he's been home with me, Junior and I have spent a lot of time together (obviously). I've loved it. I really have. Having said that, caring for two small children has been incredibly challenging and look, I'm no saint. Sometimes I lose my patience. Sometimes I raise my voice. Sometimes I just can't say "Please stand still so I can brush your teeth" one more time in a nice, soothing voice because honestly? I'm going to lose my shit if I have to say it again.

So, there's the first part of the equation: Lots of time together (A) + Mrs. Mullet isn't a saint (B).

Now for C.

As a general rule, Chuck and I try not to bicker in front of Junior. But it happens. One minute you're slicing into your baked potato and the next you're exchanging words over whose turn it is to drag the 25-pound cat to the vet.

(It's Chuck's.)

Because I'm a weirdo, I often stop mid-spat and ask Chuck—jokingly—"Do you even like me?" It's a silly question, but it usually works. He'll soften and say of course. Then he'll forget what we were arguing about. Cue kissing and making up. Eating of baked potato. Voila.

I knew little ears were listening (I love that expression—it makes those nosy preschooler ears seem so sweet and benign, like something out of Goodnight Moon) but the other night, something happened that opened my eyes to how much they were absorbing.

Chuck was working a freelance job. It was the end of a long day full of meltdowns and tears. One of those days when everyone was off their game. Junior wouldn't stay in bed. I was trying to get Diddly to bed. Every time Diddly nodded off Junior would jump out of bed and race down the hall.

"Mommy! I need water."

"MOMMY! I have to tell you something! MOMMY! Where's my water?"

Diddly would start wailing.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I was shot. I kind of lost it.

I yelled.

Loudly.

Junior winced and skulked down the hall and as he did I heard it—a whisper:

"Do you even like me?"

I died a little. Right then and there. The arrow flew down the hall and pierced me in the heart. I put Diddly down, let him cry, and gave Junior a big hug. I told him I loved him.

It's moments like that (and that infamous winter hike) that render me completely and utterly humble. I realize how the commitment to my children is as expansive and demanding as the universe, and how just when I think I'm doing a decent job, life shows me I can do better. I can take deeper breaths, count to 10.

I can accept that some nights are going to be harder than others, but lowering the decibel of my own voice needs to be part of the equation.

Is that D? Yah, I guess so.