It’s Christmas. Be Nice, Damnit!

A couple of weeks ago I was out grocery shopping with my two youngest (ages 1 and 2).  Our typical routine consists of getting those hot deals on all things processed at Aldi, then boogying over to Meijer for the fancy generic food they just don’t have at Aldi.  Nevertheless, by the time we get to check out at Meijer everyone is in a Code Red situation.  The 2-year-old is tired from running through the store, the 1-year-old probably missed his morning nap and is fighting an internal battle on whether he’s more hungry or tired.  At this point, it’s a toss-up.  There is a meltdown just around the corner.  I know it, the cashier knows it, every retired person in Bloomington-Normal shopping with us on a Thursday morning knows it.

Needless to say,  I try to make it through checkout in record time.  I place everything on the belt in a way that makes sense for bagging.  If I’m buying booze (HAHAHAHA “if”)… tenorWhen I’m buying booze, I keep it for last so I can have my ID ready. However, it doesn’t matter how prepared you are there are too many variables.  Too many things out of your control.  Those sons-a-bitches who design these stores know that stressed-out parents like me will do anything to shut their kids up in the check out lane so they fill it with candy, and toys and random shit that no one on this planet ever needs….ever.

So, the 1-year-old starts fussing because it’s feedin’ time.  The 2-year-old wants all theKung Pao miniature princess dolls that as soon as we get home, will mean jack shit.  I’m shoving every cracker I have in the diaper bag down the baby’s throat, while trying to distract the girl one with anything that won’t cost me any more money.  I get all the groceries on the belt, I’m sweating like George Costanza housing Kung Pao Chicken, and now there is someone behind us in line, which for some reason elevates my stress level.

We get all checked out.  Bags back in the cart.  Debit card swiped, then inserted because I can never remember which one it is.  At this point, my anxiety is to a max.  I still have to get everything and everyone in the car, home, out of the car, fed, and napped.  Ugh….

Then, the woman who had braved standing behind us in line looks at me and says, “Wow.  You make that look so easy.  I remember doing it, but I don’t remember it being that easy.”

BIQWWmlCQAEN7hOI almost burst into tears and hugged her.  At first, I thought “Well, Gotcha Bitch!  Cause I’m a fucking wreck!”  But I took the high road and said, “If you were in my head you wouldn’t be saying that.  But thank you very much.”

That woman, whoever she is, has no idea what she said meant to me in that moment.  When you go anywhere with little kids you feel like a pariah.  The minute you walk in you can actually hear the eye rolls.  I can’t say I blame them. Other people’s kids are annoying.  Just remember that we’re doing the best we can.

So whenever you see a mom, a dad, anyone straight up owning a stressful situation, whether it’s kid related or not, give them credit.  If you’re thinking something nice about someone, say it. It sounds so simple and yet it’s something I’ll admit I rarely do.  Why?  Shouldn’t we be lifting each other up?  Especially this time of year when everyone is stressed out, be nice.  Find the good.   You never know when you could be making someone’s day.  I know I will never forget that woman at Meijer who made all of my stress and efforts seem worth it.  She made me like everything was going to be ok, and there was nothing I couldn’t deal with.  So, whoever you are Meijer Angel, Thank You! And as for the rest of you, I know people suck but try to be nice.  Maybe they won’t suck as much.

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The Shit Remote…

Remember your friend from college who used to insist on taking a picture of his defecation and text to everyone in the group?  If you don’t, lucky you.  If you still have this friend, maybe you shouldn’t.  If you are this friend, stop it!  Now, imagine that giant shit that your friend is strangely proud of had a remote control right next to it.

Allow me to explain.  A little backstory: my daughter, now 2 and a half is recently potty trained.  We’ve got it pretty much down, but she still has this thing.  She always starts to shit in her pants.  She won’t finish in her pants, but she gets the turtle head out of the shell before she says she has to poop.  I think you get the picture.

John wayneOne day she started her daily shit in her Dory underwear per usual.  We ran to the bathroom, her doing her best John Wayne impression. Because walking with shit in your pants is really hard work.  We get to the bathroom with enough time for her to finish her shadoobie in the appropriate arena.  I peeled her underwear off of her, careful not to smear shit all over the front of the toilet…again.

Meanwhile, my 1-year-old is walking around chewing on the remote control for the TV because, well, I’ve just given up as a parent.  Keep in mind, he is obsessed with the toilet.  We’ve already lost a DVD to him taking it for a little swim in the porcelain kiddie pool.  Typically, he only keeps her company while she’s pinching one off.  He’s just sitting in wait for her to be done so he can go to town in the toilet water like God intended.

After my successful removal of the shit stained underwear, I ran upstairs to start a load of laundry, because….poop.  When I came back downstairs I noticed the 1-year-old didn’t have the remote anymore.  Not too strange as he usually leaves random stuff in random places all day long.  I walked into the bathroom to see the girl one still sitting with a look of pride on her face over the stench that was coming from the toilet.  “Good Girl!” she shouted as I asked her if she pooped.  Her legs were slightly separated, and as I looked into the potty, I see something shiny.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“I poop!!” She replied.

I took her off the toilet to wipe her nasty ass when I see it.  A giant, grown man turd nestled next to our small, black television remote.  My 1-year-old had sneaked it between her legs, mid shit mind you, and then continued about his business as if nothing had happened.

What. In. All. The. Fuck?!?!?! I got a pair of latex gloves that I normally only use when I cut up jalapenos and plucked the shit covered remote out of the toilet. gag There was no question in my mind to throw it away, but I knew that if we were going to buy a new one, we would need to know what the old one looked like.  So, I kept it out to show my husband when he got home from work.

The minute he walked in the door was halfway through both a Bud Light and the story of what happened to our remote.  This sick bastard, says we should keep the remote.  I’m sorry.  Are you fucking kidding me?  There was literally nothing between it and shit.  He replied, “Literally everything in this house has got to be covered in shit at this point,” and threw it in a bowl of rice to dry out. While I can’t argue with his logic about shit in the house, at least 2 of our kids have straight up shit on the floor in the living room, it’s totally different to see it…in the toilet…touching something you hold in your hand every day.

Much to my chagrin, the remote works.  The rice worked, in case you were wondering.  The fucking thing is sitting in my living room.  While I have disinfected it with a bleach solution, I still refuse to use it.  My husband just laughs at me.  To which I simply reply, “You didn’t see it! You don’t know!”

 

You don't know

 

Our Lord and Savior, Chuck E. Cheese

A few years ago when I was blessed with only one child, my mother and grandmother came to visit.  My son was only 3 at the time, now 7.

A little back story, Glamma and Granny, respectively didn’t think that Mommy exposed to the children to religion enough.  Mommy thought they have the rest of their lives to make their own decisions, and that religion is a very complex issue that needs to be addressed carefully.  Nevertheless, we agree to disagree.

During this particular visit, the grandmothers were doing a bit of recon on the toddler.  Asking questions like, “Do you know who Jesus is?”  “Has Mommy taught you about how much Jesus loves you?”  I don’t think they were ready for the answer they received.

My mom, or Glamma, for these purposes, asked my son if he knew who Jesus was.  He replied with a very unenthusiastic, “Yeah.”  Regardless, the grandmothers were very pleased that he at least recognized the name.  Maybe I’m not such a godless heathen after all.  Glamma continued her questioning with more detail, “Did you know that Jesus loves you so much he died for your sins?” My son, still unphased by the grossly age-inappropriate question, replied, “Yeah” without even looking up from his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Finally, Glamma asked him, “What else do you know about Jesus?”  The boy, finally realizing he was involved in an actual human conversation, looked up at Glamma with deep, sincere eyes and says, “Glamma, do you mean, Chuck E. Chesus?”

About a year later I was sitting on my patio with the same child.  Who was still an only child…those were the days.  Anyway, it was a Friday.  Good Friday to be exact.  In a moment of religious guilt, I asked my son if they told him what that day was at school.  He answered, “Yup.  It’s Friday.”  “You are not incorrect, my darling child,” I responded. “But today is also a special Friday.  It’s Good Friday.  It’s the day we celebrate that Jesus died for our sins.”  I was terrified this was going to turn into a morbid conversation about the details of His death. But instead, he looked at me like a teenager looks at an adult who calls it “The Facebook” and says, “That’s the mouse, right?”

 

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Potty Training: Now That’s How You Get Pink Eye

Who doesn’t love that scene from Knocked Up where we all learned you can give all your roommates pink eye by merely bare-assed farting on their pillow?  Classic.

Pink Eye

However, I am here to tell you that living in a house full of toddlers is waaaay worse than a house full of malicious stoners.

For those of you who do not have kids, trust me when I say, potty training is by far the WORST stage of child-rearing (“you hear that, he wants to rear your child.”  Sorry, I have Knocked Up on the brain).  There is literally piss and shit everywhere.  Kinda like in college, but much less funny.  When your drunk friend shits himself in white shorts in the middle of a bar, it’s hilarious!  When your 2-year-old drops heat all over your living room floor, and your 10-month old immediately thinks, “I must put that in my mouth;” still hilarious, but only after the fact. Allow me to present exhibits A thru C.

Exhibit A: While potty training my 2 and a half-year-old daughter, she decided to go commando.  As she had pissed herself all day, I thought, “Sure, we’ll let it air out for a bit.” BTW, whoever said girls are easier to train than boys is a fucking liar!  Anyway, as we sat down to enjoy a nice dinner with a single, childless friend (I’m really surprised she’s still our friend), my daughter takes it upon herself to squat down between the ottoman and the couch and drop a couple nugs, thinking no one would notice.  At first, she was right.  We went about our grown up business and were none the wiser.  That is until I noticed my 10-month old using her turds as soccer balls.  Oh, and the smell the shit.  Needless to say, each child was immediately bathed in bleach (not really), and the entire house underwent a Lysol exorcism. I need an old priest and a young priest!!

Exhibit B: A friend of mine has 3 little boys, 3 years old and under.  She’s insane.  Her middle son is only a few weeks older than my daughter so we are currently in a 2 person support group for potty training moms.  We just send SnapChats to each other of us drinking.  Her little guy is much more “helpful” than my daughter.  While she prefers a more stealthy approach, her son likes to squeeze out a meadow muffin and share it with the house.  That’s right.  He crapped on the floor in the basement, picked it up, carried it up the stairs, dropped in on the floor of his bedroom, with a healthy plop I’m sure, then hollers down the hall, “Mommy!  I made a poop.  Come change me!”  Silver lining: he didn’t smear it all over the wall.  So, that’s a win.

Exhibit C: This one requires a little back story.  If you’ve ever seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption, you will know what I’m talking about.  If you haven’t, Spoiler Alert, also, what the hell is wrong with you?!?!  Seriously, it’s one of the greatest movies of all time.  Get your shit together. Anyway, at the end of the movie, it is revealed the protagonist, Andy, has been slowly digging his way out of his cell, and collecting the pieces in his pockets and gradually dumping them in the courtyard by cutting a hole in his pockets and shaking the pieces down his pant leg.  Do you see where this is going?

Shawshank

One day I was watching a  neighbor’s potty training son.  Let’s just say this kid and a rabbit have a lot in common, and I don’t mean carrots.  After Tommy-gunning tiny turds in his pants, he proceeds to “Shawshank” his way up my stairs.  As he is standing in front of me, I notice a black ball by his feet.  I immediately run him to the bathroom, ass debris falling out of his pant leg the whole way.  Thanks to his apparently GI issues, the clean up was fairly easy.  That is until my germaphobic son comes upstairs with a handful of ‘marbles.” He still hasn’t stopped washing his hands.

When you have this much shit in your house, there are bound to be poo particles everywhere.  It would be a miracle if everyone made it out pink eye free. So, the next time you go to a 2-year-old’s birthday party, don’t waste your money at Toys-R-Us. Instead, might I suggest a Stanley Steamer gift card.

 

 

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