Monday, March 5, 2012

Last Saturday sucked and here's why.

I hope you all had a good Saturday, March 3, 2012. Somebody had to have. It sure as shit wasn't me.

Saturday started out okay. If you call having to wake up with the sun, against your choice, and two hyped-up kids "starting out okay". Brandon actually slept in, which is a huge break for me, because it meant that I didn't have to deal with three hyped-up kids right off the sleep-deprived bat. We basically did nothing for a couple hours, and after I found myself at a point where even I couldn't think of anything else to look at on the internet, I decided to take the boys to the park so Nate could get some uninterrupted sleep (he works late), and the boys could pick up the flu virus while burning off some energy. For those of you who have been reading my nonsense for even a little while now understand why this is a big decision for me.

I even decided to walk there. It was a beautiful, warm day, and I pushed Brandon in the stroller and made Connor razor-scoot his ass there instead of ride in the stroller in the hopes of wearing him out so he'd nap, which he has been fighting us on for a good couple of weeks now, and the no nap has been affecting his attitude in a big, bad way. And as I was walking I discovered that I was actually in a good mood, which is extremely rare for me when I am alone with the boys. 

And because I was in a good mood, I knew that eventually, shit was going to hit the fan, because God forbid I actually spend a day with my kids and not have something happen to decrease my will to live.

And hit the fan it did. Almost literally.

Later in the afternoon, after Brandon woke up from his nap and Connor did not wake up from his nap because he did not take one - in spite of all I did to wear him out - I decided that it would be a good time to start separating out and weeding through ALL THE CRAP in the garage and start preparing for a garage sale I hope to have in a couple of weeks. The boys could play in the yard, I could get crap done, and we'd all be happy.

No. 

You know when someone else has your kids and they tell you what they all did during that time and it was just fantastic? Nate's mom has the two older boys for an afternoon pretty much every week, and she always tells me how they play in the dirt in her yard for like, hours. Well, we have dirt. It's all we have because gophers have absolutely annihilated our "lawn". But did the boys play in it for hours? No. They whined, they bugged me, they did crap they're not supposed to, they fought, they got too close to the street over and over and over, Connor broke some toys (those DAMN TOYS!) they drove me up the wall and I hardly got anything done. I finally gave up and fed them dinner, and when they were mostly done with dinner, I went back out to the garage to wrap up some stuff because there was still crap everywhere. 

Brandon was still in his highchair, finishing up dinner, and the two older boys were acting like the spazzes they are and running in circles around the couch, which is always a great thing to do immediately after eating. The door from the garage into the house opens up into the dining room, which has an open floor plan with the living room, so they were all within direct earshot of me. That isn't important except to point out that I did not leave my children alone in the house so no one needs to get their panties in a bunch.

I was out there maybe five minutes. During this time, I could not find a critical part to some baby gear that I was planning to resell, and then when looking for it, realized that I had thrown it away a couple of weeks ago because I thought it was a part to something else that had broken and been trashed. I was pissed. Like, really pissed, at myself. A perfectly good piece of baby gear is now rendered useless, unless the manufacturer can send me the random piece. Which I'm sure they can't.

Then, as I'm pissed off and trying to put some stuff away, Nate's "special" car washer piece of crap thingamajig that apparently soaps the car for you had the cap to the soap tank off and when I picked it up, it spurted car wash soap all down my leg, the floor, and the shelf it goes on. Mind you, I had just spent more than a few minutes washing this same ages-old and dried up soap gunk off of a few other things and wondering where the hell it had come from. So in some crappy twist of "ask and you shall receive an answer" fate, the question of where from and how the fucking soap had gotten all over a bunch of crap (and was now all over even more crap, myself included) was answered. Thanks.

Then, I walked back into the house for the coup de grace. I went to Brandon, who was still in his high chair, and sticking his hand out, looking at it, and whining. This is what he does when he gets food or something on his hand that he wants cleaned off. And as I approached, I smelled a dead, rotting body. I started reeling from the smell, and then I was like, no, wait, that's not a dead body - a dead body has nothing on this smell. A dead body smells better than this smell. I started gagging and was wondering what the fuck was going on when it all came together in my brain.

Brandon had shit his brains out, and the "food" on his hands that he was whining about? It was poop. I looked at his back, and it was obvious that he had buried his hand in the back of his diaper, then van Goghed his back with a literally shitty rendition of "Starry Night". Shit was everywhere. 

I picked him up as best as I could given the circumstances. I mean, how do you hold a baby that has crap all over his back, all over his hand, and God only knows where else? I basically gripped his arms just above the elbows and held him straight out in front of me, then took him back to the shower, after telling the other boys in my "do NOT even think of disobeying me" completely psycho mom voice to get undressed and meet me in my bathroom, and do it right now. RIGHT NOW!!

So we all pile into the shower, and Connor immediately begins to scream. Now this is an approximately 4-feet-wide by 5-feet-long all-tile cell. So screaming, or any noise, is amplified by about 10.  It has nowhere to go but straight into the deepest recesses of your brain, down your spine, and into your bones. 

And I hate screaming. 

Connor is screaming because this minor, half-inch-square scrape that he received on Friday is stinging and hurting. I get that. I've been there. We all have; it sucks. 

But do we need to scream our faces off about it? NO. He's completely overreacting because he's tired as hell from his long-ass scooter ride (I made him scoot all the way back, too, after running around at the park) and he still did not nap. He's exhausted. It's close to bedtime, and he's done. So as I am cleaning poop off of Brandon, cleaning who-knows-what off of the rest of us, and listening to amplified shrieks that are rattling my brain, my bones, and my sanity, I had to tell myself that I did not want to walk out of the shower, dial 9-1-1, and tell them to send the police (and my husband) to come get my kids because I was going to shoot myself. I stood very still, closed my eyes, and went into the zombie-mommy mode of complete detachment, where I am literally just functioning, moving my body, without the ability to think or feel. It takes a near-psychotic break for me to get to that mode, because it basically requires me to be so completely removed from myself that I am impervious to emotion. I have moved beyond the ability to be raging angry. I am simply gone.

We finished the shower, and it was 7 p.m., which is an hour before the boys usually go to bed. But that night, it was a perfect time for bed. They got into pajamas, and then their beds, and I was able to pull myself out of zombie-mommy mode. Just knowing that they are sleeping and I am done with having to care for them can pretty much pull me out of anything.

So I spray the living hell out of Brandon's highchair, the table, and the floor. I "antibacterial kitchen cleaner" Lysoled the fuck out of the area, because I had no idea what all he had touched with his disgusting poopy hand and back. Then I let it sit and do some germ-killing magic and went back out to the garage. 

While in the garage, I made the mistake of moving Nate's former speaker for the t.v. He recently replaced it with some sort of sound bar thing, and when I picked it up, it rattled. Like, there are toys-and-who-knows-what-else-inside rattled. Yes, inside. Because see, there's this little hole at the top, and Brandon (and we suspect Connor) had this obsessive habit of shoving whatever he could fit inside that hole, in some instinctive, primitive, biological male need to stick things in holes.

So out of sheer curiosity as to what could possibly be inside the speaker, I start the agonizing process of shaking and turning, shaking and turning, to see if I could shake all of the crap back out of the hole. I figured there were a couple blocks or something inside, but I just wanted to see.

I figured wrong. And curiosity does kill the cat.

See, this speaker is not light in weight. It's heavy as fuck. Not only that, it's not built in a way that to simply shake all the pieces inside to one central point at the bottom of the hole, then quickly turn it upside down to let the pieces fall out of the hole would actually work. AND, not only that, I underestimated the sheer volume of crap that was inside of that thing. 

Forty-five minutes, yes, forty-five minutes later, I am confident that I got every single piece of crap out, excepting this oddly-shaped plastic man that will only be capable of removal through some sort of surgical miracle. I used a flashlight, bar-b-que tongs, and wooden sticks to properly see, position and remove some of the items, because the hole for this thing is really, really deep. It was like a tube inside of a box, with only about two inches of open space from the end of the tube to the back of the box, AND a nice sponge on the box at the end of the tube, which impeded the toys' ability to simply get at the bottom of the tube-hole for proper extraction. 

Here is a photo of the hole and all the crap that was inside.


Yep. There are cars, a flashlight, a hairbrush, a watch, a sock, for Christ's sake. I had been looking for that sock, too. And the red car - it's part of a set. And my hairbrush. I have no idea why it didn't occur to me to look there.

So, with my back cramping from repeatedly lifting and shaking that damn thing, I make the wise choice of moving some really heavy camping gear, boxes of DVDs, and who know what else around. And when I finally started shaking from the exertion and stress of the day, I knew some wine was in order, but with the back spasms, no way was I going to walk into the kitchen for a glass, so I just pulled the wine bottle from the fridge in the garage and started drinking straight from the bottle while I finished up the last couple of things.

Because I'm classy like that.

And then, when I was done in the garage, I went into the house and cleaned the shit out of Brandon's highchair and the table. Over and over. Literally, the shit. And then I sprayed the regular Lysol spray, like out of the aerosol can, all the hell over the place, cleaned it some more, then sprayed it again. I mean, come on, the kid eats there. And then I threw away the sponge, washed and burned the skin off my hands, and then made a heaping kid's plastic sectioned plate of tortilla chips with a section of pico de gallo and a section of nacho cheese dip, poured some more wine, and stuffed my face while waiting for the wine to take effect on my back spasms and mental anguish. 


Then I pile-drived a half a box of Tagalong Girl Scout cookies. 


And drank more wine.


I genuinely hope you had a better day.

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9 comments:

  1. I think I may love you. This, although I felt bad for you (important to note that I’m not completely heartless) entertained me NO END.

    We’d be friends if we met in real life. Particularly if one of us had wine, and shared.

    The highlights…
    “That isn't important except to point out that I did not leave my children alone in the house so no one needs to get their panties in a bunch.” (People are so judgemental, huh!)

    “…obsessive habit of shoving whatever he could fit inside that hole, in some instinctive, primitive, biological male need to stick things in holes.” (so, so true. I’m very afraid for my sanity when the little guy realizes he has junk)

    “….so I just pulled the wine bottle from the fridge in the garage and started drinking straight from the bottle while I finished up the last couple of things.
    Because I'm classy like that.” (nothing wrong with that. I carry a corkscrew in my purse because you really never know....)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Aww, thanks! I think I may love you, too, for actually reading the long-ass post in its entirety! Thank you! And I'm very glad you were entertained. Brings the positive to a shitty time. Gooood.

    I would definitely share my wine with you. No fun drinking in front of someone who's not!

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  3. Crying psycho-tears of hysterical empathy, rocking with spasms of laughter, and gagging whilst mantra-muttering, "Amen my Sister."

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  4. You have officially talked Me out of having a third child, thank you. THANK YOU!!!! I know its a crazy idea, and despite the emotional part of it, I know I would lose my mind with a third!

    ReplyDelete
  5. ...and my husband wonders why I only want ONE child. I will force him to read this as I secretly take my birth control.

    (was a nanny for years!)

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  6. I was reading this in the office. Trying very hard not to hoot and laugh out loud. We have 1. I think we'll stop right there.

    ReplyDelete

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