Last week was…rough.
First, I’m 34 weeks pregnant. It’s hot. I can’t walk from one room to another without getting winded and needing to sit down and “take a break”. From walking 24 feet.
Second, there’s the emotional WAHOO zinger of a roller coaster. I can be calm one moment, and irrationally shrieking, “STOP SWINGING FROM THE DRAPES LIKE TARZAN!!” the next.
One night, I was running a bath for the kids. Brian – ever helpful – got them undressed and undiapered. I shut the bathroom door so I wouldn’t be bombarded with kids elbowing each other out of the way to get into the water – I swear, you’d think the bathtub was Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I needed a moment to make sure plenty of towels were strategically placed. (More water ends up on the bathroom floor – and on me – than in the tub).
Suddenly, I heard Brian squawking “Mayday! Mayday!” from the hallway. I opened the door. Naked babies were everywhere! He was futily trying to hold them at arms length to keep them from splashing in and through the pond of urine in the middle of the hallway. Rowan, sans diaper, had left her room, squatted, and peed everywhere – spreading the wealth generously.
We shuffled them into the tub. I stopped Brian from grabbing one of the good towels and pointed him to the paper towels. As we cleaned, I reminded him that this happened when he put Harlowe in her crib without a diaper recently. I was changing Rowan and he thought he’d corral Harlowe until I could diaper and dress her, too. Giggling, she peed all over her sheets, and I got to do a “surprise!” load of laundry at bedtime.
I explained scientifically: “You can’t let babies run around with no diaper on. Something happens when air hits their hoohaa’s. It’s like ‘Pavlov’s dogs’ when they hear a bell, only – instead of salivating – there’s urinating. It’s a proven fact.” (I do my research).
The next night, I was too tired to cook, so we ordered out. Chili’s. I got the Fajita Chicken Nachos with a side of salsa (pregnancy craving – they know this is what I need when I call). Looking at my order history, some witty Chili’s employee said, “Let me guess. Fajita Chicken Nachos with a side of salsa??”
Once dinner was picked up and we had wrangled the kids into their highchairs to eat grilled cheese and fries, we could finally eat. Brian was sitting down with his brisket tacos and beer, and I had just finished getting my food together and was heading out of the kitchen. I stepped over the child gate, partially tripped, and dropped my food – facedown – on the floor. Salsa was everywhere – all over me, all over the floor, splashed up the wall.
At first, Brian just looked annoyed at the mess. (He has picked three things he cares about keeping clean – his car, the dishes, and the living room floor. He had just swiffered). But then – those irrational emotions kicked in; I just started sobbing uncontrollably. Brian, alarmed, hopped up and tried to rescue the nachos.
Brian: “There’s still some good one’s in here. They aren’t ruined! The ones on the bottom are edible!”
Me: (between sobs) “I’m not eating Dog Hair Nachos!!” (In spite of the recent swiffering, there is ALWAYS dog hair).
Lola: (concerned from her highchair) “Wha’ happened? Wha’ happened? Mommy’s crying! Mommy make a mess?? Wha’ happened?”
Let me say, though, that all of this is nothing – and I do mean NOTHING – compared to when Brian goes out of town and I’m on my own for two nights.
For starters, Lola likes to sleep in Mommy’s bed when Daddy is out of town. And by “sleep”, I mean cram herself right next to Mommy in spite of the king size bed, kick Mommy in the side, heat butt Mommy in the face, complain that “it’s too dark” (no nightlight, unlike her room), refuse to go sleep in her room if “it’s too dark”, ask for a “sip of water” every 2-4 minutes, sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at the top of her lungs just as Mommy has nodded off, and say “Goodnight Mommy” about 800 times between 10 and Midnight. I also “slept” for the majority of the night with a head in the middle of my back, since Lola sleeps perpendicular when she does eventually sleep. All the while, a baby is kicking me in my guts.
Yesterday, I got a delivery from Target of some baby stuff – big ole box taken up mostly with those air-filled plastic bags and two relatively small (and non-fragile) bedding packages in the bottom of the box. I’d removed those, but hadn’t yet taken the box out to recycle.
Lola was eating yogurt-covered raisins and playing on my (her) ipad. At some point, while I was cooking dinner, she got up and wandered over. I’m assuming she thought the box was sturdy and was still taped together, because she tried to sit on it – and folded accordian-style in two as she sank backward INTO the box full of plastic air-filled bags. Yogurt-covered raisins went flying everywhere. When I realized she was okay, I – laughing hysterically – scrambled to pick up yogurt-covered raisins, since raisins are toxic to dogs and Sadie does not listen to reason when there is food on the floor.
Lola continued to struggle, trying to extract herself from the box. I could not stop laughing. She was grumbling one of her favorite phrases, “Not funny”, on repeat, which made me crack up even more.
This was a good release because, not ten minutes later, when I went to pee (which happens every ten minutes), I came back out and found that the twins had wiggled partway under the kitchen child gate, pulled Sadie’s dog food/water mat over to the gate, grabbed her dog water, spilled it EVERYWHERE, and were splashing in it gleefully.
I ran for towels, pushed the dog dishes out of arms reach, cursed under my breath like a bloody sailor, threw down the towels, picked up a twin, stripped her, wiped her down with antibacterial wipes, put new clothes on her, repeated steps 1-3 with the other twin, moved them to the living room, and continued cleaning up the slobber/water mess in the kitchen and hallway.
And successfully burned dinner.
We had McDonald’s last night. If one person says anything about “how could you feed your kids that crap?” – I swear – I will sock them in the eye.