Snippets of Misadventure

This may be my longest post ever so…..you’re welcome. In advance. (December 2015)

Anyone interested in punishing themselves should skip the traditional methods of flogging, cutting or self immolation and go straight to hosting a birthday party/sleepover for 6 girls aged 6 and under. This falls into the category of “Worst. Idea. Ever.” which I have had many. I really had everything planned out in my head–we would start with a lovely lunch, head to a trampoline gym and then have pizza back at the house. After cake and ice cream, I would break out the crafts and along with friendship bracelets, we would do some face painting and maybe learn to finger-knit. I had visions of 6 little cherubs, all in little cute jammies eating popcorn, donning their new crafted items and wishing everyone had a mom like Emily’s mom. I’m actually starting think I may be mentally ill. 

We started the day with lunch which really only mildly qualifies as lunch. There was food and drinks but none of the children seemed interested in actually eating it, most leaned back in their chairs, playfully kicking each other and communicating in loud squeals. In the end, we had 13 pounds of left over chicken strips which would have served nicely as a midnight snack but I am pretty sure they are still in the back of the Kristy’s suburban. We headed to a trampoline gym that can only be described as sheer chaos (but a good time all together). “Excellent”, I thought to myself. “Wear yourselves out here and slip into a peaceful 8 pm bedtime”. When we got back to house, I proudly released the girls free in the house as I had spent 4 hours that morning cleaning and arranging for max party awesomeness. In hindsight, this was probably the turning point in the evening. Individually, they were sweet, polite girls. As a group, they were goddamn terrorists. Like ISIL, they exploited the weaknesses and seams in my plan. They moved from room to room, sometimes as a pack, sometimes as small sleeper cells who came in looking for a “glass of water” and escaped with the crafts and cookies (the latter was given to The Kraken who got it all over her hands and everything else she touched). Not a single event was executed without tears or dissent of some kind. I served pizza which half of the tiny devils descended upon like locust and the other half stared at me with their hallow, unimpressed eyes and demanded Mac and Cheese. Then everyone wanted Mac and cheese. Then everyone wanted pizza. And not one kid ate more than two bites of anything. We moved onto presents which all the girls wanted to help open. In fact, one of them opened half the gifts while my back was turned. In the end, I just started guessing what gifts were from who. It was craft time and the headband-making craft seemed like an easy win. (You just put a bow and jewels on a headband). But the girls just fought over the whole thing. Clenching my teeth to keep from swearing and eyeballing some scotch, I suggested we move to face painting. The face painting kit was a bit dried out and came with only one brush. Seeing as the first kid wanted to be a panda and I did the eyes first, every color after that was mostly black. I have never been an artist and my attempt to face paint only validated this self realization. The pandas looked like day of the dead characters, the princesses looked like a members of KISS, and the butterflies looked like the Joker. But they loved it and complimented each other on how beautiful they each looked (confirming my belief that American women learn to lie to each other at an early age). Their faces were actually beginning to creep me out so I suggested that that all hop in to the bubble bath I had drawn in my huge tub. Exhilarated at the notion, they screamed at the top of their lungs (waking up The Kraken), threw their clothes everywhere and jumped in. The bubbles literally evaporated as 6 sweaty little bodies jumped in the tub and a small brown-rainbow film began to stick to the side of the tub forming a face-paint scum line. The bath was only able to get 90% of the face paint off ensuring that the remained made its way onto couches, pillows and blankets but left just enough to make them all look emaciated around the eye sockets. The girls finally settled down in the basement, constructing a trampoline bed tent which they promptly changed their mind about and, like nomads, moved their fort two times before demanding that they all sleep in my bed, displacing me and The Kraken (who obviously couldn’t sleep because of all the noise) to Emily’s bed. It was almost 11 and I was beat. “Girls, go to sleep or I will call your mothers!” One child quipped, “I don’t have a mother!” (Her sister reminded her that she did to which she replied, “She’s a mom, not a mother”). Then they suggested they were hungry. I reminded them that they had had pizza, cake, Mac and cheese aaaaaand popcorn. One child pointed out the obvious, “But I barely ate any of that!!”. I threw out the ‘ol “I’ll call Santa” and silence swept the room. I collapsed exhausted on Emily’s bed, The Kraken cuddled up next to me. 

I woke up around 4 am, freezing. The Kraken’s diaper was like a block of yellow ice. After a brief, bleary eyed investigation, I realized that someone (armed with a step stool) had turned off the heat. The girls were up at 6 am, debating what actually constituted “it being morning”. Everyone wanted cereal (that no one actually finished) and we only had two bowls spill on the floor. Everyone then wanted pancakes but I had just got my coffee and sat down. When I suggested they give me a moment to drink my coffee, one child–mine–suggested that I was being selfish, Broadway style. “Mommy…..You should think of oooooothersssss”, she sang out of key. To which everyone agreed and suggested she keep singing. I paused and imagined putting them all in an industrial sized dryer on fluff. The Kraken had found her ice block diaper in the trash and and swung it over her head and into the crowd of girls who then completely lost their shit. Which, to me, seemed like the 1 of 2600 times their screaming was actually justified. I got up and made chocolate chip pancakes and bacon with the same result of the cereal, pizza and Mac and cheese. We then made friendship bracelets and by “we”, I mean “me” while everyone else cried about how they couldn’t braid (except one) and The Kraken colored the kitchen cabinets with orange marker. They later colored some pictures (a picture of a girl which the phrase “pet me” over her was my favorite). They also wrote out their names on a “Good List” for Santa but thanks to kindergarten level spelling actually read “Godless”. 

 The first parent arrived at 10 am and being a father of 5, gave me the “Hey there, rookie” look. I realized, standing in what can only be called a field of destruction, that I was in the same clothes I was in the day before but was adorned with syrup, bacon grease, residual face paint, glitter, some frosting and a profound appearance of self defeat. He smirked, “With the twins, we had to master counter-insurgency early” then, like pouring lemon juice in an open cut, handed Emily a large bin of tiny Legos, chuckling. Before they left, I slipped a harmonica in his youngest’s back pack. It’s the small victories, you know.

Because rest-stops are practically non-exsistant in DC traffic. (June 2014)

I left the house at 6:45 in the morning armed with a smoothie and 12 oz thermos of black coffee. It was a long commute to work—usually just under an hour—but doable on summer mornings because it was pretty out, The Kraken usually sleeps and Emily was obsessed with Fairytopia on the cars’s rear DVD. As I pulled out of the driveway, the dashboard dinged to signal I had zip left for gas. I groaned to myself as this meant alternating the route and stopping for gas which would add a few minutes—which I didn’t have as I was trying to beat traffic. Amazingly enough, I slid into the Exxon, gassed up and minutes later, found myself speeding down I-270 in the HOV lane lip syncing to “Talk Dirty to me” because the 4 year old had headphones on, the Kraken was out and thanks to the low seat of the SUV, no one could see anything below my eyes from the driver side window. Then traffic came to a dead stop and for the next 30 minutes, we all crawled at 4 miles an hour until we passed a red Mustang. It had rear ended someone and somehow shut down two lanes of traffic. Midway through the first traffic crawl, the Kraken woke up and began to scream. In fact, she screamed non-stop for the next two hours. But I digress. It was now 7:45 and we were just getting to I-495. Emily informed me she had to go the bathroom—I told her to hold on, we’d be there soon enough and we need to beat traffic. We cruised uninhibited onto the GW parkway, drove less than 600 feet and then came to a complete stop. The 16 oz smoothie and the 12oz coffee long consumed, my bladder joined in and signaled we needed to find a bathroom and soon. The radio informed me that CIA had closed its north gate and this has caused a huge traffic jam. There were no exits to get off on, there was nowhere to pull over. There were no less than 80 million cars surrounding us. After 30 minutes, Emily surpassed hysterical and went full fetal position to keep from wetting her pants. I, too, was crying as I felt like a red hot poker had been jammed up my pee-hole. Rock wall with no pull off to my right, oncoming traffic and a river to my left, I was frantic to find a solution when I remembered an episode from “Orange is the New Black” whereby an inmate described using two pantyliners as a diaper and slowly released her pee so she doesn’t urinate everywhere on a long prison bus transfer. I didn’t have pantyliners but I had three diapers! I handed one to Emily and told her to open it and shove it in her underwear. She didn’t understand, she cried that “she’s a big girl” and “doesn’t wear diapers.” I lost my cool and hollered,  “Shove it in!!” to which she responded by dropping it on the floor and crying louder.  I felt my eyes begin to twitch as Emily and The Kraken discovered all new decibels. Showing up at daycare with two children who have peed themselves is one thing, showing up with two children and a 38 year old covered in pee is something all together different. Therefor, I shoved two diapers into my running shorts, the tops of which poked out the front. I went to let go, just a drop…..but I couldn’t do it. I just didn’t possess the Kegel strength of a prison inmate to let it out, ounce by ounce. I managed to hold on for another 10 minutes, the children’s screams seemed to be bouncing off my bladder, like tiny little Ninja kicks. And then it happened. A pull off! A glorious-but-super-small-and-slightly-terrifying-pull off!  I drove like a crazy person as soon as the shoulder allowed and, with my Huggies still protruding out the top, ran around the car to grab Emily. I ripped her out of the car and told her to “country pee” on the side of the road. She cried that she’s scared because she could hear all the cars and they were going to hit her. I explained that the cars were going 3 miles an hour and were definitely not going to hit her just as a loud truck rumbled by and Emily now beyond terrified, jumped up, wrapped her legs around my waist and peed. All down the front of my shorts, legs and flip-flops. The warm urine did not help my bladder out at all but amazingly, I held. I grabbed two brightly colored beach towels out of the back, Emily still wrapped around me like a spider monkey. I had to pry her off of me to affix the beach towel around her, which after it was securely fastened around her waist, she calmly informed me that she wants the one I’m wearing and then inquired why it was “all wet”.  I got back in the car in hopes to find a more secluded place where I could go. In hindsight, I should have just let it all go on the side of the road but I was determined to find a more adult solution. It took another 15 minutes to reach the first place I could pull off with a parking lot–the Pentagon–where I, again, drove like a crazy person, and sped to the first uninhabited spot. I quickly surveilled the lot—empty cars. I grabbed the cup that held my smoothie, yanked out the diapers, ripped off the towel and squat-balanced myself on the cup. I peed the most glorious pee in the history of pee. I close my eyes, let out a deep groan and leaned my head back. My rapture was quickly interrupted by a police car. I rolled down my window and with a nervous laugh, greeted the officer, my pee-cup perching hidden by the low seat of my SUV and the towel I had place over myself. He noted I had been driving too quickly and should slow down and was everything ok? I apologize profusely, explain my daughter was screaming (she still was) and I needed to change her. He gave me the okay and drove away. I looked down to retrieve the cup which is now filled to the absolute meniscus and, despite my best efforts, spilled it all over myself and the front seat of the car. With no police car in sight, I swiftly dumped what was left of the urine under the car and ran to the trunk to retrieve yet another beach towel.  At 9:20, we finally arrived at daycare. Wrapped from the waist down in brightly colored beach towels. Smelling like urine. The Kraken was still screaming (and also soaked in pee).

Late night flights with small children. Just. Don’t. Do. It. (July 2015)

In an attempt to have an uneventful flight and get to my parents in time for my mother’s birthday, I selected a 7:30pm flight to Colorado. I imagined Emily and The Kraken blissfully slipping into a slumber at the roar of take off whereby I would read my book and thoughtfully sip a scotch. Worst. Fucking. Decision. Ever. The flight was delayed and we took off at 9pm. No problem, I thought as we boarded, the grumpy kids will be out in no time. By the time we landed in Atlanta, I had two rows singing the “itsy bitsy spider” to keep The Kraken from screaming while Emily sobbed next to me angrily upset that we were going to “Atlantis” not Colorado. The fact that it was just a quick stop in Atlanta to pick up more passengers did nothing to quell the flood of whimpering. My book remained at the bottom of my purse and I chugged a Fat Tire. I thought, after everyone debarked, that the quiet would help transform my grumpalufaguses into slumbering babes but shortly after the last person left, something snapped in The Kraken and she began to scream. In a glass shattering tone. It sounded like she was being slowly eaten by a bear. The flight attendants each stopped by to offer assistance and/or food. I asked for a karari dart to shoot into her neck. The flight crew discussed delaying the boarding until I could calm her down but we were already an hour late. Just as the first passenger of a fully booked flight stepped onboard, The Kraken skipped “batshit” and went full “Death blossom”. It was as if I was holding a 36 pound baby cougar- she screamed, bit, scratched, hair pulled and ninja slapped anything in front of her including goldfish, her bottle and a coloring kit the flight attendant tried to bribe her with. Emily stared wide eyed, noting to me, “Mom, she’s just super angry. I don’t think she likes you right now.” She then suggested that she may cry too to which I death stared at her and sharply snapped, “Don’t freaking you dare!”.  No less than five Moms offered support and three of which just offered “their prayers”. The Kraken finally broke just as we were pulling out from the gate and I noticed that the seat next to me was still shockingly empty which meant that someone either missed the flight or, in the more likely scenario, was the last person on board, saw what the next 3 hours would be like and said, “well, fuck that” and departed the plane. The flight attendants whispered the safety instructions so “not to wake the baby” who was now just sleep growling on my lap. The Kraken woke up for a minute and send some screams down range prompting the flight attendants to sing “rock a bye baby” over the 1MC. The flight attendant brought me a glass of water which The Kraken later kicked into my purse, gluing the book pretty much shut. But they did bring me a scotch later where the flight attendant confessed that she had “been flying for 15 years and never seen anything like that before”. I stared at my feet as everyone deplaned, avoiding eye contact as much as I could and loaded the girls in the double stroller and headed for baggage claim to meet my mom and sister. Mom, who had been hanging out by the passengers from my flight remarked at my now snoring offspring, “I guess some baby had a really hard time on the plane.” Pretty sure I shaved 3 years off my life last night.