Snippets of Misadventure

There’s a reason I don’t give my kids sugary dessert every night (apart from health implications). (Dec 2017)

There are days when I really think I am succeeding at this whole parenting thing. Then there’s today. Practiced Emily’s Christmas concert music with her and had her perform this morning— she nailed it and was super excited to sing. Checked the Church’s website and all the emails sent out to make sure I had the time correct and the attire down (we had missed last week and I wasn’t totally sure what Emily was supposed to wear but seeing as there was ZERO guidance in any of the correspondence, I assumed we were GTG and a nice Christmas dress would suffice. And I asked Emily who said she just needed to look festive). Dashed home from work—battling an accident on the 15, The Kraken’s sudden “poop explosion disease” she seems to get once we hit traffic and grabbing Emily—without incident. Quickly cobbled together dinner— chicken I had not previously defrosted sautéed in a pan still half frozen delivering a flavorful meal that had the consistency of rubber cardboard. Got both kids dressed, shoes and socks on, and hair combed in under 5 minutes. Grabbed keys, phone, camera and two dozen cookies I promised to bring (and promised The Kraken could eat later) and drove like a crazy person to the church. Arrived just in time to see dozens of children flock to the church as angels, Shepards and what I think was livestock. Made immediate eye contact with my sweet daughter in the rear view mirror who, stomachs tightening, came to the same conclusion that I did— we f’d this one up. No worries, I thought, I’m sure we can figure this out, there must be more costumes inside and I have two dozen cookies that should be able to get me some sort of barter credit. Nooooooooope. I began to sweat as we go closer, there was no “costume station” and Emily hid behind a stanchion. (I was already in hot water with Em who informed me that she had missed her “Piano Christmas Party” today, the first of four Christmas parties this week—the invitation to which was apparently written on a post-it in her piano book, unbeknownst to me). The cookies were swooped out of my hands as I entered the large auditorium prompting The Kraken to immediately lose her shit and draw attention. Did I mention that I hadn’t showered after the gym and was wearing jeans and flip flops because I simply ran out of time to make myself presentable? We finally found her teacher who blankly quipped that they handed out everything last week and, she narrowed her eyes, “were we sick last week?”—the ONE time we missed class. At discovering that the only costume left was what I think was Baby Jesus’ swaddling clothes, Em escalated to full meltdown and bellow cried as she ran across the auditorium, turning every head as she ran. I ran after her, dragging a kicking Kraken who kept screaming “Cooooookiiieeees”. We got in the car and I think all of us immediately regretted ever getting out of the car (The Kraken mostly because we left the cookies there). I felt awful, Em was devastated and The Kraken was well, hungry. We drove in silence for 10 minutes to the first Baskin Robbins I could find on google map. Then I applied a liberal layer of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in a sprinkle cone (a sugar filled apology for completely screwing this one up) and lots of loving, comforting words. The Kraken lapped up her ice cream, seemingly pleased with the overall outcome— not having to sit through and two hour concert and getting ice cream for just tagging along—winning. During my PHA today, the Corpsman asked me condescendingly if I thought a glass of wine every night was necessary. I’d like to find him and slap him right now. Hard.

Classic misdirection wins every time. (June 2017)

So I have been struggling recently with holding the peace with the girls lately. The moment I turn my back, one of them has lunged at the other and caused an epic screaming match. I’ve tried the full spectrum of intervention/discipline from calm, directive language to withholding things to full on hollering and even my mother’s famous clenched teeth, low voice growl– which initially scared the shit out of them but now they just mock me with it. Last night, I had just had it. The girls had–for all intents and purposes–a great day crafting, playing and watching mega awesome movies (Karate Kid and Willow). They had also had no less than 50 fights (seriously, imagine having a great time building an office fort with your co-worker, laughing and collaborating and then your bat-shit crazy co-worker just pokes you in the eye…..this is the type of WTF crap these two do to each other). I was done. The Kraken came up to me and bluntly said, “I’m going to get more candy.” She had already over consumed, thanks to someone (cough, her father) buying her a giant Nerd Rope and it somehow making its way into the healthy snack drawer when he dropped them off. “No. You’re not,” I dead pan retorted, “Now sit down and watch the movie with us.” She clenched teeth, low voice growled at me, “I’m. Getting. More. Candy.” I loudly exhaled, mentally eye rolled and just leveled with her, “Look, let’s just call a spade a spade here, babe. If you eat more candy, it’s going to make you sick and likely vomit. And let’s face it, you’ve had enough stomach troubles today. I don’t want to clean up vomit after cleaning up after your massive poop in the bathroom that somehow, I don’t know how, GOT ON THE WALL! Ok? So no candy.” I went to sip my wine to punctuate the end of the conversation. She grabbed me face with both hands, locked eyes with me and, in the most authoritative voice she had, said, “HEY! We DO NOT eat poop in this house!!” Emily, absent from the entire conversation and submerged in the movie, surfaced only to take her side, “Yea, Mom. That’s super gross”.
Seriously, I feel like I am taking crazy pills. All the time. 

Parenthood is sometimes just humiliating.  (November 2016)

Yesterday, I enjoyed a wonderful lunch and catch up chat with my dear friend. I had the Kraken with me and she was in good spirits, behaved mostly ok and kept us laughing throughout the lunch. Feeling blessed and happy, we rolled down the windows of the car, waved our farewells to my friend and proceeded to leave 32nd street whereby The Kraken and I hit some heavy traffic. The Kraken was tired, it was close to nap time and I could tell by her death like stare that she was almost in full Kraken mode. I asked her if she would like to listen to the radio. She said no and asked me to sing her “her song”. Seeing as The Kraken lacks the capacity to have just “one song” that is hers, I mentally scrambled and came up with the Elmo song. Winner winner chicken dinner. She was enraptured as I sang to her in the rear view mirror, my neck cranked up to see her. After we completed the song with both her name and Elmo’s name, we went through every family member. On both sides. Then she asked me to sing the Elmo song but this time with a Lion. I complied and she said, “No, no, no….with a roooar”. So, as we crawled along in traffic, I sang the Elmo song with the Lion, narrowing my eyes and adding roars and claws to add effect. We then moved on to a tiger and a bear until we finally landed on…. a Turkey. (At this point, I’d like everyone to get up and go make a Turkey noise while looking themselves in the mirror. It’s a horrifying bad expression which creates a look somewhere between double chin and stroke– I suspect this is what future Me will look like in the nursing home). I had just finished my final “hbplthbltphubtlp” with spirit fingers at my neck, when I heard what could only be described as wheezing coming from the vehicle next to me. There, red faced and tears streaming from now-noiseless laughter, were four young sailors who, having watched what I assume was the whole performance as we sat in traffic, were ultimately pushed over the cusp by the Turkey song. Apart from a happy child, my only condolence was that I was not in uniform.

Fireworks and Alcohol= Darwin Awards. (January 2013)

Welcomed in the New Year with a bang. Literally. Holzgerlingen at midnight on New Years Eve is like Baghdad in March of 2003–it shock and awe via showy pyrotechnics (just add drunk Germans). Mongo set to work igniting the 400 fireworks he bought at the local Lidl and making our neighbors jealous with their pansy sparklers and under two foot Roman candles. A cigar in his mouth, he donned my Russian fur Ushanka and a head lamp which blinded us every time he looked at us. My face was pasted in a permanent grin as I watched the cold night sky light up. Mongo hollered, “Hey, honey–you want to fire one?”. I did. Badly. I didn’t know if it was the lure of rocket power or the countless Sidecars (throwback cocktail)  I drank but I ran out and picked up the biggest, fattest rocket we had and I then asked, “okay, what do I do?” to a man who has completed two combat tours in Iraq, dodged IEDs and used a EOD team to blow up a pair of my heels he didn’t like. I was sure he would give me a full safety rundown. We spent most of today debating what his reply was–we agreed the words “light it” and “just let it do it’s thing” were in there but never were the words “then let go” uttered. (Note: I realize now that even a monkey would have assumed that “let go” was step 2 but rocket power and sidecars have a powerful effect). To make matters worse, I yelled the the crowd of our neighbors, “Hey, everyone! Look at me!” then lit the rocket. The first few seconds were uneventful and the hissing of the fuse made it’s way to what I can only assume what a shitload of gunpowder. Then it happened, the rocket ignited and I began to scream as tiny shards of fire began to burn my scalp. Like a pyrotechnic, hysterical Statue of Liberty, my grip tighten on the rocket stem as if hundreds of French children had welded my fingers to the stick with their pocket change. At some point–likely when some of my hair began to burn–I took a knee, re-aimed at the ground (for no apparent reason other than to save myself the purchase of a wig) and finally let go, sending the rocket to a dirt grave approximately 15 feet away from me, but not before it pin balled around our neighbors patio furniture. This morning, as I went to wipe off what little makeup did not transfer onto my pillow case, I also picked off small melted plastic pieces off my neck and face and small nests of burned hair. It is official, I am one of those people the Navy Safety Center writes about.

Open staircases. Designed by people without children. (July 2012)

The open four story circle staircase, categorized by the realtor as “German modern” and later categorized by me as “death trap” after several ass luge tumbles, has now been recategorized by Emily as “urine waterfall”. One two many sippy cups coupled with an intense obligation to finish Toy Story 3 led my sweet 3 year old to have an accident on the top floor, step 5 of the 42 open steps that connect the 4th floor to basement. As I heard her cry for me, unaware of the wave of what can only be described as a pee tsunami, I headed for the stairs thinking the tapping, tickling noise was a broken pearl necklace that she had been playing with. I looked up, mouth agape, about to inquire about whatever issue she was having when the first splatter hit. With cat like reflexes, I grabbed the side of the wall as she seemed to have directly aimed her urethra at the center of the staircase. She hit every step, her second crowning achievement of the day– the first when she mistook my waterproof mascara as lipstick and became Poncho Villa. Ole.

Because parents, in any large gathering, are just assholes. (December 2015)
Well done to my sweet Emily on her Holiday concert today!! She was brilliant and energetic—singing 100% in sync and nailing the choreography. She waved to us after her performance–all smiles and excited for winter break. I wish I can say I felt the same. One would think that watching a gym full of adorable children sing about the fun of the season would leave me all warm and fuzzy, maybe even a bit teary-eyed from the overwhelming waves of sweetness. Nooooope. Thanks to the parents, who shall from here out be referred to as “The Kluge of Assholes” (KOA’s), I left white knuckled with a desire to commit vehicular homicide. First, like Europeans on a Ryan Air flight, everyone bum rushed the gym to get the seats in the two front rows. Those who didn’t can be grouped into three categories: 1) the polite people who orderly took seats in other rows, 2) the somewhat-polite people who moved to the sides to get their view and 3) the KOA’s who lumped themselves, armed with IPADs and large tablets directly behind the music director, cutting off the view of those sitting. No worries, I thought. I can see Emily and have a straight shot to record her musical genius. The kindergarteners were second to last so I just relaxed and people-watched the group shuffle back and forth as one parent after another bumped their way through the group holding their IPAD over their head until they could get to the front. Eventually the shuffling was so bad that they bumped into the music director, almost knocking her into the kids and forcing her assistant to use his body to blockade the crowd, mouthing the words “back it up, back it up” so as not to disrupt the kids. I snickered and readied my phone for filming. The kindergarteners stood up to sing which prompted the second row—now known as the second group of KOA’s–to stand as well. Emily disappeared instantly and all I had to video was the fleshy backs of women who obviously didn’t understand that simply staying in your seat and leaning slightly to the right or left could get you a clean shot of your kid. To make matters worse, they held their phones, IPADs and tablets over their head despite the fact that the first row remained seated. Their move created a domino effect in the crowd as parents lost their perfect shot—and all decorum–frantically moving seats and phone angles to catch a small glimpse of their kindergartener singing about snow and wearing a construction paper hat. I found my anger levels rising and for an instant thought I would throw something at the second row KOA’s. I actually briefly looked in my purse for something less valuable and non-attributable to throw. I finally gave up when I found that I could watch Emily through the phone of another parent’s phone and took my seat just in time for the guy sitting next to us answer his phone. Judging by his attire and flip phone, I made the hasty assumption that he was not in a life-saving vocation—such as a doctor—and could have probably let it go to voicemail. He rumbled on for a minute before Mongo asked him to take the call outside. “Ok buddy,” he replied and kept yammering on. I’m not sure what Mongo said to him next but I can only assume it went, “Hey, flip phone. Close it or I’ll crush it” and the man hurriedly hung up and began to stare in the opposite direction. When the concert ended, the children listened attentively and followed instructions. The parents—not so much as the KOAs bum rushed the kids instead of leaving the gym as they were instructed to do. Annoyed at the blatant disregard for common courtesy, simple directions and the fact that the “Holiday” concert’s musical program centered on celebrating snow days (no mention of any holiday what-so-ever–and to a degree–promoting laziness), I mentally committed to sending Emily to a private Catholic school next year where we passive-aggressively guilt each other into courteous behavior, no one uses a goddamn IPAD to film their offspring and kids sing about the goddamn birth of Christ at Christmas. And now to confession for the gratuitous over-use of the GDs. 

“Plans are nothing. Planning is everything.” Obviously, Eisenhower didn’t spend much time with toddlers. (September 2015)

Planned my promotion party, reception and wet down to the nit-noid painstaking, phased detail. With a four star general officiating the ceremony, precedent dictated nothing less. I imagined the day much like a bride envisions her wedding day—everything would be perfect and years later I would reminisce over the event with photos of me in my brand-spanking-new-whites, my angel girls in matching Lily Pulitzer outfits on either side of me, hair in pigtails and smiles abound. It would be a great moment captured on film and displayed on my mantel for years to come.
Someone call the Urinalysis Coordinator. I must have been on drugs.

My day kicked off well at 0400, putting 20 lbs of pork in the oven, making lists, moving chairs and ensuring everything on my uniform was in its exact place. I left my capable family in charge of last minute preps and headed into work. The morning rapidly pressed on and I avoided some last minute disasters like missing photographers, lack of paperwork for alcohol, almost losing an O-6, and the wrong flag for a 4 star. I almost managed to get 30 people badged and into the Director’s Award Room in a top-secret facility without any real drama. Until my mother called shortly before they arrived, “Now, don’t get upset but The Kraken fell into the corner of the coffee table just before we left and hit around her eye. Her eye is okay but she’s bleeding a lot and I think she’s going to need a stitch. She’s, um, pretty upset too. Just so you know. Love you, bye.” ‘Upset’ was the wrong adjective. I have only heard noises like that once and that was from my newly spayed cat hiding in a closet and plotting my death. The moment she saw me, “The Kraken” clung to me like an alligator about to take down its prey in a death roll, trying desperately to rub her bleeding wound on my newly acquired white uniform. Any attempt to put her down or give her to anyone was met with glass shattering screams. Later, I found small cuts in my arms and neck from where she dug in to better her grip. A room full of friends, family and GOFOs awaited. I’m not really sure what happened next, the mounting stress hurled me into a functional trance as I decided not to fight the situation but simply give up and drown in it. That photo of smiling girls what not going to happen and I was pretty sure I would promote with her on my hip. The General and I gave up on the whole “entrance of the official party” thing and took position in front of the flags. Neither one of us clued in the narrator who loudly announced, “Please stand for the arrival of the official party”. We were two feet away from him. “Ah Chris,” the General shouted over The Kraken’s wails, “I think we are about as arrived as we’re going to be”. The General began to deliver some very touching remarks about me and if it wasn’t for The Kraken’s shenanigans, I may have actually blushed. However, The Kraken filled the speech with shifts from high-pitched wails to thoughtful repose whereby she played the “where’s your nose?” game with my face–sticking her fingers in my eyes, nose, ears and mouth. She would start to smile a bit before her face would quickly fall again and look at me and the crowd as if to say, “Do any of you mother-fucker’s realize that I am BLEEDING FROM MY EYE!!” She began to violently squirm and I put her down where she ran to my father, grabbed his bottle of water and b-lined it back to me, loudly indicating that I pick her back up. I had her in my arms for 1.2 seconds before she dropped the bottle on the floor and the cap popped off, spilling the half the contents on the Director’s carpet. Excited, she dropped into the spill, emptying the rest of the water, creating a puddle. That she played in. She splashed, she licked her hands trying to drink from the puddle and splashed some more. I prayed for someone to call in a bomb threat. Never missing a beat, The General gave a stirring speech which my sister later compared to Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in its eloquence describing my ability to achieve “work/life balance” while The Kraken defiantly Gene Kelly’d in her puddle. By the time everything was said and done, we forgot to publish the orders, the shoulder board piece went backward, and I was covered in blood, sweat and tears. It was an awesome shit show of epic proportion. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the end, The Kraken didn’t need a stitch, just some motrin and a nap. Poor baby.

Because…yarg. (May 2014)
Yesterday, while hurrying out of the house to get The Kraken to her doctor’s appointment, I threw my sunglasses on and bustled children and requisite bags, IDs, supplies (milk, lucky charms, diapers, ect) out to the car. It was a bright, beautiful morning, I waved at several neighbors who looked at me funny. As I was backing out, a woman almost T-boned me as she sped through our parking lot. She made some rude gestures, followed me to the stop sign and pulled up next to me. I slowly turned my head to give her a dramatic, “Are you kidding me?” She too looked at me oddly, with an expression I can’t really describe, and drove off. I hit heavy traffic at the gate at Ft. Belvior and decided to throw on some make up. As I pulled down the vanity, I was shocked to see that the left lens of my sunglasses had fallen out. I had no idea! I found it later on the kitchen counter where I originally picked up my sunglasses which means I left the house, loaded the car and drove for 20 minutes like a one-eyed cyborg. Not sure if the lead-foot-asshole in the parking lot was thinking when she saw me- fear of the pirate captaining the USS Flex or remorse for flipping off a one-eyed disabled mother. Regardless, I am due a vacay. And maybe some new sunglasses.

On the plus side, I now know I can simply knock out a lens when I want people to leave me alone. 

Because it’s going to happen. Best to maintain some distance. (April 2016)

Last week was a challenge. Work was crazy and I’m pretty sure I was operating, due to stress levels, on “batshit crazy” mode. Wednesday was the worst and after peaking by yelling at no less than two unsuspecting people with vigorous jazz hands to express my complete frustration, I simply logged off my computer, picked up my purse and B-lined it for the parking lot. I was looking forward to just relaxing at home with my sweet baby girls. I went to open the front door and the handle came off in my hand. I stood there staring at it for a moment and then just shrugged, placed on the porch and walked in to freshly painted home– it looked wonderful and I wandered room to room congratulating myself for the amazing color choices I had made. Then I discovered the 3×3 patch of wall where The Kraken and a green crayon had met and frolicked with reckless abandon. (Note: Much like the parents of Sleeping Beauty rounded up the spinning wheels, I had sequestered what I thought was all the crayons in the house and locked them away. It was if some Crayola Maleficent had willed The Kraken to the wall, eyes glazed over, arm out stretched and fingers clutched around the green crayon). Meh. I shrugged and decided that it was nothing a little left over paint couldn’t fix. I made some chicken for dinner and a little extra for my lunch the next day. After picking up the edemame shells that The Kraken had thrown on the floor at dinner, I found myself in an argument with Emily about why she couldn’t eat a whole big of candy for dessert. Mongo stopped by the house to see the girls, kissed them good night and left while I put them to bed. Emily was upset with me, convinced my argument that candy rots your teeth (and is generally unhealthy for you), was utter bullshit. She sulked while I put The Kraken down. I crawled into to The Kraken’s bed, looking forward to the peace and quiet and sweetness that comes with listening to a two year old slipping off to sleep. “I want Princess Baby. I want Princess Baby. I want Princess Baby”- she repeated this no less that 17 times until I finally said no and told her to go to sleep. Silence. Then, “I want bear. I want bear.” I stopped her at the 8th time, “GO. TO. SLEEP.” She began several other rounds from wanting milk to wanting sheep until finally, my eye twitching, I decided it was in our collective best interests for me to just leave. Emily was sleep sulking, arms crossed and mouth agape, even her soft snoring was windy with distain. Vivienne, my cousin and nanny, had set the alarm and gone to her room and I went in the kitchen to clean up dinner and clean out my lunch bag. The extra chicken I had made for my lunch was gone and I texted the suspected offender. “That was my lunch”. Mongo replied “No. That. Was. Delicious.” Eye beginning to twitch again, I began to rinse out my lunch bag (even though I now had no lunch to put in it) when the house alarm went off. I jumped three feet and then dashed to the pinpad to disarm it quickly as it was wailing at eardrum-crushing decibels and I didn’t want the girls to wake up. The code said the basement window was open. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I shouted upstairs for Vivienne, several times, but no answer. The door to the basement was open so I quickly made the decision to close it and wedge my thick flip flops under the door to prevent anyone from opening it easily or quietly. I ran and got my gun from the safe and then ran up stairs to Vivienne’s room–she was blow drying her hair. I brought her up to speed on the alarm situation told her to call Mongo, put him on speaker phone and follow me downstairs. She was sufficiently freaked out. I opened the basement door and because I lacked the creativity to say anything witty, shouted, “Hey asshole! I’ve got a gun.” Using my extensive room-clearing training from watching multiple Law & Order marathons, I burst into every room while Vivienne followed behind me. At one point, I turned around to find her, wide-eyed, head on a swivel and holding a South African bottle of Grenache. “What are going to do with that?” To which replied she would (duh) defend herself. “Goddamn it, Vivienne, grab the cheap shit. That’s why God made Yellowtail merlot.” We looked everywhere but there was no one down there, the windows and doors were locked and nothing looked disturbed. But our adrenaline was high and so I decided to move the girls into my room where I could easily defend us should Hannibal Lector be lurking in the house somewhere. I had just finished tucking the girls in my bed when I heard Vivienne screaming from the kitchen. I ran, gun in hand and ready to give a lead tasting to what I thought was an intruder attacking Vivienne, only to find her standing in a flooded kitchen. I realized that I had never turned off the water when the alarm went of and it had been running for 10 minutes with my lunch bag plugging the drain. We used every towel in the house to soak up the water and the next morning after my shower, I had to dry myself off with a sweatshirt. I was exhausted, it was now after 10pm and I looked forward to just laying down with my slumbering cherubs. No sooner did my head hit the pillow, The Kraken pointed out that she had to go potty. So we went. Back to bed, not more than 2 minutes had transpired and The Kraken declared she had to go potty again. “No you don’t, now go to sleep”. We went back and forth a few times before she stood up, pulled her diaper half way down and began to pee. In my bed. I grabbed her and she peed on me for a few seconds before I plopped her down on the toilet to catch the last two drops of urine. “I peed in the potty!” she cheerfully exclaimed. I was so tired I simply threw some dirty laundry and the spot she peed in my bed and found a dry spot on the end of the bed. The Kraken crawled up next to me and we laid nose to nose. I wrapped my arms around her to cuddle and she responded by sticking her fingers in my eyes, nose and ears, identifying each. Then she began: “I want Princess Baby.” 
To say that I am overdue for a vacation is an understatement.

When driving to the gym in a German blizzard, best to pack a coat and some basic common sense. (February 2012)

As I was driving to the gym this morning in what can only be described a blizzard conditions, a light I have never seen before on my dashboard popped bright red. It was the outline of my car with a big exclamation point. As I merged onto the highway, my hybrid Altima came to a slow roll on the side of a very busy A-81 (German autobahn) despite the fact that I was putting all of my body weight on my peddle foot and thrusting my hips forward as if the momentum would  get me to the next exit. Yelling, “No! No! No!” yielded the same results. 

The car was dead. The lights worked but the engine had already acclimated to the sub-artic temperatures outside and was simply adding injury to insult by blowing cold air in my face. “No problem,” I thought, “I’ll just call Mongo.” Naturally, my phones were sitting above the sink in my bathroom. “No problem,” I thought, “someone will pullover.”

20 minutes passed.The car was but a mere windscreen and the black spandex capri pants and thin black jacket I had chosen that morning were not only horribly inadequate but the zipper on the jacket was broken.

No one stopped.

I got out of the car, semi’s zooming past me and grabbed my stupid German mandated triangle out of my trunk. Snow beating me in the face, I walked it back a hundred feet or so and tried to open it. It wouldn’t stand up. I finally got it to stay somewhat vertical and then ran back to my once car, now igloo. I sat for 10 minutes violently pumping my legs up and down while I hummed the Maniac song from Flashdance to keep myself warm. 

No one stopped.

I got out again and began to wave my arms “look at me! I am the dumbass who has no phone and is dressed like a tropical ninja” (oh and I also did not have socks on).

No one stopped.

I ran back to the igloo. I then surmised that despite the fluorescent orange vest I was donning, fellow drivers probably just couldn’t see me. I ran back to the stupid triangle. I waved said triangle around my head. I then held the triangle right in front of me and began to jump up and down (mostly to stay warm). I incorporated the Maniac high knees to punctuate my distress and my love of 80s films. 

No one stopped.

I abandoned my interpretive dance and tried to put the triangle back on the ground but it wouldn’t stand up. Three times I tried to keep it upright before I gave up and, frustrated, viciously punted it in the the ditch. Back to igloo. A small wave of panic hit me. No one was going to stop, I had no phone and the nearest mode of transportation was 2 miles away. To top it off, my triangle was now taking a dirt nap in the ditch (which rendered me helpless as according to the German who issued my liscence, the triangle was a magical device that could rescue you in any situation). I looked at the dashboard–it dawned on me at that moment that the giant exclamation point meant “you’re pretty much fucked.”  I screamed, “Go fuck yourself, fucking exclamation point!” and then violently shoved my keys and wallet into my sports bra and began to run. On the side of the autobahn. In a blizzard. Dressed like a slutty Jane Fonda. Except for the dick who hollered what I can only assume was German for “Yeah Baby!”, no one stopped or seem to notice. For the entire 2 miles. Because people normally go for a run at 0530 in a blizzard along the side of a busy highway. In an bright yellow emergency vest.

I finally got to the Boblingen train station and grabbed a cab. I walked into my front door, my toes had turned little blue frostbit nubs. I caught a glimpse of myself as I based the first floor bathroom mirror. I had raccoon shaped rings around my eyes from the previous night’s laziness of not removing my eye makeup. My face was beet red. I had a line of frozen snot along one side of my face. I was covered in mud. I headed upstairs and turned on the bedroom lights and recounted my sordid tale to what seemed to be a concerned husband, still groggy from nocturnal superbowl reveling. He muttered mid-yawn and one-eyed, “Wow. Yeah. Glad you’re  allright. You should call USAA. And oh, can you turn off the light please, I’m pretty beat,” as he rolled back over on his side and fell back asleep.

Which adds to the pile of why he is now the ex. 

Because 911 is for emergencies. Not idiots. (February 2014)

Get a cup of coffee, take a seat. This is a long one and ranks up their with “fell on my face at the metro” and “almost blew myself up with a rocket”.

I woke up yesterday at 4:30 am to “Sorry. I pooped the bed.” On a good note, it was the 4 year old, not Mongo (the ex) but it pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day. After an entire morning of cleaning up after the curse of the tinkle poops (sheets, clothes, toilets, towels, floors) and discovering that the only food we had in the house was 8 pounds of frozen bacon, I decided to brave it (Em’s bowels had slowed to a manageable pace and her appetite was ferocious) and take the girls to grab a quick lunch and hit the grocery store. After getting the my 4 year old and 2 month old (The Kraken) out of the car, I went to hit the lock button on the key, only to find the key missing, its whereabouts unknown but likely somewhere in the car as I had just pulled it out of the ignition. (NOTE: Before Mongo left for the day, he had somehow lost the key and put the spare key on my keyring. Not sure what he attached it with–an old rubberband, a 30 year old twist tie or perhaps just some of his hair–but it obviously didn’t last. He later found the key in his car.) Given the 18 degree weather and skin splitting wind, I held off the search and took the girls into the Pho restaurant.

After lunch, I put the girls back in the car, strapped them into their carseats and began to search for the key. The car was cold so I hit the auto-start button on my keychain, a device I’ve only used a handful of times–usually from my front door to warm up the car. Once you open the door, it shuts everything down. If you put the car in drive, it shuts down. And once you hit the button, it auto-locks the doors. Which is exactly what happened when I stepped out to check the back seat and locked my children in the car. With the key inside. And my cell phone. And Hat. Gloves. Most of my common sense.

I began to frantically circle the car, trying every door. I waved at Em to open the door but she thought I was playing a game and waved back, then a panic hit her face. “I have to go potty!” Now fueled with even more terror as I realized that the tinkle poops had not surrendered, merely ran out of ammo and after a large lunch, an impending assault threatened Em and her carseat.

I ran into the Pho restaurant, borrowed their phone and called Mongo who, not fully grasping the situation, blasé suggested I just get a cab. Through a string of delicately phrased colorful metaphors, I suggested he get a freaking cab as our children WERE LOCKED IN THE CAR and he had the only other key. As it would take him an hour to get there, a nice woman gave me the “no one is stabbing me but I need help because I am an idiot” number to the police and bowing my head in shame, I called. I went back to the girls.

The Kraken was out cold and Em’s impending wave of poop had thankfully ebbed. In the next ten minutes, no less than three groups people stopped by to include the kitchen staff from the restaurant. We all tried to get Emily to open the door but she couldn’t reach the lock and was more interested in her dolls. Each group listened to my story, each group nodded and looked at me like I was an idiot.

Then the freaking cavalry arrived. Three cop cars and a firetruck. I waved them down and they walked up just as I heard a click. Emily somehow unlocked the door. Unbelievably embarrassed, I explained what happened to the officers. They were very nice and told me this happens all the time (which I am sure is cop code for you are a dumbass, please don’t procreate further). They stayed with the girls as I returned the cell phone to the restaurant. When I came back, the officer told me that Emily told him how we didn’t have any food in our house and Daddy has a gun. I hysterically laughed and explained we were on our way to the grocery store, the gun is registered and was about to thank them and say goodbye when Em concluded, “And I have diarrhea!”. That detail was important because shortly after exclaiming it to the police, the tinkle poops struck again before I could get her out of her carseat.

All ended well. I later found the key in the bottom of a grocery bag and Mongo arrived shortly after the emergency task force departed and took the girls home while I grocery shopped at Safeway. I was enroute to pick up the essentials and and given the type of day I had, I grabbed some wine. Lots and lots of wine. In fact, I had just finished putting the booze into my empty cart when I ran into the firefighters who, taking advantage of a false alarm, had stopped in for some snacks. And they recognized me. Without children. Buying booze. Because apparently, that’s how I roll. 

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.