Today in haiku:
J is a big mess
K’s eating dandelions,
Packing sucks balls…es.
Today in haiku:
J is a big mess
K’s eating dandelions,
Packing sucks balls…es.
Today is the day, mark it in history, I went to target for a few things, and I came out with only a few things. I am very proud.
Want to play a game of “Who’s the Asshole”? I’ll give you a hint, but only one.
I woke up late this morning and scrambled to get both children ready to go to J’s kindergarten orientation. I walked in with one child attached to my leg and the other in her stroller. It was raining and the humidity was causing me to sweat profusely.
There were seventeen million people in the kindergarten sized hallway where I met for the first time, sweating and shoulder to shoulder, all the other parents who will be in my life for the next twelve years. It’s possible I could’ve been more popular had I remembered a shower and some deodorant.
It was explained to us that the children would be taken to the kindergarten room and I, along with my parental companions, would be taken elsewhere. The parents began to socialize. I was the only one with an extraneous child.
We were told to sit on benches. There was plenty of room in this place. I suddenly had a glimmer of hope that I might be able to stink and sweat quietly in the corner with my extraneous child, but it was squelched almost immediately. I picked a seat that I felt might allow me some stink and sweat space and was immediately crunched in on either side by insecure moms who didn’t know anyone at the function, and therefore must glom on to someone who looks alone and sweaty. The presentation began. By the time the Daisy Girl Scouts lady was having her say, K was beginning to become restless.
In my rush to leave the house this morning, I had forgotten toys.
A long, loud, and fruitless search of the mom bag begins.
Maybe my keys would shut her up.
I received the stink eye from all the other parents of five-year-olds with last names that begin with A-L. The insecure moms that had originally crunched me in on either side began to move away. Assholes are generally unpopular, after all.
The child became more and more restless. She demanded Dora in a very loud voice. The other parents had abandoned the stink eye for a more direct and nasty glare. It’s possible that a subtle bird was released in my direction, and rightly so. After all, that sweaty smelly asshole is now loud as well, disrupting the school librarian (whom, by the way, is older than the Dewey decimal system) from giving her speech on the kindergarten library. Riveting stuff.
In the packet of stuff that was given to me on the way in, there was a second name tag for J.
Well, who needs it, said I.
I gave it to the baby to play with. Crunchy crunch crunch, she played with the J sticker, until…
“You will find in your packet a second sticker, make sure you affix it to your child the first day of school.”
Oh please, please, please give it back K. Dear God, give it back, K.
Loudly, eventually, I regained the rumpled sticker from her disgruntled mitts.
It’s obvious that the time had come for us to leave. Sadly, I gathered my belongings and take the child out of the room. I think there was some muffled applause as the poor, sweaty, stinky asshole left the other parents of children with last names beginning with A-L in peace. Luckily, it wasn’t but five minutes until the whole thing was over, and sixteen million parents were enjoying refreshments provided by the lovely, hair sprayed, make-upped, ladies of the PTO.
I’m relatively sure they will not be asking me to join their number. The other child returned, and gratefully I turned toward the car.
Today, I, the asshole, managed to alienate myself from all the parents of my child’s classmates, with last names beginning with A- L. But don’t worry, people talk.
J: Mom, does a queen beat a jack?
Me: Yes, what are you paying?
J: I was just playing war with myself.
Me: Did you win?
The appraised haiku for my day/text to Bruce
Children in time out
Dinner will have sweat in it
You pick up dinner.
A haiku for my day
Heating up the stove
Dinner will have sweat in it
We need milk…. Get it.
We went to K’s gastroenterologist appointment today. It was at Goryeb Children’s Hospital.
Do you know where you park at Goryeb Children’s Hospital?
I know, because on my fifth or sixth time around Morristown Hospital, I found a security lady and asked.
First, you have to take a left out the exit of Goryeb Children’s Hospital. Then you drive fifteen miles, take another left into a parking lot, and fight to the death with seventeen other mothers over the three appropriated Goryeb Children’s Hospital parking spots.
Then, if you win, you drag your wailing toddler on foot the fifteen miles back to Goryeb Children’s Hospital.
When we finally got inside, the first thing I noticed was it bears a striking resemblance to Philadelphia Children’s Hospital. Everything’s fun, bright colors, murals on the wall and what not. It’s the fucking MoMa of hospitals. I ask the guy at the comically large desk (between K’s sobs) where the Enterology suite might be, perhaps on the Mickey Mouse floor?
Floor two, elevator behind comically large desk.
I go. Directly behind this desk is what looks like an elevator with a pad next to it. I hit two.
I don’t know how long I stood there, trying to get K to calm down before the guy behind the comically large desk says:
“Ma’am, the elevators are to your left, down that short hall”. Add a silent “asshole” here. I think I said something lame like “Oh you have normal elevators here”. Easy mistake. I’m sure everyone mistakes a fucking mural for the elevator”.
When I finally managed to drag myself, the animal crackers, my comically large Mom purse, K, who is squirming and screaming in my arms, and various other items over to the real elevator, up to the second floor, and sat down at the second registration desk, I was less than excited when Cindy-Loo Hoo handed me a ten thousand page packet to be filled out right the fuck now.
K promptly pulled a dead fish and bonked her head on the Whoville style registration table.
Now we have a scene.
K started bawling her great fake bawls. The management came out to encourage me to take her to the emergency room. I tried to tell them that she was screaming her great fake screams, that there’s really nothing wrong with her and that she hardly even touched the desk. Management disperses, but not without eyebrows raised, and silent “what an asshole” glances given between staff members.
Stickers are given. I am asked if she can have a lollipop. I say no. I get another look. It whispers “asshole”. Finally, I’m left to work on my assignment. Luckily there’s a fish tank in the middle of their postmodern “open design” waiting area. I let K go see the fish.
Instead of going to see the fish, she feints left at the last moment and bolts to the marble stairs. I run after her, but there’s a lady there who catches her. She gives K back to me (panting and sweating) and says “wouldn’t want her falling down those stairs, now” add another silent “asshole” to the end of that.
By the time the doctor came in, K was stripped down to her diaper, running in circles around the room Lord of the Flies style, alternately screaming and eating animal crackers. I was sitting in the fifties style chaise lounge doing my homework and hoping my kid didn’t step on a hypodermic needle. I was sweating profusely, as is common in hot rooms after chasing my kid around for half an hour.
The doctor gave us more paperwork and two scripts, which I put in my pocket.
I was more than happy to drag my screaming toddler out of that place.
When we got to the car, I sat down in the seat, and out of my pocket go the scripts.
Out go the scripts, right into the space between the seat and the center island, where no human hand will ever fit.
I’m an asshole.
I have had the worst day in the entirety of the history of worst days.
J was late for school, which means I was late for everything, and I wasn’t even dressed yet. So I threw on a coat, all sneaky like, so no one would see I hadn’t changed my shirt (or put on a bra, for that matter) and rolled out the door.
I had also forgotten that I had to run to Target after we dropped J at school for a few things (with K in tow- WooHoo!!!).
There was no rescheduling this Target trip, and by the time that realization sank in, it was too late. It must be done.
I am now damned to wearing a fucking hot coat all throughout Target, or…
No, I am damned to wear this fucking hot coat.
So, it’s a fucking thousand degrees in Target, as usual, but I’m only here for five things, so no biggie. I only lose half my body weight in sweat. I get the mint gum.
K says, “gum!”
I get the baby food. K says, “num num”. I get the cliff bars. I give them to K in hopes that she will stay in her seat. I get the Easter dress. K wants all of the dresses.
To eat. She will not be swayed by the cliff bars.
Time to start with intermittent screams, just for Mommy’s enjoyment.
I get the pillows. There is a sale, yay! And I load up the cart with eight pillows (if you’re interested, that’s how many pillows fit in a cart if you really, really, squish), and inform K that I just loaded the back of the cart with objects that could suffocate her.
I don’t think she heard me above her own screaming.
It’s entirely possible that I’m sweating directly on her at this point. Really, if someone were sweating on me, I’d be screaming too.
Now I’m that lady with the screaming kid.
Worse, I’m that sweaty lady with the screaming kid.
Crowds part before me like I’m Moses.
I get in line, thank God the end is near. I realize that the other three other small things are underneath my pillows.
I take out my eight pillows. I remove the things, along with one pillow, for the crabby register lady to scan.
I squish a quart of sweat and seven pillows back into the cart. K stands up in her seat. I put her and a quart of sweat back in her seat, and then the crabby register lady, who obviously thinks I’m trying to pull some great pillow caper, says:
“I need to scan all of those.”
Fuck you crabby register lady. How bored are you?
I pull another quart of sweat along with all seven previously squished pillows back out of the cart so that crabby register lady can sleep well tonight knowing that sweaty lady with the screaming toddler didn’t get one over on her.
BUT– as I was putting all the stuff in the back of the car, I realized that the cliff bars are still up front with K, accidentally unpaid for.
Eat it, crabby register lady.
I’m finally done. We’re loaded, I’ve removed my coat. We’re going home. K wants animal crackers.
Luckily, the bag is on the passenger seat floor, and the asshole in front of me hasn’t realized the light has been green for ages. I seize the opportunity and grab the bag of animal crackers. It’s open on the other end.
Fuck. (Why is every fucking bag of animal crackers we have open, daddy?) and score a grand total of four animal crackers, as the rest cascade onto the nasty passenger side floor mat.
Daddy, I’m looking in your direction.
I had five animal crackers (she somehow produced one from the depths of her car seat- ew) to keep K, who was late for her nap, quiet for 25 minutes.
Surprisingly, it did not happen.
Oh, and a word to the wise, don’t try to break animal crackers in half on your thigh. You end up with half an animal cracker and a crotch full of crumbs.
By the time we got home, the dog shat his crate. A fucking ginormous crate into which I had to crawl on my hands and knees in order to claim my prize. Why do dogs never shit in the front of the crate? K took her nap, but no rest for me; time to go get the boy child.
Hope your day is better than mine.
J is late for school
K is screaming and screaming.
Dog shit on my arm.
It was lunchtime. I fed her baby food.
I suppose that was my first mistake.
I performed the usual trickery; I held my hand out with a blueberry in it and when she went for it, I shoved the bite of stage 3 pasta primavera in her mouth.
She chewed. She swallowed. Something caught in her throat. I knew there was a possibility that this could turn bad, but it was still remote. She coughed.
She coughed again, the kind that turns her little face magenta, and gave me
The world was moving in slow motion. I stood up to try and find a solution. A bucket, a roll of paper towels (Please God), something. I started to panic; looking around for a plan (because a little post-it with “what to do when your baby is about to blow chunks” might suddenly appear before my eyes, if only I looked hard enough).
I decided to try and get her out of the kitchen, but time was not on my side.
Even if I got her out of the chair in time, I was still doomed. At the very least, my shirt and the floor would take a direct hit, and meanwhile, my own lunch was organizing a protest in my stomach.
She took another breath, and I knew it was my last shot. Her little mouth turned into a perfect oval.
There was a towel on the table- I grabbed it.
There were at least four cloth towels as well as paper towels (manna from heaven) on the counter– but did I have time?
Change in plans. I made a dash for the counter and grabbed the supplies.
Just as I turned to my daughter, she turned into a power washer of semi-digested stage three pasta primavera, Greek yogurt, goldfish crackers, and blueberries.
Something inside me said: “throw the towel”.
I threw the towel.
In a vain effort to stem the flow, I threw the one, sad, towel in the general direction on the child’s highchair. It landed on the outskirts of the blast radius.
Hindsight is, of course, 20/20.
By the time I made it back to her, it was all over. Now she’s hungry.
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