in the rain
Yeah, sometimes it feels like we're doing things pretty well. Our children are mostly happy and they're properly supervised at all times. Big Man is in a school that doesn't give me nightmares. The house, while never immaculate, rarely grosses me out. There is food in the refrigerator, the TV is hardly ever on, we pay our bills on time and eat whole grains.
On the other hand, sometimes it feels like we are the last people on earth who should be entrusted with children and a house and given drivers licenses.
When the kids have an out-and-out screaming fight because Mr. Three won't call the plastic car by its proper name (and BY the way, Big Man, it's not "Lightning Between," it's "Lightning McQueen," and you don't see ME losing my shit at YOU). When Mr. Three is still in pajamas at noon. When Big Man's lunchbox comes home as full as when he left in the morning.
Take the other night, the night I call the Perfect Urine Storm, the Festival of Laundry.
Big Man shows up by my bedside. "I had an accident of pee in my bed." (Who are you, Antonio Banderas? "I had an accident of pee," please.)
I let him into our bed and heave myself up to go strip his. I halfheartedly pat the mattress down with towels I'm not especially attached to.
While I'm in there, I check the bottom bunk. Mr. Three has flipped himself to the end of the bed, so I try to shift him back up to his pillow. He's sopping wet.
Sighing, I strip the wet nightclothes off his floppy little body and lay him on the dry part of the bed while I pull the sheet, the mattress protector, the comforter, the extra pillow, and the extra blanket off the bed. Big Man had hit the sheet, comforter, extra blanket and pillow. I don't know what they had had to drink before going to bed but my god they peed gallons. Apparently simultaneously.
They've discovered burping. Farting, also. And how fun it is to say 'poop.' We've discussed how yes, those seem like funny words and funny sounds, but grownups don't really agree. So if you really need to say poop, say it seven times in the car, BEFORE we arrive at the funeral home.
Big Man has compartmentalized his potty humor in an interesting way. He has an imaginary friend, Lenny, who calls on the phone (the phone is a Mr. Incredible Happy Meal toy) and wants to talk about poop. We'll be in the car and I'll hear him pipe up:
"Hello? Hello? Is that you, Lenny?"
"Hey guys!" he tells me and Mr. Three, "Lenny's on the phone!"
"So Lenny, what are you doing today?"
"What?! You're going to a poop party?!"
Mr. Three falls out laughing.
"Lenny! Quit it! Nobody wants to talk about a poop party!"
Oh, this is funny. Woo-wee. It can go on for a while.
Last night, Big Man is in the tub and Three is resisting. Being a real pain about it and we don't know why. All of a sudden he hollers, "Need to poop!" Ah that explains the shitty mood. He parks on the potty. At that moment Big Man cries "Me too!" Scrambles out, dries off, sits on the toilet.
Bob, who was supervising the bath, excuses himself. "Well," he says to me, "It's a poop party."