Yesterday was supposed to be a laid back day around here. No softball, no soccer, no therapy, no appointments. Plus, my son was home sick so I didn’t even have to go to work.

I have now come to realize that there is no such thing as a laid back day.

Back in 2007, I wrote a list of things no one ever told me before I had kids. Yesterday, I added a few more items. Such as…

…it pays to have long limbs, even if that means you once had a high school teacher who nicknamed you orangutan arms. Hypothetically. Because, yesterday I was able to steer my car and hold a bag under the chin of my vomiting son who was sitting on the passenger side of the back seat.

…if you try to read a book with a seven year old around, it is like brushing your teeth with one individual toothbrush bristle. You’ll get the job done, but it’s going to take awhile.

…if your son sees you allowing the dogs to bite a few kernels of corn off a cob which you are holding tightly in your hand, he will take the corn cob he is supposed to be eating, throw it to the ground and let the dogs take turns biting off chunks big enough to cause intestinal blockage in an elephant. Then he’ll sit back and watch as the dogs swallow them whole.

…when you attempt to pour spoonfuls of hydrogen peroxide down your dog’s throat to induce vomiting, she really won’t like you very much.

…when your son is peeing and completely misses the toilet, it’s not necessarily because his aim is bad. It could be that his sister is standing at the sink and he’s trying to pee on her shoe.

…even though the drinks at the circus cost $8.00, go ahead and splurge for more than one so you don’t have to share a straw. Especially if your son has an upper respiratory infection. And, you have asthma. Unless, of course, you think breathing is overrated.

Tell me boys and girls…how did yesterday treat you?

Follow

Email

Yesterday morning, I tested my level of parenting endurance when the school where I work said they needed me to leave my second grade class for the day and go on my son’s field trip. Thirty kindergartners, a city bus, a downtown transfer and an imminent rainstorm, all at the ripe hour of 8:00 AM.

First, we missed our bus. Then as we stood waiting for the next one to arrive, my son tugged on my arm to tell me he had to poop. Of course.

I did what any self-respecting mother would do and said, “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to have to just shove it back up in there.”

On the bus, we met lots of colorful characters. At one point, I mentioned to my son that our new puppy would likely pee in her cage because we would be gone so long, to which he replied, “I bet she will. I can kind of smell her pee right now.” No sweetie, that’s the guy standing next to me.

After the field trip, we waited an eternity for the bus to take us back downtown. We were in a lovely area of Columbus, affectionately referred to as “The Bottoms”. There was lots of trash for the kids to play with and some delightful graffiti for our emerging readers. Something about someone’s mom and a particular body part.

On the bus trip home, I can’t decide if it was more fun to stand for half the ride, or whether it was watching my son’s “buddy” touch the bottom of his shoes and then hold my son’s hand as we walked back to school in the rain. When we finally got back to our car, I just went ahead and had my boy drink some hand-sanitizer.

After arriving home, I spent over an hour on the phone (45 minutes of that on hold) trying to find a baker who can make a Mario cake for my son’s birthday party this weekend. Sorry kid, you’re getting Matchbox cars.

Then, I cleaned pee out of the puppy’s cage. Not from when we were gone for four hours in the morning, but from when I put her in there for 15 minutes so I could do some laundry. Which, makes perfect sense. Oh, and she learned how to climb the steps, so now I have two levels of house on which to chase her.

And, for the icing on the cake? I found my son had etched a self-portrait into our mahogany dining room table.

Some days, there just isn’t enough wine.

Follow

Email