Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures Read online

  All the while the baby was crying.

  Finally, we headed to the terminal and boarded the airplane. When we sat down, I sighed in relief. I got him comfy on a blanket and a rolled-up sweater and I nursed him. He fell asleep. He’d likely sleep for most of the flight even.

  Well, he would have slept for most of the flight.

  The flight attendant was thorough. It must have been her first day. After I lifted the corner of the blanket and showed her that the seat belt was indeed across my lap, she said that she needed to see the buckle. To make sure it was fastened. Which required me to lift up the peacefully sleeping baby. Which startled him and woke him up. Which made him cry. Which made me anxious. Which made him cry more.

  I did get him to settle down again eventually and we were left alone for the rest of the flight. No, we didn’t wind up being that family—the one with the screaming baby on the plane. Not this time. This was actually the least stressful trip we ever took.

  OUR CRAPPIEST TRIP

  This is the story of our most recent airplane trip.

  I hate to complain too much about airplane travel. In my opinion, if you arrive at your destination alive, then you should shut up and be grateful. You could have crashed to your fiery death! Are you alive? Then it was a good flight.

  We have been planning for this trip for almost a year. The airplane ride is five hours. Followed by another five hours in a rental car. Our final destination is a secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere. (Actually, I think it is called “Wisconsin.”)

  The night before, Crappy Baby had a poop explosion. It was the worst diarrhea he has ever had. However, it only happened once. The rest of the night was poop-free. (I describe it more in Chapter 9. I feature this particular poop in two chapters! It is that extraordinary.)

  We load the car to head to the airport. He doesn’t have a fever. He doesn’t seem sick. Everything seems okay! We drive to the airport. We check our bags, we go through security and we find our gate. We buy sticker and activity books at the store for the kids. We buy snacks. We are totally set and get ready to board the plane.

  People mentally clap for us as we entertain our kids while we wait. We are pros. We should teach family travel classes. We’ve totally got this. Our flight begins to board.

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  Putting a disposable diaper on a baby with diarrhea is kinda like putting your thumb over the end of a garden hose.

  Crappy Papa rushes to the bathroom to change him. I secretly hope that we miss our flight. We don’t.

  The plane takes off. We are flying! Now we can relax.

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  Changing a diaper in an airplane bathroom is like changing a diaper inside an empty refrigerator that a drunk person is pushing around on a dolly.

  When we return, Crappy Papa announces that he needs to use the bathroom. I see fear in his eyes.

  While he is gone, Crappy Boy starts singing a song:

  I try to shush him which makes him sing LOUDER!

  He also adds crashy explosion sounds.

  I can feel the tension of the other passengers. I have to stop this. I quickly suggest a new lyric:

  And it works. He continues with the new song and people around us relax their shoulders and even chuckle a little. Sigh of relief. I resume breathing.

  Crappy Papa returns. He looks pale. He jokingly asks if I packed any extra pants for him in my carry-on. I didn’t.

  Only two hours have gone by. We have three more to go. We pull out the laptop and watch My Neighbor Totoro. Everything is fine.

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  And then Crappy Papa poops.

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  Finally, the airplane begins its descent.

  We made it. The worst is behind us. We get our baggage and take the shuttle to the rental car place. The kids love bouncing around in the shuttle! Yay! The fun begins!

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  He has a rash now, thanks to all the pooping. He is grumpy. After having to sit on an airplane for five hours, he now has to sit in a car seat for five more. Poor thing.

  Crappy Papa has to make a few hurried bathroom trips before we hit the road.

  We load our rental car and install the car seats. We get the kids in. We drive away. Ten minutes later, the car makes a beeping noise and this appears on the dashboard:

  Or something like that.

  So we turn around. Go back to the car rental place. Get back in line. Fill out more paperwork. And get a different car. Another hour has gone by.

  Now it is rush hour. It takes us two hours just to get out of the city. We still have four more hours of driving! The kids are starving. We stop to eat. We get back in the car. We drive more. Finally, we’re in the countryside. It is dark.

  And then Crappy Baby poops.

  We pull over and I change a diaper under the stars amid twinkling fireflies. Everyone gets out of the car to stretch and to look at the fireflies. Crappy Boy is entranced. This isn’t so bad.

  I have to pee. So does Crappy Boy. So does Crappy Papa. We haven’t seen a car in miles. I encourage everyone to go ahead. We’re in the country now. Nobody cares.

  We all start to pee.

  Of course, a car drives by at that moment, spotlighting us momentarily with their headlights. An entire family peeing on the side of the road, laughing.

  And I realize that it doesn’t matter where we are. As long as we’re together we’re home.

  (By the way, we all took turns being sick on that trip. It also rained the entire time, with flooding and road closures. But just forget I told you that part. You can pretend there is a happy ending instead. Which there was—we all made it back home again. Yay! Traveling is awesome!)

  THE ROAD TRIP

  One year for Crappy Papa’s birthday, we decided to go on a road trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco to celebrate.

  It is only a six-hour drive, we told ourselves. Well, if you don’t ever stop. It is actually more like eight hours with kids. Crappy Papa and I feared the drive.

  You see, Crappy Baby was at an age (six months) where he really, really hated being in the car. He cried in the car. And Crappy Boy was at an age (three) where he really, really hated just about everything. He only communicated in whines.

  We decided to ignore our fears. If we could just get there, then we’d be fine. We loaded the car and did our “Do we have diapers? Books? Thermometer?” cross-check. We expertly calculated the optimal departure time based on nap probability. We even included variables such as Los Angeles traffic and stopping for food.

  Everyone was healthy. We had music playlists for both sleeping and awake times. The kids were wearing comfy clothes. The car had been cleaned out and restocked with new toys and books. We had grocery bags full of snacks that they love. We were ready for this expedition.

  And we left. With the excitement of the trip, everything went smoothly for at least ten minutes. And then:

  Crappy Boy discovered that he was tall enough to kick the back of the seat. (I’m drawing Crappy Baby forward-facing so we can see him more easily. He was rear-facing back then, obviously. So concerned and/or irate emails regarding car seat safety aren’t necessary. Thanks, though.)

  We turned on some music. Crappy Baby started looking sleepy. He quieted and closed his eyes. Then Crappy Boy started yelling again. This woke Crappy Baby up.

  So we stopped for food. We filled the car with gas. I nursed Crappy Baby. We got back in the car.

  Only five more hours left! They’d fall asleep any minute. We had to be strong.

  But Crappy Baby didn’t stop crying. His crying intensified. He sounded like he was in pain. I panic. Something was wrong. PULL OVER!

  We pulled over on the side of the freeway and I jumped out and got him out of his car seat.

  And he barfed all over me. All the milk he just drank was now on me. This meant his belly was now empty again. We nursed in the passenger seat.

  When w
e finished, he was extra pissed about getting back into the car seat. For the first several miles it was like this:

  Then suddenly, they were asleep.

  All was well. Deep breath. Until Crappy Papa said:

  But we couldn’t stop! They’d wake up! Was he crazy? He had to hold it. He should have thought of this before he drank that garbage can–sized soda. I jokingly asked him if he wanted to pee in a diaper. We could not stop!

  He knew we couldn’t stop. They’d wake up if we stopped. But after ten minutes, he couldn’t hold it any longer:

  So the plan was that I’d hold the diaper for him and he would pee into it. He would concentrate on the road and I would concentrate on making sure the pee actually goes into the diaper. A penis is like a flexible hose. Point the hose at the diaper. Easy.

  Only I couldn’t stop laughing, which made my diaper-holding skills a little shaky. And then suddenly there was a problem:

  A little pee spilled over onto his jeans. I laughed so hard I was crying as I wrapped up the ten-pound diaper. The kids stayed asleep.

  I’ll skip the part where they woke up and cried for the last two hours of the drive. I’m sure you can imagine it.

  We finally arrived. All was well.

  The rest of the trip happened. They cried at every restaurant. They cried at everything. I think we had a good time. (I don’t remember. Trauma weakens my memory.)

  Then it was time to drive back home. We were smarter. We were wiser.

  Crappy Papa didn’t drink soda. I made sure to burp Crappy Baby after nursing. We knew what to expect. We were not afraid.

  We were driving through that boring stretch of California near the stinky cow metropolis. It was rural. There were fields. It was raining.

  Crappy Boy yelled that he had to poop. Now! There was urgency. We took the next exit. It was called “Just Another Country Road with Nothing Helpful on It” or something like that.

  We pulled over next to an alfalfa field. There was extreme urgency. Crappy Papa rushed him out of the car and to the side of the road, then instructed him to poop on the ground. Crappy Boy didn’t have any shoes or socks on. The ground was muddy. Did I mention the pouring rain? Crappy Papa couldn’t put him down.

  Crappy Papa yanked down Crappy Boy’s underwear and held him above the ground in a sitting position. He immediately turned into a poop dispenser and a pee fountain.

  Meanwhile, I laughed my ass off and took pictures through the window of the car. When they returned, they were laughing, too.

  Sometimes the crappiest moments make the best memories.

  No matter how tightly I seal the bubble

  I keep my children in, they still get sick.

  WELL-CHILD DOCTOR VISITS

  I hate well-child doctor visits. Especially once I started noticing that my kids would get sick approximately forty-eight hours after their well-child visits. Every. Damn. Time.

  Oh sure, the waiting room has a designated “Reserved for Healthy Kids” section, but it is sort of like the division of smoking and nonsmoking sections in an enclosed space.

  We have a well-child appointment for Crappy Baby and I am determined that no matter what, they are NOT going to get sick this time.

  My plan is to not allow them to touch anything. It is a good plan.

  Which fails the moment Crappy Boy touches the door handle. Yes, this is an obstacle I overlooked, but I am still determined to follow the original no-touching plan from now on.

  After all, the door handle is not my biggest obstacle. It is the bookshelf.

  The bookshelf has three levels. The top two shelves are a jumble of books with tattered and sticky pages. The bottom shelf houses toys. The bookshelf is usually surrounded by kids who most likely have the plague.

  Every mother knows that when your child is sick he gets to play with the toys. When your child is not sick, you do everything in your power to avoid physical contact with the toys.

  So Crappy Boy takes a few steps toward the bookshelf while I’m signing us in.

  Wait, I came prepared! I have stickers, markers, new books and even a small puzzle. Surely I have something in my bag of tricks that will interest him more than the bookshelf.

  Nope.

  Toys. New toys! He doesn’t see the green slime, the cesspool of germs. He doesn’t see the sleepless nights with the whining and crying and fevers. He only sees the toys.

  I have to come up with something. Fast! Must follow the plan. Time for the big guns.

  The phone! I hold it out and wiggle it a little to make it even more enticing.

  He takes the bait.

  And so we sit for the next fifteen minutes as kids and moms are shuffled in and out of the door. My kids touch nothing. Great success, the plan is working!

  Before we know it, they call us back.

  I’m feeling so victorious that I don’t even tell him to shut the phone off so he can walk properly. Instead, I put my hand on his head, guiding him.

  So we get into the examination room. Crappy Boy is still occupied on the phone. The doctor comes in and I’m busy balancing Crappy Baby on the scale.

  Crappy Boy says he is done and hands me the phone. He is looking in the full-length mirror.

  I pay no attention to the mirror until he puts his mouth on it, doing that thing that kids do where they blow air and make their cheeks puff out.

  And I notice how filthy it is. At least twenty other kids before him did this same trick.

  I have him sit in the chair and I explain for the millionth time about germs and getting sick.

  He listens.

  I even notice him nodding a bit when I say medicine so I know he understands.

  But there was a mistake somewhere in my lecture. Clearly.

  He bends over and licks the arm of the chair. Licks it. Like, with his tongue.

  The arm of the chair where very sick children have sat and rested their very sick hands.

  And he quite happily explains it. He loves medicine!

  Right. When I was a kid, medicine meant cough syrup that burned my nostrils. But to him, medicine is yummy and comes in fruit flavors.

  Plan failed. He ate the germs. I stand there, dumbfounded, and wonder if I should pour hand sanitizer in his mouth. Probably not.

  On the way out I stop at the desk to pay the co-payment. The credit card machine isn’t working properly so they have to find their manual card swiper. It takes a few minutes.

  Crappy Boy gets impatient and turns his gaze once again toward the taboo toys.

  This time, though, I just shrug. Why not? He already licked two surfaces. What are a few more germs on his hands going to do?

  Sickness is inevitable at this point.

  Over the next two days I watch him carefully, looking for signs of illness. But he seems fine the next day. And the day after that.

  And the day after that, too. In fact, this was the one and only time he didn’t get sick from a visit to the doctor’s office.

  I guess my plan worked after all.

  INDOOR PLAY GYMS

  Some indoor play gyms are okay. As long as they hose them down or light them on fire once every few years.

  Other ones are breeding grounds for unsavory things. And I’m not just talking about feral kids with no parents in sight. I’m talking about malaria. (Okay, maybe not that one. But other delightful infectious diseases are available on every surface, included in the price of admission!)

  These places are nasty and I never want to go. My kids love these places and always want to go.

  But one day, after an especially rainy month that made for especially stir-crazy kids, I agree to take them.

  The gym is an explosion of primary colors and tubes and shapes and soft mats. My kids have happiness seizures upon entering.

  On the way in, I notice a sign that says something about their strict sick-child policy. I hope everyone takes note of it.

  They remove their shoes while I scan the area for barfing kids to avoid. I notice another sign that says e
veryone must sanitize their hands before entering the play area. The hand-sanitizing dispenser looks like this:

  I think I got typhoid just by looking at it. I operate it using just my elbows.

  Hand sanitizer is a total sham. It makes no difference in the face of a coughing kid with green stuff oozing out of her nose, smearing it all over her sleeves. And there is always one of those kids.

  Crappy Boy runs off to play. Since Crappy Baby is a toddler, I stick around to keep my eye on him.

  Once I’m in the play trenches, I notice stuff.

  There is a boy grabbing trains away from another little boy, who is crying. And there is a toddler precariously climbing the outside of a tube. Which isn’t allowed. There are warning signs posted on the wall. “Do not climb outside of tubes!”

  I stand there, wondering:

  The toddler has climbed about eight feet high now and is frozen in fear. If he falls he will hit the unpadded metal tube supports all the way down. Not good. His foot slips. I run over in a panic, and glance at the adjacent lounge area where all the parents and assorted caregivers are. Doesn’t anyone notice this?

  Nope. Nobody is even looking. I help the toddler down to safety and deposit the karma tokens into my account.