Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures Page 4

  But this isn’t why I dislike indoor play gyms. This is why I dislike them:

  I spot a girl with a snotty nose. She is hacking and coughing, too.

  She also happens to be the child that my kids choose to play with. Sigh.

  Her mom comes over and I offer her a tissue for her daughter.

  She responds in the usual way:

  Yeah. Whatever.

  On the way out, we make a pit stop at the hand sanitizer even though I know it is futile.

  When we get home, I bathe them in bleach. But it doesn’t matter. Two days later:

  Two hours at an indoor play gym paid for with several days’ worth of illness. No. Not worth it. Indoor play gyms are a rip-off.

  THE ENTIRE CRAPPY FAMILY GETS SICK

  I hate it when this happens.

  I hear them from the kitchen where I’m making breakfast. Yelling. Fighting.

  I peek around the corner and discover them using a xylophone mallet and a maraca to hit each other. Because this is what xylophone mallets and maracas are used for. As clubs.

  What is the deal? I’m getting grumpy. Why are they being so crazy?

  And then, several hours later, I see what the deal is.

  They are getting sick.

  No matter what the virus is, Crappy Boy gets a stomachache and Crappy Baby gets a runny nose. I never know what it is going to morph into. This is the fun part. The waiting game.

  And now my mama guilt is in full force for thinking they were acting like little jerks earlier. For not seeing what was really going on. The poor babies are sick!

  The nurturing super mama has taken over.

  I’ll do anything for them.

  And I’m optimistic. I truly believe that if we just have a mellow day full of cuddles and reading and soup, they will get better before they get worse.

  Just a quick twenty-four-hour bug. I can handle this.

  It seems to be going well. They don’t seem to be getting worse.

  Until the sun goes down (see Crappy Law #39 in Chapter 10).

  Nighttime brings out the worst. Always. I dread the nighttime when they are sick.

  But I can handle this. I clean it up and comfort him.

  An hour later I’m in the living room walking Crappy Baby back and forth. Crappy Boy is asleep on the couch, wanting to be near me. All is quiet and I think we have seen the worst of it.

  And then this happens:

  And continues to happen. All night.

  Nobody sleeps. Crappy Papa is in the background, mostly on cleanup duty. And thermometer duty. And getting them to drink water duty. He sleeps in between.

  Puking. Pooping. Sometimes alternating. Sometimes at the same time.

  More puking. More pooping.

  More forcing them to drink water. Temperature taking. Carrying. Walking.

  Finally, the sun rises. All is calm. We are lying on the floor, flanked by a roll of paper towels and a puke bucket.

  I feel a great sense of relief with the presence of the sun. I know the worst is behind us.

  This time, I’m right. They remain terribly ill and grumpy and clingy, but the pukefest is mostly over. We lay low all day. They even mostly sleep through the night! Mostly.

  Now Wednesday is here and things are looking even better!

  Oh, except for me. Once the kids are better, I suddenly remember that I, too, exist on the physical plane and I realize that, wow, I’m super sick. I was so busy tending to them that I didn’t even notice that my temperature is 104.

  I am the type of sick person who would prefer to hide under the covers and sweat it out. Alone. If I were an injured wolf, I’d go off and die alone in the woods. Alone. Alone is the operative word here. Alone is what I need to get well.

  Alone isn’t going to happen.

  They sense my desire to be alone, which makes them cling to me.

  But Crappy Papa will help.

  Only they don’t want him. They want Mama. Only Mama. They still aren’t 100 percent themselves and are in that “I was just sick so now I’m super whiny, pick me up” stage of getting better.

  Finally, he lures them away from me with promises of playing Candy Land.

  Game in progress, I retreat to my bed.

  This is the first time I’ve wished for a never-ending game of Candy Land.

  I don’t get my wish.

  They are back.

  Crappy Baby wants to nurse. He is still not feeling well. I get it. But I may have to puke or run to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea. Again. I’m feverish and delirious. It feels like he is draining life out of me.

  I just really want to be alone. But I can handle this.

  Crappy Papa manages to pry them from me again.

  When all is said and done, I think I got about an hour total of quiet alone time. Which is pretty good.

  Over the next couple days, I slowly start to get better.

  The boys are back to their highly energetic selves and I try to keep up, even though I can barely stand up.

  I can handle this, though. I can. We are almost in the clear now.

  The weekend arrives and with it, health! We are ready for a fun, family-filled weekend. Nobody is sick so we can actually go places!

  The sun is shining! Yay!

  And then…

  He gets sick. On the weekend. How very convenient for him. I try not to be bitter. He really doesn’t have control over the timing. At least I don’t think he does.

  So he proceeds to spend an entire day in bed. Alone.

  Moaning.

  The kids are stir-crazy, so I take them out of the house. All is quiet and peaceful for him. How nice.

  And then he proceeds to spend a second day in bed. Alone.

  At some point, as usual, he thinks he is dying.

  And so I respond the way I always do.

  We’ve been down this road before. I can handle this.

  I tell him matter-of-factly that he is not dying. He just has the flu.

  The same flu, I remind him, that I had while taking care of the kids all week.

  This is where he is supposed to have an epiphany of how amazing I am and what a hard week it has been for me and why I’m ever-so-slightly annoyed and jealous that he has been in bed for two days.

  Only he doesn’t.

  Instead, he says something that is so completely the opposite of what I was expecting that I’m stunned.

  He tells me he must have a stronger, mutated version of the virus. Because there is no way I’d have been able to take care of the kids if I felt even close to how he feels.

  I don’t even know what to say at first.

  And then I know exactly what to say.

  So jokingly, I agree with him and tell him that, indeed, he must have a mutated version and that he will probably die. And then I laugh all the way to the kitchen to get him some soup.

  See? I can handle this.

  Kids love to play. Kids love toys.

  Me, too. Well, mostly.

  THE CHIMNEY SWEEP

  Crappy Boy likes to pretend. Hard. He was once a robot for three consecutive days. And one time, when he was four, he was a chimney sweep for nearly two weeks.

  It started out innocently enough. He wanted to be a chimney sweep. Not just any chimney sweep. He wanted to be “Dick Van Dyke acting the part of Burt, the chimney sweep” from Mary Poppins. Okay then.

  First, he found a black hat in the dress-up box. Then he convinced me to put a little black mineral makeup on his face and shirt for soot. Why not? He was fully transformed:

  It was hilarious. And he was so happy! The next day he did the same thing. And the next. He went about his days “as a chimney sweep” only. We went out to a restaurant. We went to the market. We went about our normal business and I got used to having a chimney sweep for a son. Soot and all.

  A week later, I had to return something at the mall and I took him with me. I didn’t for a moment even think about what he looked like.

  We were standing in line. The woma
n in front of us turned around with an absolutely horrified look on her face:

  She asked what happened. I turned around and looked behind me. I had no idea what she was talking about or if she was even talking to me.

  She nearly collapsed with concern as she said:

  I was still confused. I looked around for Crappy Baby, thinking that he probably did have a bruise or two from falling down since he is still pretty wobbly on his feet. Only he wasn’t even there. He was at home with Crappy Papa. I must have looked either crazy or just very stupid.

  Then I realized what she was talking about.

  She reached in her purse, probably for her cell phone to call Child Protective Services.

  Crappy Boy cheerfully told her that he sweeps chimneys. That didn’t help. Quickly, I explained that it is just makeup.

  It was just pretend! Finally, she believed me. Her brow softened and we both laughed and talked about Mary Poppins.

  (He continued to be a chimney sweep for another week after this. She was the one and only person who reacted this way. Most people asked if he was in costume for a play. To which I replied yes. Because that was just easier.)

  BOYS VERSUS GIRLS

  My best friend, Wendy, and I had our first babies around the same time. She had a daughter. I had a son.

  As new moms, we heard tons about “gender stereotyping” and how that was, like, bad and stuff. Saying things like “Boys will be boys” was old-fashioned and frowned upon. We were modern! We would never think or say such a thing.

  It was awesome that Crappy Boy loved fairies. It was awesome that her daughter loved pirates. She bought her daughter trucks. I bought my son dolls. We sheltered them from messages that put value on their interests or skills based on gender expectations.

  And they do have skills.

  Her daughter can turn anything into a baby.

  And my son can turn anything into a weapon.

  THE SHARING EXPERIMENT

  One toy and two children is a recipe for war. This is how war was invented.

  My kids would fight over dog shit if there was only one pile of it available.

  Some parents wind up buying multiples of the same toy just to avoid this conflict. I didn’t ever want to do this, partly because I think they need to learn to deal with conflict and partly because I think it is a waste of money. But finally, I decided to give it a go. Just as an experiment with something small.

  I buy two yellow cars. They are identical. I give them only one at first, to test their interest:

  They start fighting over it. So I whip out the second one:

  I expect that at any moment they’ll start fighting over who gets to play with both cars at the same time. But they don’t. They pause for a few moments. Silently.

  Maybe those other parents were right! Maybe they’ll both be content having their own car. Maybe this really is the solution!

  But then this happens:

  Sigh.

  JUMPING ON THE BED

  Jumping on the bed is fun! I mean bad. Jumping on the bed is bad. Parents are supposed to teach their kids not to do it. There is even that monkey song to help us. You know, the one where the monkeys hurt their heads and call the doctor and all that?

  Jumping. Ten seconds later:

  Crying. Ten minutes later:

  Those monkeys never learn.

  THE REPRODUCTION OF TOYS

  We have a serious toy overgrowth problem in our house. This is because toys can reproduce like weeds. They do it when we aren’t paying attention.

  Children are also to blame because they help with propagation.

  They introduce toy species into nonnative habitats.

  These toys are invasive. They ruin the landscape and even cause harm to the resident mammals.

  The only way to stop the reproduction of toys is to…

  Never mind, there is no known method. Scientists were working on it, but lost their funding.

  Kids are funny.

  Especially when they start talking.

  THE PEACOCKS AT THE BOTANICAL GARDENS

  Crappy Baby loved birds when he was just over a year old. So we decided to go to the local botanical gardens to show him the peacocks that roam the gardens. He knew a handful of words at this point, things like Mama, Papa, meow, baa, duck, etc. We arrived and entered the lush green landscape.

  We spotted a group of peacocks and pointed them out to him. Excitedly, he yelled:

  Which he proceeded to do all day long, even after we left the gardens. At every bird. And at every person. Really, at anything at all that looked interesting. No matter how much we emphasized the pea part of the word, he kept saying the same thing.

  Yes, one of our younger son’s first words was cock. Awesome.

  CUTE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

  After the words come phrases. And those are just as much fun, in a different way.

  My mother-in-law was playing catch with Crappy Boy when he was two. Well, there was no actual “catching” going on, but there were attempts at it. She advised him to “Keep your eye on the ball” and:

  He put the ball on his eye.

  Another time he was terribly disappointed in the extreme lack of fairies on a ferryboat. I can just imagine what he had in mind:

  The real thing paled in comparison.

  And I’ll never forget the time when I was hugely pregnant with Crappy Baby. We were talking about how he was going to be born soon.

  Crappy Boy looked worried. Scared even. I was concerned that it was jealousy or fear of the new baby replacing him. So I asked him what was wrong. With tears in his eyes, he said:

  Turns out he thought I had said, “So we can eat him.” (Back then I chose to believe his reaction was because he felt protective of his brother even before he was born. But now I wonder if it was because he was going through a picky eating stage.)

  GETTING THE MAIL

  We heard the mail carrier drop mail into the slot. I opened the front door and explained to a two-year-old Crappy Boy that I was also checking for packages, since I was expecting one. As I started to close the door, he asked, “Any packages, Mama?”

  CARLSBAD

  We were driving to Carlsbad, California to see our cousins. In the car, Crappy Papa and I were talking about Carlsbad. From the back seat, three-year-old Crappy Boy said,

  FRIENDSHIP PILLOW

  My mother-in-law had a heart-shaped pillow hanging on a closet doorknob with the word Friendship embroidered on it. When Crappy Boy was two, she told him what it said and asked him if he knew what friendship meant.

  SWEARING

  Yes, I swear. Even around my kids sometimes. Go ahead, take away my parenting permit.

  There are a lot of things that are worse than swearing.

  Still, I try to not swear much around them. And honestly, we’re doing something right because they never swear. Well, except for those three times.

  Crappy Boy was eating peas in his high chair. Well, he was potentially eating peas but he wasn’t actually eating. He was two. We were arguing about the temperature of the food.

  I will admit a little tiny morsel of pride that he did use the word correctly at least. That same week, he randomly walked into the room and announced:

  He really didn’t. He had quite an acorn collection already.

  More recently, I was driving in the car and muttered “Oh shit” under my breath when I saw the traffic on the freeway. Crappy Baby asked me what I said. I lied. I told him I said “Oh dear.” He replied with:

  Miraculously, they never repeated those words again. Probably because I managed to adequately stifle my laughter.

  PENIS PIZZA

  One night recently, we ordered pizza. Crappy Boy and Crappy Baby were in the tub.

  Crappy Papa is in the bathroom with them to make sure they don’t drown each other or crash tidal waves across the floor.

  The doorbell rings. Pizza delivery man is here.

  Normally, I’d make Crappy Papa handle these things. You know, human intera
ctions. But he is on tub duty so I’m stuck answering the door. The kids are happily singing a song.

  I open the door. The pizza delivery man hands me the pizza box. Now I notice what the kids are singing:

  I’ll ignore it—that is what I’ll do! If I act as if I can’t hear it, then he won’t be able to hear it, either.

  I take the pizza box. Normally I’d walk five steps and set it on the table, but there is no time for that today. I toss it down onto the floor. Uh-oh, that probably looked weird. Now he knows I’m rushing. He knows that I can hear penis, penis, which means he can hear it, too.

  This makes me uncomfortable. We’ll have to do this quick!

  The kids start yelling PENIS! over and over again.

  Crappy Papa knows I’m handling pizza dealings. He shushes them. Which makes everything worse.

  Kids can smell parental embarrassment the way dogs can smell fear.

  They start screaming PENIS PENIS PENIS at the top of their lungs with shrieks of laughter in between.

  The pizza delivery man hands me the receipt to sign. (PENIS! PENIS!)

  Should I say something? Should I make a joke about the kids? Is ignoring it better? I can’t think of anything funny to say! (PENIS! PENIS!)