Boy Mom Drama
I was wandering through the Denver airport earlier this week, flying home from a flyspeck town in Wyoming with a three hour layover. In front of me was a little girl, about Gavin's age, holding her grandmother's hand and clinging desperately to her doll with the other hand. The doll was clearly well loved and looked like it never parted from this girl, ever. For a fleeting moment I looked at that little girl all in pink with beautifully braided hair and color coordinated shoes with her precious baby doll and had a moment of longing. That realization that I will never, ever, have a child I can dress in an outfit I bought to specially coordinate with her doll. I was almost sad.
Almost. But not quite. Because then I flashed back on my oldest two children, the girls, when they were teenagers. And just recalling it I got goosebumps and felt my pupils constrict in panic. I shook free of the terror and couldn't contain a deep, evil belly laugh for the little girl parents out there. Enjoy it now, folks.
So home I traveled, to the Casa de Testosterone. Welcome back to the land of little boys, folks, where hilarity ensues at the cost of my sanity and any lingering glimmer of humility has long since been destroyed. Which brings us to this blog, at the very end of a long week for Mom. Two days of Wyoming type travel, a day of defensive tactics which involves being thrown repeatedly to the ground, pinned and cuffed (I guess in an effort to foster sympathy for convicts, which I can tell you isn't happening), and a day in the office braving delinquent teenagers during not only spring break, but spring break with a full moon. Needless to say, by the time Friday rolled around and I got a day off I was ready. Ready to drop the hooligans off at daycare and have a spa day with their poor, crippled Auntie.
Unfortunately in order to get to that spa day you have to survive the morning. It started with me waking to deep, echoing chest coughs of what was either tuberculosis patients or my boys after I had forgotten their allergy medicine at bedtime not one, but two nights in a row. I rolled over groggily just in time to see Gavin in underwear, winding up and unloading with what we have affectionately deemed a "snot rocket" sneeze. Right at me. Super.
After cleaning him up and encouraging him to don more clothing, I showered and soaped about 80 times and began the morning prep. Lunches packed, breakfast distributed, clothes laid out, on to getting myself ready. Ideally I can be ready in 20 minutes. Twenty sweet, silent, uninterrupted minutes. So in the real world it takes forty.
Why, you ask? Within the first five minutes came a panicked cry for a towel. Why did he need a towel? Suddenly the four year old was unable to maintain eye contact, and had a story fabricated about his super clumsy imaginary friend, but declined to further elaborate. To maintain my sanity I just handed him the towel and resumed getting ready.
Ten minutes in, I heard jumping on my bed. My eye twitch started, complicating the application of eyeliner. I was prepared to power through, until I heard them starting to launch themselves off the bed yelling things like "almost got it that time!" Out to the room, where I discovered that in an effort to get paper airplanes to go farther they were ricocheting them off the ceiling fan, where one got stuck. They decided to fling themselves through the air off the super high bed at the still spinning ceiling fan in an effort to retrieve it. In their underwear. Plane retrieved, order to get dressed issued, back to getting ready.
Two minutes later they ran past with swords in underwear. As I counted to ten slowly so as to not yell anything I wouldn't want them repeating at daycare, Gabriel speared Gavin in the cheek. Gavin came to tell in tears, Gabriel blamed the imaginary friend, Gavin called him a liar, and apparently this somehow led to what would most likely have been a duel to the death. Swords confiscated, order to get dressed issued AGAIN, verification no ice packs or stitches were necessary, back to getting ready.
Finally, almost finished, I heard them start playing in the cop's closet. This I was totally going to ignore. Until I heard Gabriel ask "What's that smell?" and Gavin reply with an evil laugh "my FART!!!!" and the door slam. Followed by the sound of Gabriel pounding on the door screaming for freedom while Gavin held the door from the outside, trapping him in what was apparently a variation of the dutch oven heretofore unused in the Casa, but apparently wicked enough to cause poor Gabe to begin gagging in the closet.
At which point I looked at my progress and decided it was good enough. The boys were slung into clothing and strapped in the car. My eye twitch was blinding but I made it to the daycare drop off with minimal further conversations about poop and gas, which is a real hot topic here and apparently will be until they die if the cop and his comrades are any indication.
Mojitos, a hot stone massage and a facial later I was ready to pick up my precious babies and enjoy further antics. Which believe me, they never fail to deliver.
Until next time.
Almost. But not quite. Because then I flashed back on my oldest two children, the girls, when they were teenagers. And just recalling it I got goosebumps and felt my pupils constrict in panic. I shook free of the terror and couldn't contain a deep, evil belly laugh for the little girl parents out there. Enjoy it now, folks.
So home I traveled, to the Casa de Testosterone. Welcome back to the land of little boys, folks, where hilarity ensues at the cost of my sanity and any lingering glimmer of humility has long since been destroyed. Which brings us to this blog, at the very end of a long week for Mom. Two days of Wyoming type travel, a day of defensive tactics which involves being thrown repeatedly to the ground, pinned and cuffed (I guess in an effort to foster sympathy for convicts, which I can tell you isn't happening), and a day in the office braving delinquent teenagers during not only spring break, but spring break with a full moon. Needless to say, by the time Friday rolled around and I got a day off I was ready. Ready to drop the hooligans off at daycare and have a spa day with their poor, crippled Auntie.
Unfortunately in order to get to that spa day you have to survive the morning. It started with me waking to deep, echoing chest coughs of what was either tuberculosis patients or my boys after I had forgotten their allergy medicine at bedtime not one, but two nights in a row. I rolled over groggily just in time to see Gavin in underwear, winding up and unloading with what we have affectionately deemed a "snot rocket" sneeze. Right at me. Super.
After cleaning him up and encouraging him to don more clothing, I showered and soaped about 80 times and began the morning prep. Lunches packed, breakfast distributed, clothes laid out, on to getting myself ready. Ideally I can be ready in 20 minutes. Twenty sweet, silent, uninterrupted minutes. So in the real world it takes forty.
Why, you ask? Within the first five minutes came a panicked cry for a towel. Why did he need a towel? Suddenly the four year old was unable to maintain eye contact, and had a story fabricated about his super clumsy imaginary friend, but declined to further elaborate. To maintain my sanity I just handed him the towel and resumed getting ready.
Ten minutes in, I heard jumping on my bed. My eye twitch started, complicating the application of eyeliner. I was prepared to power through, until I heard them starting to launch themselves off the bed yelling things like "almost got it that time!" Out to the room, where I discovered that in an effort to get paper airplanes to go farther they were ricocheting them off the ceiling fan, where one got stuck. They decided to fling themselves through the air off the super high bed at the still spinning ceiling fan in an effort to retrieve it. In their underwear. Plane retrieved, order to get dressed issued, back to getting ready.
Two minutes later they ran past with swords in underwear. As I counted to ten slowly so as to not yell anything I wouldn't want them repeating at daycare, Gabriel speared Gavin in the cheek. Gavin came to tell in tears, Gabriel blamed the imaginary friend, Gavin called him a liar, and apparently this somehow led to what would most likely have been a duel to the death. Swords confiscated, order to get dressed issued AGAIN, verification no ice packs or stitches were necessary, back to getting ready.
Finally, almost finished, I heard them start playing in the cop's closet. This I was totally going to ignore. Until I heard Gabriel ask "What's that smell?" and Gavin reply with an evil laugh "my FART!!!!" and the door slam. Followed by the sound of Gabriel pounding on the door screaming for freedom while Gavin held the door from the outside, trapping him in what was apparently a variation of the dutch oven heretofore unused in the Casa, but apparently wicked enough to cause poor Gabe to begin gagging in the closet.
At which point I looked at my progress and decided it was good enough. The boys were slung into clothing and strapped in the car. My eye twitch was blinding but I made it to the daycare drop off with minimal further conversations about poop and gas, which is a real hot topic here and apparently will be until they die if the cop and his comrades are any indication.
Mojitos, a hot stone massage and a facial later I was ready to pick up my precious babies and enjoy further antics. Which believe me, they never fail to deliver.
Until next time.
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