I’m taking down photos and artwork around our house today while simultaneously trying to start packing for me and the kids when we’re in temporary housing for 30 days. Amidst all of this, roofers are busy tearing off our old roof and replacing it with a brand-spanking new one. The noise level is out of control, and I feel as if the house really isn’t mine anymore…
This shit just got real…
That is NOT a typo…up there in that title. I’m swimming in nasal fluid over here and I’m ready for whatever cold that has hit our house to move on out. Mr. B came home from a sleepover on Saturday morning with a yucky nose, then gave it to Miss P on Sunday, and now I have it. All of us process colds differently. Mr. B just gets extremely stuffed up and has that yucky breath for a few days, but otherwise is a happy camper who sleeps like a rock. I have inherited my family’s history of post-nasal drip, which forces me to sleep sitting completely upright in order not to choke on my own snot. And Miss P? Colds quickly move in to her chest (or maybe it’s post-nasal drip that’s causing it) and coughs. A lot. Especially at night. I’ve plowed through a whole bottle of honey already. I’m on Day 3 of horrible sleep and may very well drug the both of us up with Benadryl tonight.
Does it make me a horrible parent that I have hit my threshold of patience and compassion after a couple of days? I felt sympathetic for a while at the beginning, I really did. But then, after a couple of days (and becoming sleep-deprived doesn’t help), I’m tired of being smeared with snot, wiping off spit after being coughed on, and listening to the gulping during meal times because no one can breathe out of their noses. All while feeling pretty crummy myself. Granted, it could be a lot worse. No one is running a fever, all are in good spirits, and Miss P isn’t really even having a bad case of the 11′s (a term a friend used for the double strip of snot running out of a nose). It’s a pretty mild, yet annoying cold. We’ve been using the neti pot, which helps a little, but let’s face it, without an arsenal of drugs to help ease the symptoms, these poor kids have to tough it out. At least it’s giving us plenty of reasons to eat lots of popsicles.
I don’t know about any of you, but we’ve been slammed with birthday parties over here. Our own kids AND other friends. For a while there, we even had trouble booking my own son’s birthday party, as it is double booked behind a ex-student’s (who has done this for the past 3 years with us, even though her son’s birthday is in JUNE…but I digress…) party on the same day, one hour earlier on the complete opposite side of town. And we’re not the only family to have fallen to the rescheduling nightmare. In the thick of things, emails were flying back and forth requesting parents to change the time of another student’s party so their kids could make it after their soccer games and such. Y’all, I have had it with the birthday party drama. After all this went down, I informed Mr. B that this would probably be the last year we have a big party for him. After the Big 6th, we’ll resort to doing something small like taking friends to a movie or lunch, or having a sleep over.
There seems to be as much mompetition (thanks, Keesha! Hi!) over parties as there is over getting in to a good preschool or comparing notes as to when your kids became potty trained. Some parties are pretty small and quaint (my favorites!) and some are big hooplas with gift bags so fancy even I’d want one. The parties for our kids fall somewhere in between, more on the quaint side. This year, Mr. B will be having a magician who, for extra cash, also churns out balloon animals. There’s your party favor right there kids! You’re welcome. And since Mr. B could care less about creative decor, I’m buying helium balloons and streamers and calling it a day. Easy peasy.
Miss P, on the other had, had her birthday party here at our teeny home last weekend. And y’all, I went nuts with the crafting of the decor and the ambiance and the like. She wanted a Tangled party, and I took that idea and ran with it, as giddy and excited as a happy woman in a grassy meadow filming a tampon commercial. With a couple of googling results, I was equipped with some ideas and spent the week of her party cutting out sunbursts and braiding hair until my hands cramped into a rigid claw.
It must be lack of creativity I’m getting in the rest of my life, perhaps. This need to create and pour my soul in to something and watch a new idea sprout and take on a life of its own. Sure, I didn’t sleep for 5 nights, but I loved every minute of it.
I have even almost purged out of my memory the event that happened mid-week, where I spent two hours making a voluptous yellow yarn wig for Miss P to wear and look like Rapunzel, only for her to shoot me down after looking at it for two seconds and declare she wouldn’t wear it. In a stroke of genius (or perhaps lunacy), I deconstructed that wig two hours before her party and made long braids on headbands for all the girls at the party. What a hit they were!
And my little girl had an absolute blast. At some point during the party, I looked at her, leading all of her buddies in to her plastic playhouse in the backyard, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. She is no longer a baby. I knew that, in reality, but it just hit me. She plays with others now, has her own opinions and wishes, is fully aware that this day was for her. It feels like a long bridge to cross, from infancy to now. And yet, I feel I’ve traveled on it with some kind of Star Trek transporter at warp speed. Before I know it, she’ll be shunning me in public, spending all of her free time on the phone or internet, and telling me she hates me while rolling her eyes. Or something like that. And she won’t want birthday parties at our home filled with fantasy and yarn braids and construction paper decor. But maybe I’ll try to sneak in a streamer or two…
Miss P turned 3 on Tuesday, and like clockwork, her new age brought a whole new level of defiance and tantrums. I love her madly and would throw myself in front of a loaded gun for her, but man, she’s become a little turd at times this week. You’ll ask her a question and she’ll just stare at you without answering. Or blinking. THAT LOOK. The one that will make me even crazier when she’s a teenager. She’s already perfected it. When she’s not doing that, she’s having a colossal tantrum. Welcome to 3! Mommy’s going to need some new tricks up her sleeve…and a run to the liquor store.
And Mr. B isn’t fairing so well, either. He got been getting in to trouble at school and has had a hard time at home lately, and I’m at a total loss for what to do. I feel like a failure as a parent, that I’ve raised a child who has ZERO self control. And I worry that, as we move forward to this new, possibly less-tolerant school, that he’ll be marked as ADHD or get sent to the disciplinarian’s office more times than Joan River visits a plastic surgeon. He’s a good kid, he really is. I have to remind myself that he’s FIVE. And a boy. All normal behavior. And his “trouble” at school is not mean or malicious, he just prefers being silly and disruptive. Mind you, Mr. B is wicked smart. He’s reading at a 2nd or 3rd grade level…in kindergarten and at any given moment, he’s reading. A book, a sign, a receipt, the nutritional guide on his bag of Cheetos. He can focus, he just chooses not to. Or more likely, he can’t help himself by his love of silly things and laughing, and uses that as his guide.
I think what’s really going on though is a little fallout from our weekend. Since we didn’t really give the kids a proper Spring Break, we did some research, cashed in hotel and airline points, and took the kids to Disneyland this past weekend. Three whole days spent traipsing around the Happiest Place on Earth. The kids had a total blast. Riding rides non-stop, feeling as if the whole day was based on their agenda and not ours, meeting all sorts of characters, and being so excited that I was sure someone, at some point, would pee themselves. Alas, they did not.
Mr. B, being finally tall enough to ride most of the rides, went on just about every thing he could, sometimes twice.
And Miss P? She was so enchanted by the whole thing. We stood in line on Thursday to meet Rapunzel, and Flynn happened to stop by. I thought P’s heart might stop right then and there. There is absolutely no question of my daughter’s sexual preference right now, and if she could have figured out how to stalk Flynn around the park, I bet she would have. Mind you, I can’t blame her. Most of the moms in line were a little dreamy-eyed towards Flynn. I think even Jon might have had a little man-crush on him.
Miss P didn’t nap for three straight days and loved every minute of it. All in all, the kids were fantastic. We didn’t have too many meltdowns, they were patient (for the most part) in all of the lines (and there are a lot of lines), and we really enjoyed ourselves together. By the end of the first day, though, my legs were tired, my arms were sore from carrying around either a small child or a large backpack, and I could have used an ice cold beer. Don’t ya know it, they don’t serve alcohol in Disneyland!
Miss P had breakfast with Ariel, Cinderella, Snow White, Aurora and Mulan, which was so adorable. Mr B kept trying to maintain his macho facade and get all whiny about having to dine with princesses. But of course, once they came around to the table, he jumped out of his seat, took his hat off (like a gentleman should, right? Am I right, ladies?) and strutted over to meet the fair maidens, get their autographs, maybe even sneak a hug, and get his picture taken along with his sister.
As a reward for being so supportive of all the girlie stuff, I took Mr. B on the Tower of Terror. I don’t know what he was expecting, but certainly not the elevator ride to hell and back. Have y’all been on this thing? You get in an elevator car with about 20 other people, belt yourself in to a metal seat, and hold on for dear life. The car then drops down an elevator shaft at speeds just slightly faster than free fall. But not all the way down. Oh no, that would be too simple. First, the doors open so you’re looking out at the park. The moment you get comfortable? This sucker pulls you down about 20 feet. You’re looking out another door, and right as you’ve turned to your companion to laugh it off, the car plummets down about 170 feet. Then it shoots you back up to the top and you do the whole thing all over again in complete darkness. I nearly shit my pants.
I took one look at B’s face once the plunge started, and I instantly felt regret. What the hell am I doing to my kid? Is he going to be scarred for life? He looked like he was going to cry, yet he never did. And when the ride was over, though, his face was a mix of exhilaration, pride, and sheer terror. I was so proud of him and his courageousness. And he didn’t even have a streaker in his underpants!
While I know there are only so many memories that can hold their place in our kids tiny brains, I really do hope this experience lodges itself in there somewhere and stays put for a while.
