We had done it. My sister and I devised a plan to see each other before Christmas. My heart was smiling as I set off to Super Target to stock my house with baby supplies (for my littlest nephew) and food for my impending guests (my two nieces were coming along as well). As you know from yesterday’s post, once I returned to the convertible and had it completely packed full, the engine was entirely unresponsive. A panicked phone call later to Mad Dog and I had brought my perishables back in the store to be held in the deli locker while T.Puzzle and I waited for a car service man to come and rescue us. T.Puzzle could tell I was on edge so naturally he had to have a level 8 meltdown in the café. Once his behavior had stabilized (threats and an embarrassingly loud time-out did the trick), he actually was quite pleasant and heartily enjoyed his hot dog. For the most part, after my initial panic, I had rallied and was calm awaiting the next tenets of our Thursday morning adventure.
Surprisingly, the service man was timely (less than twenty minutes from time of Mad Dog’s initial call for roadside assistance) and jumped the car battery without a hitch. I ran back in, grab my refrigerated goods and hit the road as quickly as possible.
Now, I was told to keep the car running for thirty minutes from the time of the jump to make sure the car battery had properly recharged. So, when I pull in my driveway, I roll the windows down (because heaven forbid I lock the keys in a running vehicle) and keep it running. When I have it all unloaded, I run and grab the keys feeling confident all is well as enough time has passed. I realize that the windows are still down. I put the key back in the ignition and guess what? The car is as dead as a door nail. I can’t roll up the windows and it is cloudy with a distinct possibility of rain.
I make a few calls and soon Grandma will be on her way with something that might work just as I am about to run to my neighbor’s to get a tarp. I am literally seconds from the door when T.Puzzle announces that he’s pooped. He goes to where our pak-n-play normally is because he is old enough to climb up on it to be changed. It’s not there having been relocated up to the guest room for my baby nephew’s sleeping comfort. To make do, he goes and lays down on the area rug by our computer near the family room. Bad move.
He has had a ridiculous explosive poop that has crept up his back and is all over his clothes and is now all over my rug. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I strip him down, wipe him up as best I can and throw him in our downstairs shower as I clean up the poop carnage. This is right when Grandma arrives. After he is cleaned up, she offers to stay with him (thank you!) while I run to grab the tarp. Between what Grandma has brought, some towels, garbage bags and the tarp, I think we have the car covered.
And wouldn’t you know, for the remainder of the day the sky was crystal clear with nary a drop of rain in sight.
I’m having a casual conversation with parents that I don’t know very well. This is the point where you let slip some of your parental foibles and see precisely where they land on the recipients’ spectrum of normalcy. For instance, they might self-diclose that their children are impeccably behaved when dropped off at a friend’s home, and you might imply that you fear for your friends when you do the same. You are using humor to illuminate that while your kids are incredibly adorable, they may be less than perfect in decorum or behavior. Your hope is that the other parents will admit the same for their kids (at least a little). Let me tell you it’s a real bummer when you are the only one sharing a horror story and the faces meeting your gaze are blank with incomprehension. It also doesn’t help when you hear the phrase, “My kids would know better than to act up,” or “my kids were taught better than that,” in response to said horror story.