Monday, June 10, 2013

In Which My Punishment Fits My Crime

There are some things you just don’t say.  Or even think.  Ever. 

For example, you really shouldn’t ever say, “At least it can’t get worse,” because when you say that, immediately, it will get worse.

Also, if it looks like your child is almost potty trained, please refrain from saying something like, “By George, I think she’s got it!”  You think you’re being funny, but what you’re really doing is ensuring that, within the next 24 hours, your child will have the most spectacular potty training meltdown in potty training history.  Like taking-off-her-panties-squatting-on-your-favorite-chair-and-laying-the-largest-turd-you’ve-ever-seen-except-you-do-not-see-it-so-much-as-you-feel-it-because-you-sit-down-without-looking spectacular.

And, please, for the love of all that is holy, never, EVER say something like, “I think I’ve got everything ready for tomorrow’s play date.  The morning should go really smoothly.  For once, I’ve got it handled!”  Because then, while you sleep, you will dream you are peeing and you will wake up at 5:30am and realize that you are actually peeing.  In your bed.  As an adult. 

*blink blink*


I mean, hypothetically, of course. 

Hypothetically that’s what could happen if you say something like that. 

It’s not like I know. is the part where I have to tell you that I am the biggest hypocrite in the world.  Here I am the woman who is always preaching that we moms shouldn’t judge other moms, and claiming that I am a parent and let-parent kind of gal.  But then…then, one of my dearest friends, Amy (mother of Bella, who’s 3 and my daughter, Iris’s, best friend, and baby Zac, the sweetest child on the planet) tells me this story:

Amy:  So, the other day, I’m out running errands with Bella and Zac and, by the end of everything, I have tons of crap all over the front seat of my car….my purse, the diaper bag, papers and receipts and my phone and just everything strewn everywhere.  I get home, park in the driveway, and I have to collect everything so I can carry it into the house.  And it’s taking me a while.  Bella is in her car seat starting to fuss and fume because she wants to get out of the car.  Zac is sleeping and I don’t want Bella to wake him up, so I reach back and unlatch her and tell her she can get out of the car, but to stay in the grass in the front yard so I can still see her.  Which, I assume she’s doing because, hello, I have to clean up the mess in the front seat so I can’t really pay much attention.  A minute or so later, I get out of the car and go around to get Zac’s car seat out of the car and I see Bella, on the grass, of course, but down by the mailbox, panties down around her ankles, squatting, ass to the street, pooping.  She was POOPING!!  And right then, my neighbor across the street comes walking out of his house and sees the whole thing.  She is bare-assed, pooping in the YARD for the whole world to see!!!

Do you know what I did when Amy told me that story?  I did exactly what anyone with a heart would do in that situation.  I smiled and told her that it was okay, that it could have happened to any one of us, that we’ve all suffered humiliation at the hands of our children, that, in time, she would think this was a really funny story.  But, all the time I was smiling and feeding Amy that line of bullshit, I was thinking Iris would never do something like that!  No way!  Not MY child!

Sometimes I just can’t control my brain. 

I did mention that I am the biggest hypocrite in the world, didn’t I?  Or maybe just the Western hempishere.  But, hypocrisy or not, I know better.  I know you should never ever ever ever never think thoughts like that.    

Not one week after Amy told me that story, while I was chopping up bell peppers to use in our dinner, Iris and our almost-housebroken puppy, Penny, were running around the kitchen.  Quinten had just gotten home from work and, before he could even ask what I was making for dinner, Quinten started shouting “No no no no no no no!” and half-dove towards the floor near the kitchen table.  I dropped my knife and dashed over and to see the following scene playing out as if in slow motion:

There is a puddle of pee on the hardwood floor and a slightly-guilty looking corgi trying to slink away.  Iris is bent over the puddle, leaning forward as if to maybe smell the pee?  Or try to, God forbid, taste it?  I didn’t know just what she was trying to do, but, whatever it was, she needed to not be doing it.  She needed to not be doing it rightnow!!  Quinten reached her first, pulled her up and away from the puddle, and snapped, “What are you DOING?”  But he did not get there soon enough.  He did not get there before at least an inch of Iris’s hair had fallen forward into the puddle and had gotten sopping wet.

Sopping wet with pee. 

Sopping wet with dog pee.

My daughter had just dipped her hair in dog pee. 

In.  Dog.  Pee.

Let’s just say that, on that particular night, bath time happened before dinner time.

Also, I owe Amy an apology.

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