Fail!, Life with Kids, Pick Your Battles

Calgon, Take Me Away!

Aaron and I are sitting contentedly on the couch watching educational programming on PBS some reality show on Bravo, probably of the Real Housewives variety. We hear a noise in the kitchen.
“Jack? What are you doing?” I ask, turning to see what our 4-year-old is up to.
“I’m getting a wipe to wash my hands,” he answers.
“Why?”
“Because I held my handle.”
Yes, my son calls his little willie his handle. Yes, I just called it his little willie. Are you done laughing? May I continue?
“Um. OK. Uh, why were you holding your handle exactly?” The things you find yourself asking your kids.
“Because I peed,” he says, a bit exasperated.
“Oh. OK.”
Wait a minute. I don’t remember hearing a flush or hearing him singing to himself (as he generally does while he pees. He hums the alphabet and starts peeing once he reaches the letter…wait for it….”P.” Commence laughing once again. Done?)
“Jack, I didn’t hear you go into the bathroom.”
“I didn’t go into the bathroom.”
“But you just said you peed.”
“I did.”
Mommy Sense Red Alert!
“WHERE did you pee?” I ask, panic in my voice.
“In my playroom.”
“You… Ja–wait–what?”
Exasperated sigh from Jack.
“I peed in my playroom.”
“What do you mean you peed in your playroom??”
Yet another sigh. Clearly I’m keeping him from a pressing engagement.
“I pulled down my pants, held my handle, and peed on the floor.”
As I leap over the couch to inspect, I’m thinking, Surely my 4-year-old did not just drop trou and fire-hose his playroom! I was thinking it. But I was wrong. That, in fact, is exactly what he’d done.
“JACK! Why did you pee in your playroom? You know better than that!”
He stares at me like I have two heads and lets out another sigh. “I didn’t want to miss Wonder Pets.”
Oh. No. He. Didn’t!
Yes. Yes, he did.
What I was thinking: “Dude! Your TV has a DVR…pause the f*cker!”
What I said: “Sweetie, it is not OK to pee ANYWHERE but in the potty. Ever.”
Again, the things you find yourself telling your kids…
Calgon, take me away.
Blessings, Husbands and Wives, Pick Your Battles

Battle of the Sexes

I’m a cleaner. Cleaning is a mood stabilizer for me. I get anxious, bored, stressed…I clean. Even if I’m completely content and happy with every aspect of my life, I love to clean. It calms me. I usually have the music blaring in the background and if you look through my windows you’ll no doubt see me cutting a rug with my mop or vacuum cleaner as I dance around, inhaling the pine fresh scent and cleaning my ass off!

My husband, God bless him, enjoys a clean house and always offers to lend a hand. I generally don’t take him up on it for several reasons: first, my husband is wonderful and competent in many, many areas. Cleaning? Not so much. He tries; he just doesn’t have the same “white glove inspection” mindset as me, so I usually end up following him around cleaning areas he missed. Baseboards, for instance. He would never think to wipe down the baseboards. I, on the other hand, am fairly obsessive about it. So, really, it’s just easier for me to do it myself. Plus, it’s honestly a bigger help to me if he can keep our 4-year-old son occuppied while I go on a crazy cleaning spree…though they almost always end up dirtying up walking through my just-washed kitchen floor. Doesn’t matter if I do it first or save it for last; they will walk over it, and they will have mud on their shoes.

Anyway. Several weeks ago, Aaron and I were having some friends over on a Saturday night. The day had gotten away from me and I was rushing around to finish cleaning before our company arrived. Aaron, ever the concerned husband, asked if he could do anything to help. Looking at the clock and doing a quick calculation in my head in terms of tasks still to be accomplished versus the expected arrival time of our guests, I took him up on it. This scene ensued:

“It would be great if you could just clean our toilet and then clean the main bathroom,” I said.

We have a bathroom off our bedroom and I had cleaned the rest of it, but hadn’t done the commode yet. And the main bathroom on the second floor is really Jack’s bathroom, which Aaron also uses. In other words, it’s basically a boy’s bathroom, and as such, I try never to enter it because, well, it’s just really unpleasant.

“Sure, I can do that,” Aaron replied. He headed off to get the supplies he needed and I continued dusting our bedroom.

Several minutes later, I hear Aaron yell from our bathroom, “You want me to clean just the bowl or the whole thing?”

Before I got a chance to answer, in what I assure you would have been a snarky manner, the synapses in his brain started firing again and he added quickly, “Why don’t I just do the whole thing.”

My faith had been restored until 5 minutes later when I here him call from the main bathroom, “You probably want me to clean the tub too, huh?”

Sigh.

Pick Your Battles, Totally Random

Pat Downs and Body Scans, Oh My!

Who are these people who are bitching about intrusive searches by the TSA before they’re allowed to board an airplane? I for one am quite opposed to being fondled by a stranger. But you know what? If that keeps me from being turned into kibbles and bits by some terrorist who figures out who to effectively smuggle explosives into his tighty whities, then feel away, my friend. Personally, as one who tends to travel by train, I think Amtrak should consider some security measures. Because honestly? The few times I’ve traveled to New York via the Acela, I could have loaded the H-bomb into the overhead compartment and no one would have blinked.