I Just Wanted a Bath

Single moms, I salute you.
I usually wait until the husband is home to even attempt to bathe myself as anything involving a bathroom means certain emergencies in the area of childcare. Someone will lose a crayon, crap their pants, spill their juice, or try to bludgeon their sibling to death with a shoe if you choose to step foot into the bathroom.

Having two previous children and currently approaching the third trimester for baby number three, my recently contracted hellacious cough has all but obliterated my bladder. What does that mean? That mean whenever I go into a coughing fit I pee myself, pretty basic. No amount of leg crossing is going to hold that mess in when I can’t even catch my breath from the phlegm bombarding my airways.

So, as one can imagine, I felt gross and after ruining my last pair of jeans I needed to get to clean water. Husband was still at work and the teenager was out with friends so I thought I’d attempt it alone. You may wonder, “Well why not a quick shower?”. A couple reasons come to mind. I can not hear the blood curdling screams that would most certainly take place if I placed my head under the stream of shower water. I also can not see anything of the outside world from the confines of my master bath shower stall. So into the tub I go, all the doors wide open so I can hear any catastrophe in my house and see any disruption between me, my bedroom, the small hallway, and the door to the garage (which the toddler like to try to escape through).

Enter the five year old. 

The toddler plays quietly in my bed. I can hear his tablet and his giggles and all is well in the house. Five year old enters room and his very presence disturbs my toddler to his core. Toddler screams in unseen pain and darts for the door to lock five year old out. A brief fight ensues over closing the bedroom door. I shout and do my little “What the heck is wrong with you two?” thing and they decide it’s not fun anymore.

The five year old, who hasn’t spoken to me in hours, now decides this is the best time to ask me where plastic comes from. He then needs to tell me about every level and character in some game called PigMan (sp?). I decide to send him on a mission to get a moment of peace; I send him to get mom a little cup of sugar to exfoliate with. He returns looking very proud from what I could see through water filled eyes. I blindly dip my fingers into the “sugar”, and .002 seconds from coating my face in this white substance, I realize its flour. I was so close to antiquing myself true Jackass style. I wash the now dough from my fingers and send him to try again.

Five year old returns with sugar, I wash, and ask him to go dump the rest for me. All is well again until I hear *ssssshhhhhh* “Oh no!”. Look up to see a bedroom floor coated in sugar granules. Walking on sugar is the worst! We all know this. Being the helpful child he is, he runs for the broom. Meanwhile toddler has become interested in what is taking place. Sugar is all swept neatly into a pile awaiting me to get out and put into a dust pan. Toddler decides hiding the pile with a pillow would work better. *Plop* Goes a pillow on top of the pile sending sugar gliding in all directions across the floor once again.

The next 5 minutes are spent in utter confusion between me and five year old.
“Move the pillow”
“Now set it down”
“No not BACK on the pile”
“Omg. You put it back in the sugar”
“No don’t put a sugar covered pillow back on the bed”
“Why do these things happen to me!”

I dash sopping wet from the tub to broom to sweep up stupid sugar, leaving a wet trail from tub across bedroom floor.

Helpful five year old, “Mom, what do we do about this water now?”. I tell him just to grab a towel and wipe it up. I’m planted firmly in my now room temperature water and I’m not getting back up. I see him scooting toward me on a towel as he’s soaking up the water and I realize, he is using the towel I grabbed for myself to dry off with. The only clean towel in my bathroom.

Somehow in the middle of all this I managed to bathe, shave half my leg, and apply oil to my pregnancy dried hair. I completely forgot to finish shaving and about an hour ago, as I was preparing to run errands, I realize I never rinsed the oil out of my hair. As if having to look at my ever quickly changing body when I get naked wasn’t punishment enough.

The kitchen… the kitchen in which the flour and sugar was previously retrieved from? That’s a whole other story.

So, shout out to the ladies who can accomplish basic tasks without a spouse or partner! Apparently, I can not.

I’m Never Leaving the House Again… with Kids

I go to the post office at least once a week. I do not like it. I do not look forward to it. My printer is broken so I have no option to ship from home, plus some things I would have to lug into there anyway. My husband, and even friends, never seem to understand the disdain in my voice when I say “Post office” so let me elaborate.

Here is the events of today’s “quick run” to our local post office.

Get up round 9, remember I HAVE to get some things shipped TODAY. Start dressing myself and kids.

I finally have tire aired up, bottle washed, kids in clothes and shoes, packages together, dogs taken out, carseats put back in the car,  and I at least have a bra on so I can say I’m dressed.

Kaston screams for the majority of our 7 minute drive.

We arrive. Paxton decides he is “stuck” to his carseat. I have to pry him out with magic while holding fatty Kaston. He has to wait for the “magic” automated doors to close so he can open them himself “magically”

Line is backed up, no problem, I need to grab a shipping envelope and label some stuff anyway. Grab what I need, no pen. No pen in the entire post office other than the ones at each teller station which are ALL full. Lord forbid you dare try to fill out anything that close next to someone checking out. People don’t want you to see them shipping socks to their grandmother or returning their overpriced shoes to the seller.

I shove my unpackaged stuff into the shipping envelope and wait. Kaston decides he needs to grab every pile of forms off the counter. 15 minutes of fighting him later Paxton decides he HAS to pee. I try in vain to get a tellers attention, I finally shout out to nearest worker “I need a potty! Kid has to go now!” She then tells me “No, sorry, we can’t let you go here” before scurrying off to the back again

What did she just say to me? MY 4 year old can’t go HERE? I have seen people allowed to use the restroom multiple times. Do they not realize I’m here all the time. I yell back to her across the room of people, “That’s fine, he’d rather pee in your parking lot anyway”

So I leave my packages on the counter and escort him outside. Once situated between my 2 open car doors he decides he doesn’t have to pee after all. False alarm.

I’m irritated to say the least. I go back in expecting the people within to have the common courtesy to let me back in my place in line, if not that then at least take pity on me. It is beyond obvious I have my hands full. Keep in mind I have Kaston’s hefty butt on my hip this entire time.

What sorcery is this? It is literally an entirely different line of people!? What happened in the 5 minutes that I was gone to move the line ahead by 10 freaking people? I waited 15 minutes and only 4 people went through!? Of course nobody cares whether they may have seen me ahead of them earlier, so it’s to the back I go…again.

At this point, Kaston, who hasn’t had spit up issues in weeks, begins spurting spit up like a garden hose. It’s all over him, me, and the counter. I find ONE single wipe in my purse and clean him and the counter best I can. I have’t even shoved the sopping cloth back into my purse before he lets out another wave, This time I manage to catch two heaping handfuls in both hands. I am looking around frantic for any sign of a paper towel. Nothing. I know I can’t even walk to the counter and ask without spilling this everywhere. I am precariously balancing him on my hip and it just won’t work. I have no choice but to say “screw it” and rub what looks like over a cup of warm spit up all down my shirt and pants legs.

During this battle, Paxton has disappeared from my side. I see him attempting to hide behind the card rack. This can only mean one thing; he is about to crap himself. I hurry him back to my side in hopes he can make it just a little longer. We wait another 20 minutes.

The teller finally calls us up, at the precise moment Kaston decided he doesn’t want to be held anymore. Crazy considering he NEVER wants to be put down when we are at home. He has started to go into that wild buck kids do. I’m flipping and switching him every which away while trying to fill out my labels, since I finally have the privilege of a pen. I attempt to sit him on the counter while I dig out my wallet, he wildly grabs at everything. knocking things over in the process. I put him back on my hip. Teller hands me ANOTHER form to fill out and asks me to fill it out to the side. This means I will have to wait AGAIN.

All the while I am trying to keep my eye on Paxton, who is pouting that I made him stand beside me. I notice he has stopped whining which means he is probably trying to poop again. Yep, pretty sure I smell it.

We finally make our exit nearly 40 minutes after arriving. I rush to the nearest drive thru to feed Paxton and pray they have coffee. Taco Bell is the closest thing. No kids menu so of course he is now crying because he didn’t get a toy with his food. My coffee tastes like the beans went through a donkey’s lower intestine before they made it into my cup. $1.79 wasted.

Kaston screams, yet again because he is strapped into his torture device of safety. He manages to fall asleep in the last 30 seconds of our ride home.

I wake him to unload, so he is screaming again. I throw Paxton on the potty to finish his crap. He is now crying and whining because he hates it. I grab Kaston back up and try to calm him back to sleep. He isn’t having it. It takes every song I know and 15 minutes of rocking to get him to stop crying. At the precise moment he stops crying, Paxton yells that he is finished.

Great…. I can’t leave him just sitting on the toilet 15-20 minutes with a crappy butt while I get this one to sleep, but if I put this one down he will start to cry again and I will have to calm him all over again. I choose the latter. No sooner has his butt hit the crib mattress, he is in tears again. I rush to wipe butt as fast as humanly possible and try not to cry.

It isn’t even 1:00 yet. Can I go back to bed.

Yes I am aware of the atrocious grammatical and punctual errors…. my kids are yelling again… “Ain’t nobody got time for dat proofreading!”