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Craptastic

I deal with a lot of crap.  You might think I’m being all philosophical and what not, but I’m totally serious.  I handle quite a lot of other peoples’ poop, and I know I’m not alone in that.  It’s one of the things that “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (also known as “You Cannot Possibly Live Up to the Standards of This Author” or “What to Expect When You Have No Freaking Idea What You’ve Gotten Yourself Into with this Kid-Having Thing”) doesn’t really mention.  Oh sure, it talks about how often newborns poop and how to tell diarrhea from that yellow breast milk poop.  But it should really feature a whole chapter on how to prepare for being the custodian of kid crap.  And it should be up front about what’s really coming down the pike here.

I’m talking about how any mother will have her hands in kid poop for the better part of a SOLID FIVE YEARS.  I’m talking about the days and nights spent worrying about how much they pooped when they were tiny, or what color it was.  We were in the hospital five days with Lunchbox when he was five weeks old because he DIDN’T poop.  He seriously pooped like once a week, and he was breastfed (at least for a little while, and that’s a whole other story and one that will not welcome comments from moms lucky enough to have entire freezers full of excess breast milk or those who want to explain how I didn’t try hard enough. Thanks.) Anyway, I’m just sayin’ – there really should be more poop preparation.  My big kid, Turbo, is almost four and I’m evidently not done with his poop even though he’s out of diapers and partially self-sufficient in the bathroom.  For some reason he still needs to tell me every single time he needs to poop or pee.  Which, yesterday, was part of the problem.

Mornings are not my favorite time.  Well, actually, if they’re quiet, and they involve coffee and mommy free time, then they ARE.  But workday mornings are not my favorite time.  I’m usually rushing through the effort to get my ridiculous hair into some kind of configuration that doesn’t reveal my gray roots or horrific split ends or make me look like a ten year old, while simultaneously arguing with Turbo about whether or not it is a school day.  Yesterday I had some early success convincing him that it was, indeed, a school day, and he trundled off to put on his clothes, which we lay out the night before.  I guess while he was getting dressed, an urge must’ve struck because he came into my room again and yelled desperately, “MOM! I have to POOP!”  My usual answer, “Then why are you standing here talking to me?  Go poop!”  Turbo ran the maybe thirty feet to his bathroom and then proceeded to offer a somewhat frightening commentary.  “Oh no. Poop everywhere. Oh, man!  Huh… gonna have to clean this up.  Poop on my pants.  Crap.” (he now says “crap” in oddly appropriate circumstances, though I am trying to break him of the habit, lest they threaten to kick us out of our ultra-polite Montessori school…)

I finished my hair and decided I’d better go see what was up, dread in the pit of my stomach.  The scene was too grisly to fully describe here, but let me just say that it involved Turbo needing a bath, the floor and toilet needing a Clorox scrub, and my Pottery Barn bathmat and Turbo’s clothes needing an immediate hot wash.  I might have questioned Turbo about how this could have happened a bit excessively, but I was mad.  Especially when I said something about how there was poop on the floor of my bathroom and he started screaming “This is MY bathroom!! Not YOURS!!”  I told him that when he cleaned up the bathroom himself it could be his but until then, it was mine.  I also pointed out that maybe, if the problem was that he just didn’t quite make it in time, he could save some time in the future by not coming to tell me that he had to poop, and JUST GOING TO DO IT.

Not my favorite way to start the morning.  The Major, snug in our bed, heard the commotion and some of my not-so-pleased remarks, and called out, “I’ll clean up the floor, just leave it.”  I still can’t imagine that he thought I (I, who tend to be just the teensiest bit anal in the cleaning department – and I’m not saying that in a good way to make others believe I’m oh-so-perfect. It’s a problem. More on that another time) he thought I was going to leave poop on the floor indefinitely in hopes that he’d remember to clean it up later… Like poop should ever be left chillin’… agh!  I was not a very happy camper yesterday morning, but at least Turbo offered, “Sorry I pooped on your rug, Mom.” One for the hard sayings log.

Just another in the never-ending series of what we now refer to as “Craptastrophes.”

Held Captive

This is why we turned off our cable.  Or, part of the reason.  Because I was being held captive by the TV.  And now that I’ve realized I can watch pretty much anything that held me captive on cable on the internet, I’m held captive again.  I love Grey’s Anatomy.  I can’t help it.  And usually, I watch it with a friend who lives nearby.  We have our weekly TV/wine/bitch night.  She has three kids and I have two – all under the age of six.  And with kids these ages and husbands who work unpredictable schedules and whose workdays involve hurtling through the air at subsonic (but still ridiculously fast) speeds, we drink a fair amount of wine.  And I look forward to this night.

But I haven’t been able to go in a few weeks.  Tonight, because both of our husbands are at the same “all dude” event with the squadron – one of the rare non-family events.  So I cannot go to her house because if I did, that would be considered neglectful (with the kids upstairs asleep and all).  As a result, I’ve been catching up on the internet.  And it’s silly because I’m sitting here thinking, “the Major is gone, I should go take a long warm bath… or I should go read… or something…”  But instead, I’m stuck here watching episode after episode of Grey’s.  And it’s good.  But it’s wasteful of my on most precious resource — free time.  And I could just turn it off… but, no, actually, I cannot. DAMMIT.

Vacation Days

I don’t really understand how Turbo’s school plans their schedule.  It seems like we pay the same amount each month, but each month has a completely random number of school days, based on the whims and vacation plans of the staff.  I imagine their calendar planning sessions might go like this:

Random Administrator #1:  Oh, cool, look.  February 21st is Presidents’ Day.  So we don’t have to have those pesky kids here that day.

Random Administrator #2:  Awesome.  Oh hey, I was thinking of taking a long weekend to go to San Diego and check out some of the new bars. Think we could make Friday a holiday too, then?

RA1:  Sure, I don’t see why not.  It isn’t like we’ll make any less money just for having fewer school days!

RA2:  I almost feel bad for the parents who still have to work on those days… what will they do with their kids?

RA1:  Not our problem!

RA2:  Right you are!

(High five each other and then chest bump.)

Seriously – what am I supposed to do with my kids when their schools are closed but my company is still open?  How do other parents deal with this?

I regained my sanity by going back to work 60%.  That means 24 hours a week, people… it isn’t a lot.  I have no idea how moms with full time jobs can possibly pull it off.  And my kids are tiny – how do you deal with school schedules that run from 8am to 2pm when work is from 7:30 to 4:30??  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll end up being a “stay at home” mom when my kids start “real school” because I’ll have no other choice.  How do other moms handle this?  I don’t think the Major would be too pleased to hear that I plan to quit when Turbo enters kindergarten – and frankly, I think I’d lose my mind staying home full time!

Ignorance is Bliss

Ten Aces with a Queen

My grandfather was an Army Air Corps pilot.  He flew a B-24 “liberator” in World War II.  He was part of the 445th Bomb Group, stationed at Tibenham, England.  Today is the 67th anniversary of his death.

When I married a military pilot, my grandmother lost her ability to speak to me for a while.  The first time she fully tried to grasp what, exactly, this man I was going to marry did in the Marine Corps, she clarified a couple times – “He’s a pilot?” “I mean, he flies planes into combat?”  I saw dark shadows pass across her eyes as I confirmed that yes, this man I loved had the same job as a man that she loved many years ago – the man she could no longer talk about or even acknowledge aloud.

I learned about my grandfather from my mom and from her grandmother.  That was my great-grandma.  I have fond memories of her, though I always suspected that she liked my brother more than she cared for me.  How could I know, as a child, that when she looked at my brother she probably saw shadows of her lost son?  My brother looked just like my grandfather as a boy.  That woman, my great-grandma, lost two boys to World War II.  A third, “Uncle Bill,” was kept from “joining up” as a result.  I cannot imagine what she went through during those times. I often look at my boys and hope that they don’t think they should follow their dad’s footsteps.

Today I shared the smallest glimpse of what my grandmother might have endured, in reading the journal my grandfather kept during flight training, and in reading the letters sent home by the men who flew with him.  There was a picture of her in black at a memorial parade held soon after his death.  I stared at it for a long time, trying to read her face.  Part of me marveled that she had participated in this (there were four widows at the front of the procession), as I cannot recall her ever acknowledging my mom’s father, but she’d probably gotten to her silence gradually.

My mother was born two weeks exactly before her father was killed by the flak that entered the cockpit during a bombing mission over France.  As she was beginning to see those who loved her for the first time, I imagine many of their faces were torn with conflict — joy at this new life, and grief for the father she’d never have the opportunity to know.

The strangest part of reading the documents and looking at the photos was realizing the date.  It was a complete coincidence that I was going through these things today of all days – the anniversary of his death.

I can’t pretend to know what it is like to lose your spouse to war.  I can only hope that my ignorance will continue.  Given The Major’s current career path, the odds are good that he won’t deploy again, so my ignorance is likely to continue.

Every day is like Christmas

My 3 year old son, who I will ever-after for the purposes of this blog, refer to as Turbo, has not quite grasped the concept of time passage.  (or of toilet paper, but that is another story and I don’t have the stomach for it tonight.)  He is excited about the Christmas season this year in a way that he hasn’t been previously, but the entire affair must seem quite mystifying to him.  From his perspective, it appears that Christmas:

1.  Is the name of the man in the red suit, who is also sometimes referred to as Santa.  But Turbo knows that his name is really Christmas, which is why he asks every day if we are going to see Christmas.  (Because the squadron had a “meet Santa” event where Santa flew in on an H-60 to the hangar, which was really pretty cool.  But while other kids were yelling, “Santa!” Turbo was yelling, “Christmas is coming!”)

2.  Is a notion conceived by adults to allow them to wrap presents, taunt you with them and refuse to allow you to open them until this mystical “Christmas” guy shows up.  (And since we see him at parties and even at WalMart lately, it is doubly confusing that Mom and Dad keep saying ‘no.’)

3.  Somehow involves not only the aforementioned “Christmas / Santa” character, but also has something to do with “Roxy” the Snowman, angry trolls (I have explained that these are elves and that they are not angry or grouchy, but to no avail), reindeer, penguins and Polar Bears.  I think he believes that Dora is somehow involved, too.

4.  Allows Mom and Dad to warn him that “Santa is watching” in an ominous way, as if that might entice him to give up getting out of bed ninety-seven times each night or possibly convince him not to push his brother over when he thinks we’re not watching.

5.  Results in the appearance of multitudes of cookies and other treats that are evidently inedible, since he is never offered any.

I have tried to use this season to talk about giving to others, and we are even sponsoring a local family for whom we are buying gifts.  Turbo picked out a great toy for the boy in this family and then cried piteously when he realized that I really, honestly, truly wasn’t going to break down and let him keep it after all.  “He can get HIS OWN!” was his sympathetic refrain.  Next year, I guess…

As confusing as much of this probably is to little Turbo, there is an upside here.  He wakes up every day lately believing truly, honestly and with all his heart, that it might be Christmas, that day I keep telling him about.  Today he told the lady who cut his hair that there was only one more day until Christmas.  Boy is he gonna be disappointed tomorrow.  That being said, he wakes up every day full of hope and joy, thinking this could be the best day ever.  And despite my fears that letting him know each day that Christmas isn’t here yet might break his little spirit, it doesn’t.  Because the fact is that at three years old, he manages to find something else to be joyful about every day.  I hope that will remain true his entire life because I sure do struggle to find that sense of joy in a new day sometimes.