Tuesday, March 19, 2013

I am still a little bitter about what happened on Saturday.

Saturday was....horrible.  The worst.

I was in a mood to get my house clean.  It has been neglected.  I started washing load after load of laundry.  I washed 4 loads.  Nearly every article of clothing in our house was dirty.  It felt good to make progress.  While the laundry was being washed and dried, I was working on other projects (mopping the floor, organizing cupboards, cleaning the fridge).  I didn't want to stop to fold laundry so I just put them in a huge pile in the corner of the living room on top of our Love Sac.

I got to the point in the kitchen that I could spray down the counters with my Clorox spray (seriously, that stuff is amazing).  I sprayed half the counter and started scrubbing.  All the while, the girls were giggling and playing so nicely with each other.  After scrubbing I decided to work on the other counter....but I couldn't find my spray.  I've been pretty spacey lately.  After looking around for where I may have put it, I lost steam.   I decided I would just start folding the laundry.

I picked up the first few articles of clothing and noticed one or two really small bleach spots on them.  By the time I lifted the third shirt out of the mound to fold, the bleach smell hit me and I began to connect all of the dots.  Then I found the spray bottle.  The girls had sprayed my spray all over the 4 loads of laundry.  SO many ruined clothes.  The deeper I dug, the bigger the bleach spots became.  Massive bleach spots all over the clothes.  The girls' non-awful clothes.  My work clothes.  I still feel like crying when I think about it.

Luckily for my children, I had said a prayer that very morning to be a better and more patient mother.  After I was done crying and calling my mother-in-law to have an emotional breakdown (which I accidentally did with my windows open, so that all of the neighbors could hear.  Ugh.), I called the girls to the living room and showed them the mound of bleached clothes.  I explained to them that the spray was dangerous.  Then Peyton and I had this conversation:

Me:  Peyton, see all these clothes?  They are all ruined.  We can't spray things with that bottle because it ruins things and takes the color away.

Peyton: (With a reassuring smile) We can wait and tomorrow the clothes will be better!

Me: No, Peyton.  Tomorrow they will still be ruined.  They will be ruined forever.

Peyton:  Will they be ruined on Wednesday?

Me: Yes.  They will be ruined on Wednesday.  They will always be ruined.

Peyton:  Will they be ruined when I'm sixteen?

Me: Yes!  They are ruined forever.  They will still be ruined when you are sixteen.  A hundred years from now, they will still be ruined.  They are bleached forever.

Peyton: Oh....

She seemed sad and put her head down.  After a few seconds of sad silence, she looked at me with a new light in her eyes and asked with hope, "Will they be ruined at 3 o'clock!?"

I got through the ordeal (it was a serious ordeal for me) without yelling at my children.  Sure I had to cry and call my mother-in-law, but if I had a trophy made of high-quality chocolate, I would have given it to myself.

On the plus side, the girls were not hurt (so dangerous!  I know you are wondering how I could have not noticed.  They were giggling and playing between the couch and the mound.  I thought they were just playing) and they didn't bleach the carpet or the couch.  It could have been worse.  I can't wait to be a stay-at-home mom so that I can tackle this stuff little by little instead of having one day a week to try to clean and accomplish everything.  I know that being a stay-at-home mom is hard, but I can't help but think that these kinds of things will happen less.

Monday, March 18, 2013

I tried to explain birth to my 3-year-old.

Peyton is 3 and she asked me how babies get here.  I know.  Before I get to that, I'm going to take you back about 22 years or so....

In December of 1991 my mom was largely pregnant with my sister, Emily.  I was a few days/weeks shy of turning 4.  As the baby in my mother's belly grew bigger and bigger, I began to wonder what any kid would wonder:  How does the baby get out?

I sat down with my mom and posed the most logical solution a 3-year-old could devise.  "Mom, when you have the baby, is it going to pop out of your belly button?"  My mom encouraged me to believe that, rightly believing that I could not handle the truth at such a tender age (Seriously, I cried in 5th grade during the sex ed. health classes.  And once my mom picked me up from school and talked about puberty on the way home.  I couldn't handle it and I jumped out of the car at the first stop sign and walked home.  Stories like this abound, but I digress...).

I was satisfied with the belly-button thing.  Some time after this discussion with my mom, I was playing with dolls with the neighbor girls, who were my age, maybe a year older.  I remember being at their house and the topic came up of how babies are born.  I matter-of-factly told them how it happened.  Then, they told me I was wrong.  They said that they just talked about it with their mom and their mom said that you pee the baby out.  Pah!  Ridiculous!  So, I gathered them up and took them to my house, straight to my poor mother, and said something like, "Mom, their mom said you pee a baby out!  Tell them that's wrong!  It comes out your belly button!"

I still remember the look on my mom's face.  I didn't know what it meant back then, but having seen it many times since, I know the look is the look of being embarrassed and amused at the same time.  The look of knowing you are in trouble and thinking it is funny.

My mom, smiling, reassured us that I was right.  You know what we had to do then, right?  We marched over to the neighbors' house to find their mom.  That mom marched us back over to my house and said something to my mom that sounded a lot like, "Connie, I had to have this long talk with them.  I explained to them how everything happens.  It was hard.  And terrible.  You can't un-do it.  Tell them the truth."

Then my mom came clean.  She told me that you pee babies out.  I. Couldn't. Believe it.  Why would my mom lie to me?  I mean, peeing a baby sounds far-fetched, but I guess I can believe it.  Why lie about peeing a baby?   Don't worry, this has not scarred me for life, or anything.

Back to present time.

Peyton has been asking about babies since June, when my niece was born.  She reallllllly wants a new baby sibling.  She wants a new baby and she wants to know how they get here.

Peyton: How does a baby get here?
Me:  (thinking I am being clever and dodging a bullet) Well, some people get to their parents through adoption.  Somebody gives them a baby.
Peyton:  Did you adoption Juj?
Me: No....(lightbulb) Juj grew in my belly and was born.
Peyton: ...Did she come out your belly button?

Guys, I should have said yes.  But I couldn't!  I COULDN'T!

Me: ...no.....
Peyton: But how?

Guys, don't judge me!  I was stumped!  It was happening so fast!  She is 3!  I came up with the best answer I could.  And I don't know why I said it.  I wish I could take it back. 

Me: Well....it is kind of like a big poop.


Well, I could see the wheels turning but she seemed to accept it.  I thought things were okay....until a few hours later.

She came to me, clearly disappointed, with her head down.

Me: What's wrong, P?
Peyton: I tried to poop a baby (big sigh, lip quivering), but I just pooped a poop.

Parenting fail.  In a few years, I will let Chris field the puberty talk.