Mindless Mom

My three-year-old daughter sculpted me a “flower pile” today.

Her technique included stealing the green play-doh from her younger sister, mushing it together with her orange play-doh and then slamming it all down on the dining room table for effect.  She then plucked a fake flower from a vase in the living room and planted it in the tye-dyed play-doh. 

She added the newspaper only because I hollered at her for setting her beautiful creation on the carpet seven times and leaving play-doh crumbs all over. 

And there you have it - a “flower pile”.

In the last two weeks both my husband and my father have told me that in order to reach out to additional blog readers I’m going to have to reduce and/or eliminate the profanity used in my posts.  I thought about telling them to screw off.  (Screw isn’t a swear word, right?) 

Instead, I thought I’d take them up on their challenge and get through 1/2 dozen posts sans curse words.  Here’s hoping they’re still funny, because I genuinely don’t use swear words to offend - they’re just funny to me.  If I wanted to offend someone I wouldn’t speak at all, much less worry about interjecting profanity for emphasized hatred.

As a kid I LOVED bouncy balls.  As a parent I LOATHE bouncy balls. 

I swear (oh, the irony), I have never in my life witnessed such drama as that which is sparked between two siblings chasing a bouncy ball down a flight of stairs.   Yes, it’s just as safe as it sounds.

“STOP…….WALK……DON’T RUN…..DON’T TOUCH IT…..WAIT UNTIL THE BALL STOPS BOUNCING!”  And that’s a quote from my five-year-old.  My three-year-old daughter completely ignored him.  She secured her place at the base of the stairs by spreading her pork chop feet as far as she could and dug her toenails into the wood floor to brace herself from the oncoming force of her older brother – all the while never losing sight of the orange iridescent glow ball. 

Neither of them “won”.  I intervened after both toppled to the ground and took turns wiggling from the other’s grip in an attempt to grab the bouncy ball that landed predictably at the base of my feet.  I calmly picked up the bouncy ball and placed it in the garbage disposal.  Don’t worry, I didn’t flip the switch.

A few hours later I heard “IT’S MY TURN!” being screamed at the top of a little girl’s voice - a voice that resembles a truck driver rather than your typical three-year-old diva.  I turned the corner to the hallway to catch a glimpse of my five-year-old son whipping his arm down to the ground as hard as he could and then watching as a seemingly familiar orange iridescent bouncy ball pings from the ceiling…….to the ground……to the wall……..to the ceiling……….to the ground………to the wall………and knocking a picture frame on the wall.

“Did you put your hand in the disposal to get that back?”, I asked as my stomach dropped to my ankles and my voice went up three octaves.

“Nope.  Dad gave us three.”

I removed the second bouncy ball from my daughter’s clutches as she screamed for her turn and then straightened the picture frame on the wall.   I made the announcement that “All bouncy balls are to be used OUTSIDE only”.  Next, I opened the front door and tossed the bouncy ball into a baseball glove laying on the front porch. 

Later on in the day we decided to head outside to ride bikes in the driveway.  I shuffled all three kids outside and told them to wait by the porch until I opened the garage door.  I glanced back and noticed that my one-year-old had a round, orange sphere in her mouth and grinning from ear to ear.  She refused to take it out and ground her teeth into the ball as hard as she could.  This resulted in a game of tug of war between my hand and her baby canine teeth.  I’ve since decided that she could possibly be  3/4 human and 1/4 pitbull.  A few minutes later she finally ended up laughing too hard to continue lock-jaw mode and the orange ball dropped to the ground. 

Her siblings raced to claim the bouncy ball as is gained momentum uncontrollably bouncing down our sloped driveway.  The ball wasn’t even bouncing 3 inches off the ground.  The two of them looked like apes running on all fours.  I would have laughed if I hadn’t had to scream “STOP!” at the top of my lungs as the bouncy ball took one last bounced and rolled across the street -right into the street gutter.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh………………………………….finally, problem solved. 

Wait, did he say dad gave them THREE?

This morning I was one hot mama driving to work.

After I started driving east this morning, I found myself staring straight into the sun.  I immediately whipped my purse up onto my lap and proceeded to fumble through it for the next ten minutes trying to find my sunglasses.  No luck.  Something tells me they’re sitting on my kitchen counter after yesterday’s trip to the zoo -where we spent a couple hours at the center of the sun (based on the temperature outside).  But that’s a story for another day……….

Coming up empty on the sunglasses hunt, I continued to squint while driving for another ten-mile stretch.  I was checking my side mirror when I glanced down to my door compartment and caught a glimpse of my son’s folded, blue slate sunglasses.  They were smaller than my own, yes, but they would get the job done until I pulled into work. 

Once on my head, I felt like I had swim goggles suctioned to my eyeballs.  I think I still have a band around my temples from the pressure.  Not that plastic indentations aren’t a good look.  That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

The shades instantly removed years from my appearance and maturity level.  I decided to take pictures of myself driving.  I pulled out my camera mid-drive to capture what my fellow commuters would be taking in upon glancing in my direction.  Who wouldn’t be looking at me? :) 

After reviewing the pix, I felt a larger need to apologize for my woodpecker profile than actually wearing kid sunglasses.  That orthodontist may have been on to something by suggesting that I have my jaw realigned when I was fourteen.

Oh well - oncoming traffic had a better visual of my suctioned beetle eyes. 

That being said, I think I’m going to look into adding five minutes to my morning routine to dry my hair, stop wearing ugly jewelry, buy new lipstick, and work on pushing my lower jaw out when people are standing next to me. 

Oh yeah…….and I’ll try to remember to keep my sunglasses in my purse.

And to think, I thought the miniature sunglasses were going to give me a complex?!?!

As my husband so boldly wrote in an email “HISTORY HAS BEEN MADE”.

Today, for the first time in the history of mankind, I pulled out and used a coupon before it expired.  Oh yeah - and it was for a free bar of deodorant, no less.  It feels SOOOO good stickin’ it to the man!  Those stink maskers were banking on me losing that puppy in my coat pocket, never to be seen (or redeemed) again.

I was out and about this morning and stumbled upon a torn out Adidas advertisement with a coupon for a FREE deodorant stick in my purse.  Normally, even after finding a coupon, I would still walk into the store and walk out with $25 worth of crap - none of which would be the golden couponed gem.  And the coupon would continue to sit in my purse for another 6-7 months, until it disintegrated.

But today was a new day.  I had the coupon in hand, refused to put it back in my purse, and carried it around the store.  At one point I think I even waved it around while humming the Star Wars theme song, as not to forget my mission at hand.   

I cased through the CVS aisles and uncovered good ole’ Adidas Sensitive Deodorant Stick in Aisle 7, bottom shelf, 2″ from the dirty floor.  There was an Instant $1.00 Off Coupon attached to the stick, but today I had that beat.  A dollar off was mere child’s play……………..today I was getting this mo fo for free.

Of course I had that awkward moment where a free thing was almost too good to be true.  I had to actually BUY something, right?  I couldn’t just walk up to the register with a stick of deodorant, hand over a coupon, exchange no money and walk out with it……could I?  That would appear too awkward, too greedy….too cheap.  I am employed for god sake.  Those damn marketers.  Wait, I am one of those damn marketers?!?  Oh, the irony.

Two items and $7.21 later I walked out of CVS.  That tube of Neutrogena Anti-Wrinkle, Anti-Blemish Scrub better make my skin as smooth as a baby’s butt- or I’m getting my money back!   And then I’ll really be stickin’ it to the man!

Today I genuinely contemplated putting on a diaper just to find out what shitting your pants is like these days.  Because no matter how I spin it in my head, I can’t imagine that squatting under a dining room table, hovering in a corner between plastic dinosaurs and doll bunk beds, or taking off in a mad sprint for the kitchen mid-dump can make the process any less gross.  Call me crazy.

My three-year-old went from not giving two shits about going on the toilet to taking two shits an hour on the toilet.  She’s become fascinated with public restrooms in two weeks time.  Just when I thought public restrooms couldn’t get any more grotesque, I now have to watch my daughter run her hands around the entire toilet bowl and lift the seat fifteen times - just for kicks.  There’s not enough Purell on this earth to make me feel better about that maneuver. 

That being said, my three-year-old continues to leave pooping in her diaper as optional…..as was the case this morning.  Bottom line - my husband owes me.  And I don’t mean like “Honey if you would make dinner that would be great”.  I mean he OWES me!  Today I had to change 14 diapers in a two-hour window.  One of which could have gotten up, walked itself over to the toilet, shaken out its shit and walked out the front door.  And I am NOT kidding. 

My two girls had it timed.  It was like GO TIME at 12 minute intervals.  What started with the simple question, “Did someone poop?” quickly took a direct turn down the avenue of “Who pooped?” and rounded the corner with “Hold on.  I’ll change you right after I change your sister’s stinky butt.”  The series ended with “What in the HELL did you two eat?”

So as I’m using up my last plastic grocery bag to provide a force field around the final poop bomb of the hour, I hear “Mom, can you come here?” from the bathroom.  It was my son calling.  As I opened the door I froze my left foot just as it was about to step into a pile of shit.  At that very moment I wished for a maid, a power washer, and a gallon of Germ X.  I thought screaming “God, why have you done this to me?” would have been a bit extreme.  

Poor kid had joined the ranks of what I instantly realized was a stomach bug making its way through our house.  As he so eloquently recapped, “it was spitting out my butt”.  Thanks for the visual.  Like the brown “finger paint” scattered around the toilet didn’t already take care of that for me.

I got him cleaned up and changed.  He raced back to play.  Meanwhile, I dropped to my knees and spent ½ hour cleaning up poop from the floor, from the toilet seat, from the rug, and even the wall.  I’m not sure if he shot himself off the toilet like a cannon or what, but there was crap everywhere.  And I mean “crap” in the most literal and disgusting sense of the word. 

As I finished the scrub down with a spray of the Lysol can, diapers suddenly made sense to me.  And this, my friends, brings us to the beginning of the story where I contemplated shitting in my pants.  Never fear, I passed on the idea………..and instead thanked the heavens for toilet paper and bowel control.