And I don’t mean the beads and bikinis kind of wild. I mean the I just spent a weekend mostly alone with my 4 year-old and 9 month-old while my husband worked kind of wild. I mean it’s Tuesday and I still feel and probably look like the Incredible fucking Hulk. I mean how in the name of everything that is good and holy in this world do single mothers do this every day of the week?
I mean, the sheer will power it takes to put pants on at 8:00 a.m. on a lone Saturday morning—after putting them on for five consecutive work days prior—is enough to send me back under the covers. (Maybe then I wouldn’t be able to hear my four year-old’s plaintive pleas to abscond with my phone so he can demolish my Candy Crush game and likely rack up a hefty sum of “boosters.”) And even when I do eventually muster the strength to at least think about putting on pants, there’s that guilt ridden tug on my brain that tells me I should actually get my kids outside at some point today. And THAT in itself, my friends, is an organizational feat worthy of golden prize.
You see, when your aim is to get two kids out the door before nap time meltdowns, there are things you have to do: feed and clothe them. Sure, this may sound like typical things a parent must do to fulfill their children’s basic human needs, but ooohhh no no no no. It’s much more than that. Let’s start with breakfast. By the time you’ve told the older one to sit down and eat his eggs seventeen times, thrown the dishes in the sink and put the cup of last night’s milk (which he still didn’t drink for breakfast) back in the fridge, it’s time give him a snack. Which is actually code word for treat. Which is actually code word for candy. Because obviously the breakfast he just ate was devoid of some sort of sugary substance that his body must have lest he should shrivel and die from the snackless weight of the world on his four year-old shoulders, at least that’s what his high-pitch whine would lead you to believe. So you quickly weigh the benefits of giving into his sugar addiction or offering him a carrot and decide to go with the sugar because it’s 9:00 a.m. and you haven’t even had your coffee yet.
Once the snack situation is sorted out, the younger one inevitably needs a new diaper. And a new set of clothes because some sort of green-ish brown substance that loosely resembles the breakfast you fed him just oozed from his mouth and onto his front…and his feet…and his hands and oh god, now it’s in his hair too. You carry him to the changing table, arms outstretched like he’s some sort of rabid racoon, which he kind of is. By this time the older one, who is now sufficiently sugared, has managed to begin dressing himself. Yet he is suddenly stricken by come incomprehensible malady that renders him incapable of putting on his socks. A fact he is making you quite aware of with his outside voice level shrieks. He’s across the hall.
So you sit the ooze-free and re-clothed younger one down in a location that doesn’t seem to carry a threat of impending death and meet the older one in his room. No sooner have you sat down to wrestle the offending socks on his flailing feet, which is akin to wrestling a bag of wet snakes, he declares that he has to go potty and dashes to the bathroom, leaving you with empty socks in your hands, sweat dripping down your forehead and a foot-sized hole in your soul. Also, still no coffee. Now the younger one, who has been left alone for approximately 15 and a half seconds, is crying like his pants are on fire. So you abort sock mission to check on him because for all you know, the way this morning is going, his pants may actually be on fire. Turns out they’re not. But they are full of poop.
Enter diaper. Outside voice. Impending death. Socks. Etc.
Finally, poop cleansed and sockmageddon at bay for one more day, you start situating the younger one in his car seat. At the same time, you commence the infamous “put on your shoes” rant with the older one. Race cars, the mailman in the neighbor’s lawn and a bug crawling on the floor all distract him from the task at hand. You tell him that if he doesn’t put on his shoes now, he’s not going to have a snack after lunch. You tell him that if he doesn’t put on his shoes NOW he’s losing stories at nap time. You tell him that if he doesn’t put his shoes on right. now. you and baby are going to go to the park without him.
Turns out threat of abandonment is never a good choice
He starts crying. Baby starts crying. You die a little bit more inside.
So you take it all back. Everyone gets snacks. Snacks and stories. Snacks and stories for everyone. Snacks and stories all day long.
“Even baby?” the older one asks.
“Yes, even baby,” you reply. “IF you get your shoes on and get in the car so mommy can go get a coffee.”
And then it hits you. At as soon as the word “coffee” leaves your chapped lips, you snap out of the task-oriented, mission critical coma that you’ve been in for the last 15 minutes? 20 minutes? An hour? Who knows. And come to terms with reality. That greenish-brown baby ooze from earlier? It’s all down the left sleeve of your sweatshirt. You haven’t brushed your hair. Or your teeth. And you still might not be wearing any pants. Even you’d be embarrassed to be seen with you.
Resigned, you turn to the older one. “Want to watch Rescue Bots, buddy?”
Without a word he abandons the shoes and plops down on his favorite spot on the couch and gives you a blank stare. This is your cue to turn on Netflix. You oblige.
Suddenly all is suspiciously quiet. And still. Even the buzzing in your head has ceased momentarily. You glance over at baby suspecting to find some sort of foreign object to be stuffed in his mouth. Instead you see that he’s been replaced with some sort of magic unicorn baby who is soundly sleeping in his car seat…a tiny bubble of greenish-brown ooze forming at the corner of his mouth.
You’d be a fool not to seize this calm. You head to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Finally. Maybe, you think, just maybe you can get a few sips in before it’s time to think about feeding these kids again. But that’s it. You’re not going outside for the rest of the day. And you’re sure as shit not putting on any fucking pants.
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