Katie's Mom

Lakeland takes a 45 minute gymnastics class every Wednesday.  The most entertaining part of this 45 minutes is watching the interactions between this one little girl named Katie, and her Mom.

Little Katie is a fairly normal kid, if not a bit overzealous.  Katie's Mom...she's just in a constant state of rigidity.  She's like a puma, ready to pounce on Katie for any deviance from the norm.  She has to be exhausted from holding that level of tension all day.  I bet she falls right into Katie's bed at night and drops immediately into a deep, deep sleep.

Today, I documented the relationship of Katie and Katie's Mom.  I pretended like I was playing Candy Crush like all the other moms, but really I was snapping the following photos (and yes, I know that I am a total wench for doing this, but it's SO FUNNY):

#1: Every class starts the same way.  Katie's Mom reminds Katie "Please be quiet, honey."

#2:  Katie's Mom shows Katie (dark hair, orange shirt) who she's supposed to be listening to.  
 











#3:  Katie's Mom then sits no more than 12 inches from Katie.

  




#4:  Katie's Mom sits with the class while the kids are getting instructions from the teacher.  Here, Katie's Mom exhibits what good behavior looks like.  If you're 3.

#5:  Katie's mom sits on the balance beam while the kids learn the mechanics of a cartwheel.  See Katie in the orange shirt?  Right next to her mom...  

(See Lakeland back there in the pink shirt?  She is jumping on a mini trampoline, not listening to the teacher, or sitting with her class plus Katie's Mom.  Too bad her mom is too busy taking pictures of Katie's Mom to discipline her.  Actually, Lakeland's mom figures she paid 80 bucks for this class...she's the teacher's problem for 45 minutes.)

#6:  Katie's Mom swoops and scoops.  Teacher tries to stop Katie's mom for ruining everything!

(See Lakeland back there in the pink shirt?  She is coming back to sit with the class because I gave her my patented "mom look".  From across the room.  No swooping, no scooping.)

#7:  Bye-bye Katie.  :(

#8:  She's baaaaaaccccckkkkkk.  See Katie's Mom sitting with the class?  In the white shirt in front of Lakeland?  (Not pictured:  Katie.  OH MY GOD, where is Katie?) 

Airport Assholes

Seth and I behave very differently at the airport.  Where I am calm, compliant and obedient, Seth is cantankerous, indignant and defiant. 

He starts bitching about having to take his shoes off for security before we've even parked the car.  And then promptly launches into a diatribe about how these"safety measures" are all bullshit, and nothing has really changed, etc, etc, etc.  I won't share with you all of his complaints and the reasons behind them because you aren't married to him and therefore shouldn't be subjected to his absurd ramblings. I mean, the man deliberately puts a gallon of water in his carry on, and then scoffs when he gets caught violating the four ounces of liquid rule.  He makes horrible faces, loud, annoyed sighs, and rolls his eyes within 20 feet of any security guard.  And then wonders why he gets patted down.

I've been around his asshole-ish-ness enough now that I simply head to the furthest line from him so I don't have to witness, and get mad about, his ridiculous airport attitude.  I will have gone through security with Lakeland, collected our belongings, put my shoes back on, made a bathroom stop and arrived at our departure gate before Seth has finished chugging his carry-on gallon of water and getting frisked.

When it's just Lakeland and I, traveling is easy.  She is great in the airport, and has traveled by air so often that it's kind of a norm for her.  We usually arrive early for our flight, and she holds my hand quietly while we wait in line for our boarding passes.  Once we've dropped our luggage, we zip through security (because I am not an asshole) and find a nice place to sit and relax until our plane takes off.  While I sip my coffee and she crushes pizza and ice cream, we people watch and I make fun of others (in my head, not in front of her...she doesn't need to know how mean I am). 

The best is when a frenzied mom, (look around next time you're at the airport and you'll find plenty of these women) is traveling with her children, and spends all of her pre-flight time screaming at them, yanking their arms right out of the sockets, telling them not to drink anything or they'll all have to pee in flight, trying to stop them from emptying their Spiderman and Dora backpacks all over the ground, and imploring them, loudly, to be quiet.  All the while these women are carrying 47 bags, plus jackets, shoes, stuffed animals, pillows and anything else the kids can jam under her armpits.  Oh, and she's carrying a baby and a 43 pound toddler.  She's dripping sweat and her hair is all kinds of jacked up.  And she's still got a good 6 hours of this before she arrives at her destination, whereupon, I'm pretty sure, she'll drop her kids off on some relative and check herself into a psychiatric facility.

And there I am, sitting smugly with my well behaved child, whose belongings are all neatly tucked into her carry on.

Until my last flight from Grand Rapids to Baltimore.  That was the flight where I turned into an airport asshole.  Lakeland, overtired from the trip to Michigan, was an absolute nightmare.  A complete basket-case.  She refused to hold my hand (until I yanked her arm), was full on running, smashing into people and yelling "PEOPLE MOVER MOMMY" at one of those flat escalator things, then tripping balls while mounting the moving walkway and giving me a heart attack while I stared helplessly from ten feet behind her, weighed down by luggage.

This is the bag, jammed full of all our stuff.

You see, I couldn't keep up with her because I had forgotten to pack all of our dirty laundry from the week into my checked suitcase and so, stupidly, shoved the dirty clothes, including super sweaty, stinky, heavy, wet workout stuff, into my carry-on.  Which wasn't a backpack or anything convenient like that, but one of those big ol' non-closeable bags with handles that makes your arm break off after carrying it for five minutes.

So there I was, screaming "Lakeland, get back hereyouarebeingawfulandyouareneverwatchingTVagain" and running behind her, all sideways style because my right half was loaded down by my stupid carry-on full of a pile of dirty laundry, plus coloring books, snacks, crayons, hardcover books, jackets, blankets and stuffed animals.  My hand was numb and my fingers that painful purpleish white from hanging onto this albatross.  Plus I was sweating like a hog, hair everywhere.

Once I finally caught up to her, I immediately laid into her about not listening and obeying, and she promptly sat. right. down. and. refused. to. move.  I briefly considered using a sharp crayon as a weapon, but I was too tired to dig through the laundry to find it.  So instead I started bartering with her.  Right there, in the middle of the concourse. 

You know those carts that bring the elderly or disabled to their gates?  The ones that beep, beep, beep through the airport and you are supposed to move over for them?  Yeah.  Lakeland gave all those carts the equivalent of her middle finger, and stayed planted where she was.  Those carts can whip around people if they have to, just FYI.

Anyway, when haggling went absolutely nowhere, and yelling even less effective, I pulled the tried and true move of abandonment.  I said "Fine.  I'm going.  You can stay there if you want." And I started walking away and she started screaming like she got hit by one of those beeping carts.  But she still wouldn't move, and I started noticing those looks that people give horrible parents like me.  I would have gone back for her, just to wipe off those judgy faces, but I seizing up from all the tension and the damn carry-on, so instead, I just sat. down. too.

We had a Mexican stand-off with each other while the beeping airport carts whirled around and between us, like we were the orange cones in a police obstacle course.

All of a sudden I heard on the intercom "Final boarding call for Grand Rapids.  The gate will be closed in 2 minutes."   I leapt up like a cheetah, grabbed my little wildebeest and ran to my gate while shitting my pants.  

We made it just in time, and I could not wait to get back to DC so I could pass Lakeland off to Seth and drink a box of wine, but when we landed, Seth had left me a message that he was stuck in traffic and still an hour away.  I found an empty steel bench, laid my head down on my dirty laundry bag, and closed my eyes while Lakeland opened both of our suitcases and dressed up the vending machines with the remainder of our clean clothes.

I love nitrous oxide

On a much lighter note, and speaking of the dentist, I love, love, love nitrous oxide.  Love.  It.  I have the best ideas when I'm strapped to a chair with metal tools buzzing in my mouth and one of these (see photo) crazy masks fastened to my face.

If I had an endless supply of nitrous at home, I'd have several best selling novels already, or at the very least, some good columns to submit to various newspapers and magazines, assuming that nitrous use doesn't kill any brain cells.

I always think I'm so sly when I'm hooked up to nitrous.  When the hygienist puts that pug nose on me and starts the flow of gas, I start sucking it up my nostrils like a greedy heroine addict.  Only I pretend, all nonchalant-like, that I'm barely breathing it in, even though I cannot feel my legs and there is a "whaaawhaaaaawhaaaa" sound rushing through my head.  When the hygeniest comes back and asks me if I'm starting to feel it, I try to focus enough to indicate that in fact, I cannot feel it, and with my thumb pointed skyward, gesture to turn the gas up even higher. Which she does.  Which results in me getting even higher.  YAY!

So the last time I managed to persuade the hygienist into upping my dose (she did, several times, though I'm pretty sure she was on to my wily ways), I was sucking on my mask so hard (I always think that the more deeply and frequently I can breathe the gas in, the better...so I'm basically slow motion nasal hyperventilating, if that's a thing), and was so blown out, that the rubber muzzle thing got suctioned to my nostrils and I couldn't breathe.  I started to panic, and I mean panic.  I was going to die with a pug mask gripping my nose!  And I almost did die, even though there was absolutely nothing blocking or suctioned to my mouth...I was fully capable of taking a breath at any time (again, see photo).  I was so high-balls that I literally forgot I had a mouth, which is really stupid since my mouth was the whole reason I was given the opportunity to get so stinking high.

Barely in time to prevent me from my early demise, the dentist came in, took one look at my bugged out eyeballs, and said "You don't have to suck in the gas so hard like that, you can just breathe normally".  And she said all this pretty calmly, as if I wasn't sitting there perishing.  

Suddenly, a loud gasping sound entered the room as my autonomous reflexes finally took over.  I'm pretty sure they turned the gas off after that, because I heard her say "Bring her down", kind of sternly to the hygienist, and that was that.   

Disclaimer #1:  Just in case you don't know me personally, I do not do drugs or promote drug use.   Except in the dentist office. 

Disclaimer #2:  One of my best ideas when super high at the dentist is writing about how similar dental procedures are to gynecological procedures.  I know I have a genius idea in my head regarding the subject, but as soon as the gas wears off, so does my brilliant theory.

The Dentist

About two weeks ago, I made Lakeland's first dentist appointment.  Because I'm insane, and also because I'm still fairly new around these parts, I did exhaustive research to find the best pediatric dentists in the area.  Yelp gave Alexandria Children's Dentistry 5 stars, and after googling the crap out of everything related to their business, I decided to give it a go.

I made an appointment and gave the receptionist my insurance information.  She said that she hadn't heard of Kaiser Permanente before, but she'd make a call and make sure that her office accepted the insurance.  She also said just to plan on bringing Lakeland in if I didn't hear anything back from her.

Seth and I spent the days leading up to her appointment talking to her about the dentist, showing her library books about the dentist, watching youtube video's of kids at the dentist, and queuing her older friends about their first trips to the dentist.  We were prepared.

We got up and got ready to go this morning, reminding LL that today was the big day!!  Time for the dentist.  Got my coffee and her water, left the fruit snacks in the snack drawer, and hauled everything out to the car.  And just as I snapped Lakeland's last buckle (yes, folks...I've learned my lesson), my phone rang.

It was the 5 star rated dentist's office.

Horrible Dentist Office:  Hi, Mrs. Weinburger, this is Alexandria Children's Dentistry...you have an appointment for Lakeland in about 20 minutes?

Me:  Yes.  Yes?

Horrible Dentist Office:  We just checked, and our office doesn't take your insurance, so unless you want to fork over $240 cash, we can't see her.  (I'm paraphrasing here.)

Me:  So, you are telling me that you just now called the insurance company, and after a week of prepping, I have to get my daughter, who thinks she is on her way to the equivalent of a party for her teeth, out of the car and tell her we aren't going??  

Horrible Dentist Office:  Yeah, sorry about that.

Me:  That's horrible.  She's 3, and she's ready to go to the dentist.  We are in the CAR, on the way, and you are JUST calling me right now??

What I'd have directed LL to do if we went to get a sticker.

Horrible Dentist Office:  Well, you can bring her in and we'll give her a sticker?

Me, after a very long pause, trying to figure out if she is putting me on, or if this pediatric office just doesn't have much experience with kids:  Um...no, I'm going to pass.

So then I took Lakeland to see a movie, where she crushed an entire box of Sour Patch Kids and half a bag of popcorn.  Pretty much the opposite of a visit to the dentist.

You got a warrant?

OK, I didn't leave my baby on roof of the car.  But when I told Seth what I did do, he said "Wow, honey.  You are like one of those ladies that leaves her baby on top of the car."  

While not fond of the comparison, he had a point.  Because here's what I did do.  I drove to the gym with my daughter securely inside the car.  And when we got to the gym and I parked the car, Lakeland leaned forward.  Waaaaayyyyy forward...and said "Mommy, why didn't you make me safe this time?"

I turned around to find my very perplexed toddler (actually, um...can I get arrested for this?  If you are a police officer, please stop reading this blog immediately) sitting, seat belt unengaged, in her car seat.  

If this has happened to you, and it probably hasn't because you are probably not the worst parent in the United States, you know that this is not the same feeling you might have when, say, you leave a cup of coffee on the hood.  Or you pull into the garage with your kayak on the roof of your car.  Again.  Or you leave yourself signed onto Facebook or Gmail at a public computer.  Or really, any other idiotic thing that you might do.  I mean to tell you, this was a gut check.  As in, my guts lurched forward and gave me a well deserved punch to my sternum.  This was basically all of my parental insecurities, from screwing up sleep and potty training to being pretty sure that my kid is going to turn into a monster, all rolled up into a nice, pretty, unbelted package.

Lakeland happily swung down from her chair, unattended to, and hopped into the front seat, sing-songing "Mommy, you didn't buckle me.  Mommy, you didn't buckle me."  Because when you're little, it's kind of cool.  When you're 35...not so much.  Not even Brittney Spears is cool enough to pull this off. 

Things that are important to know about this situation:
1.  We live 0.3 miles from the gym.  Here.  I googlemapped it for you.

Walking directions are in beta.

Use caution – This route may be missing sidewalks or pedestrian paths.    
***Or babies could be left on the roofs of cars!!***

Suggested routes

0.3 mi, 6 mins

Wyndham Cir

2.  I know what you're thinking.  (Besides the obvious...why do they let people like you have children, etc, etc, etc...)
 

You all:  Why didn't she just walk?  

Me:  Because.  And this isn't what you should be judging me for, people.

You all:  Really?  You can't walk less than half a mile to the gym??  (I can hear the sarcasm in your voices.)

Me:  It was raining!  

3.  I felt really, really awful.  Obviously.  No matter what sympathetic offerings other women provided.  When I got to the daycare at the gym, I felt I needed to offload some of the guilt by sharing this mortifying moment with LL's very sweet caregiver, who said "Don't worry, honey, everybody does that once or twice."  To which I replied, "Really?  Oh, thank GOD.  So you've done it, too?"  To which she replied, "No, not me!  No!  I've never done that!"  

3a.  When I told my mom, who, incidentally, DID leave her kayak on the roof of her car as she drove into the garage...again...she said "OH MY GOD, ERIN!!  THAT'S AWFUL!"  

There is nothing like the comforting words of your mom...

3b.  And speaking of my mom, when I was a kid, she drove around with my brothers unbelted, on the backseat, and I rode on the fricken floorboards.  Regardless of the weather or distance of travel.  When my oldest brother Josh was an infant, he rode bundled in blankets, in the front seat of the car.  And since breastfeeding wasn't encouraged then, my mom used to bottle fed us while she was driving.  (I don't know if that's really true or not.  Mom?  Want to weigh in?)

4.  I don't mean to make any of this sound like it was my mom's fault.  Obviously it wasn't.

  

Dear Mommy,

 

I looked for the perfect card for you for the special day.  As I read card after card, my eyes welling up, I started smiling, and then laughing, knowing that I got that Bawl-Baby Hallmark Reflex straight from you.  I ended up putting all the cards back, because, in the end, I would have needed to buy at least 20 to get the right mix of sentiments that would express how very special you are, and how very much I love you.

Even though we aren't together this Mother's Day, I feel you all around me.  The dishes are done, the washer and dryer are running, the coffee is made for tomorrow, and I'm drinking a cup of tea.  I am my mother's daughter, after all. 

A young Erin used to shoot sunbeams from her eyelashes every time someone said I looked just like you.  That was always such a glorious compliment to me, and one that still fills me with pride.  I've heard we make the same expressions, have similar voices, the same laugh...and just as when I was a girl, it makes me feel beautiful.  I know that you'll say I'm biased, but I also know that everyone thinks that your beauty comes from everything that you are.  It's not just thick, shiny hair, beaming eyes, a smile so big and so genuine that it can dance across a room all by itself, and a well conditioned and well taken care of body, that makes you so gorgeous.  It's your positive outlook, your work ethic, your ability to see the best in everyone, and the warm way that you invite and welcome conversation.  You find a way to relate to everyone that crosses your path. 

An older Erin, still not a woman, relished time with you.  My friends didn't lay with their moms as teenage girls.  They didn't scoot into the bathroom and watch while their mothers put on makeup.  But I loved it.  Even when the hair dryer blasted, I was content just to be in your vicinity.  Now grown, while being hair dryer adjacent isn't so tempting, I still cannot get tired of the comfort you provide, just by being near.  You provide me with massive amounts of Oxytocin.  I have never quite let go of your apron strings, and have never felt you trying to yank those strings from my grasp.  I'm so thankful for that.

Now a grown woman, I've learned a few things.  You are nicer than I am.  You are a better listener, and way less judgmental.  Intellectually, I know you endured many hardships when we were children.  I haven't had near as rocky of a road with marriage and motherhood, and I know that what you went through pushed me to be a stronger woman and to wait, wait, wait until I'd found the best man for me. You have heard Seth and I repeat that Lakeland's job is "Listen and Obey", and perhaps you've also heard us talk about our jobs as her parents.

Seth:  Provide and Play

Me:  Love and Protect

For a very long time, you did all four hugely important and impactful jobs for three kids.  Three kids that did not listen and obey, as I remember it.  And you must have done it with grace too, because I've never heard anybody say "You know, that Judi is pretty cool nowadays, but Boy O Boy you shoulda seen her back in the day.  Whatta Bitch!"  I say it every year, but I don't know how you did it.  Three kids, while going to school and working full time.  I know you never slept.  I know our house was clean, and our clothes folded and put away, and we were well fed, and you pulled A's, and you were loved at work.  You are simply amazing.

I have learned that having a child makes you capable of feeling and giving love from depths that were previously untouched.  I understand so much better now how much you love me, love the three of us.

Thank you, Mom.  I am a lucky, lucky girl to have you.

Love,

YDE

Does that kid have a boner?

While in the car this weekend, the following conversation took place:

Seth (spotting the stick people family bumper sticker on a minivan ahead of us):  Can we agree to never get those stick people bumper stickers on our car?

Erin:  No, I am not agreeing to that.  I'm not saying we should, but I think they're kinda cute.

Seth (as we are getting closer to the minivan with stick people plastered on the rear window):  What's up with that kid in the middle?  I think he has a boner.

Erin (speeding up to get a better look):  No way.  No way!  That kid totally has a boner!

Seth:  That. Is. Awesome.

Erin:  A boner!

Seth:  (from his new vantage point, now 2 feet from the bumper of the boner car):  Nope, it's tree.  He's doing yoga.

Word to the wise.  Do not make your teenage stick figure bumper sticker boy do yoga.  From afar, it looks like he's pitching a tent.

Boner Boy

If you can't see it, walk across the room, away from your computer, and take another gander...

The Peanut Buttery Knife

I wrote this two years ago, when LL was still a breastfed baby.  I haven't changed a bit.  Neither has Seth...

Photo credit:  Todd Hoort

So last night I was rushing to get LL down for bed as well as finish making dinner, etc.  And I was starving.  So I hurried LL through her night time feed and tried to put her down for bed, but of course that didn't work, so I came out of the nursery, with LL in my arms and said to my husband "OK, well...I need to eat.  I can't feed her and try to get her down until I eat or I'm going to pass out."  He said fine, and we ate a lovely chicken dish that I'd prepared (which was rare...usually Seth cooked).

Which I pretty much just swallowed in 3 seconds, forgetting to enjoy.

So then I say, OK...just take LL and give me a second to clean up the kitchen.  Blah blah blah...we have a discussion about maybe I should have put the baby to bed and let him do the dishes, since he can't feed her, but he can do the dishes.  I agree, maybe that would have been a better idea, but I just wanted the kitchen to be clean (Erin clean, not Seth clean) and it took less than 15 minutes, and I just wanted to be able to wake up and NOT do dishes first thing in the morning.  But I really should have put the baby down first, he was right about that.

So I putzed around some more, cleaned and picked up here and there, and went into my clean kitchen, and he'd already eaten a sandwich and left his peanut-buttery knife all up in the sink.  The clean sink.  That I had just cleaned.  And now there was a dirty and peanut buttery knife in there!!  So I went into the living room and I said, "Honey...guess what?" And he knows me and he can see the big daggers shooting out of my eyeballs (and I said nothing else) and he said "I know, I left a knife in the sink" (yeah, he knows me pretty well) and then I said "Dishwasher, Seth.  It better be in the dishwasher" (God, it must really suck to live with me sometimes). 

And later, I went to get a piece of string cheese out of the refrigerator and guess what I found???  That peanut buttery knife.  In the refrigerator!  NOT the dishwasher.  Doesn't it take EXACTLY the same amount of time and effort to open and place a knife in the refrigerator as it does the dishwasher??? 

Then I found it back in the sink.  Still not the dishwasher.

The Marriott Travel Size Heist.

Word to the wise:  Bed, Bath and Beyond has a killer selection!

I am an aficionado of all things trial size.  I love trial size.  I love teeny shampoo and conditioner bottles, and little face washes, and mini body washes.  I love tiny mouth washes and hand sanitizers, and toothpaste tubes so small they can fit in your pocket.  Travel size toiletries make me happy in the same way that watching Roseanne while wearing Smartwool's makes me happy.  Pure.  Joy.

My trial size fascination began long ago when, as a kid, our family stayed in a hotel, a rare event.  I remember the desperate need to be the first of the five of us to get in the bathroom, so I could see the little V-shape the maid made with the toilet paper roll, and be the first to rip the wrapper off the one ounce soap bar.  I loved the way the little lotion and shampoo bottles were neatly lined up on the long vanity counter, sometimes on a plastic tray, like little soldiers waiting for action.

Only, here's the even more weird thing.  I really didn't want anyone to actually use these products.  I wanted to just stuff them in my backpack, and save them for a special time.  I was thrilled when, upon leaving, I was the only one that noticed (or cared) that there was a drop of shampoo left in the bottle in the shower, and I'd greedily snatch it and hide it amongst my belongings.

My treasure trove of embarrassment.

You know how when you were a kid, and you got a little pocket change, you could hardly wait to mount your bike and go rip roaring toward the candy store?  And you'd study the gum and the candy rings and the sweet-tart necklaces and the Laughy Taffy and the Willy Wonka Fun Dip, your mouth watering, and you'd figure out just exactly how much you could get with your $0.75? 

Now swap high end, as in Paul Mitchell, travel size products for the candy in the above example, and trade tingling hair follicles in lieu of mouth watering, and sub-in $110.00 for $0.75 , and you've got me, in a Marriott, plotting and scheming, hatching plan after plan to get my hands on as many of those Paul Mitchell products as possible, legally or not.

I worked out a fail proof strategy to stock my tote with trial size treasures the last time I stayed at the Marriott.  I was laying on the crisp white sheets of the king size bed and watching Roseanne while Lakeland painted on the hotel desk, when the best idea ever washed over me.  I quickly threw bathing suits on LL and myself, and marched to the front desk.  "Hi, how are you?" I said sweetly, then asked if I could get a couple of extra shampoo and conditioner bottles, presumably for showering after swimming in the pool.  Score!  I got 2 of each, plus 2 travel size baby shampoos.  Then, I waited until the shift change at 10:00pm, and went back to the front desk and asked the new person for a couple of extra bottles.  And it totally worked!!!  Five bottles of each travel size offering from the Marriott were now in my possession.  After resting for the night, it was time to implement Phase II, which involved rising early and sneaking out into the hallway, in my pajamas, to outright steal from the maid's cart.  Then, to go back to the front desk and ask the morning shift person for an additional supply, while also arranging for late checkout, in case Roseanne aired in the late morning. 

This is despicable, I know.  I alone probably drove the costs of staying at the Marriott above market rate.  But, it's also awesome.  Because, A.  I have supplied my gym bag for several months.  And B.  Who else would think of a shift change as an opportune time to scam more shampoo?

Now that I'm a "grown up", I actually use these products, with just a hint of remorse.  (Not for stealing them, but because I'm not sure when the next time I'll be able to stay in a Marriott and steal more will be.)  And yes, I know that I could just buy regular size Paul Mitchell products for $30.00 instead of stealing tiny ones for $110.00/night, but buying doesn't come with a bed I didn't have to make, and a bathroom I don't have to wash, and a big ol' TV.  Or the satisfaction of acquiring, however it happens, a huge supply of trial size bottles.

Awry. All of it. Awry.

Notice, not even Scotchgard protecting the rug.

You know that terrifying silence you awake to, knowing that you overslept?  That nothingness you hear the second before you go from prone to standing, frantically looking for the time on your alarm clock?

Replace that silence with the sound of a two year old vomiting, and you'll be right where I was at 5 o'clock this morning.  Confused.  Frantic.  Irrational. 

See that teeny pitcher?  I tripped on it rushing toward LL with a towel.

Thankfully, there was a bath towel on the floor near Lakeland, which was quickly swooped up and held near her face. 
Woefully, the towel served as a mere prop as she emptied her guts under, over and beside it.  This whole scene was about to become a seven hour dramedy, in which I played the part of a one-man assembly line, an incompetent nurse, a poorly trained maid, and a frazzled first time mom, and Lakeland played the part of 2 year old with the stomach flu. 

Let's start with the towel.  A towel.  For catching barf.  Why, why, why, did I choose a towel over say, a bucket?  Or a pan?  Or a bowl?  It's not like I have some distant memory of my mom running toward me with a towel when I was sick as a child.  She was a normal mom that brought me a normal bucket to puke in, while sitting next to me on the bathroom floor.  All very normal.

But normal didn't happen over here in "Erin panicked and could not properly use her brain" land.  This is a land where, if a fire were to break out and someone yelled for me to get some water, I would quickly run and fetch the nearest colander.

Warning:  One tablespoon of Gatorade = 1 quart of vomit

Poor Lakeland.  She was so, so sick.  And stuck here with a novice nurse. The first few times she vomited, she had a rather juvenile warning system in place.   She'd whimper, then make that herking noise that dogs and cats make before barfing, which would give me just enough time to run and grab a TOWEL to shove in her face.  Each time, the episode concluded with the towel, the kid, the furniture, the leased carpet and the mom, all covered in vomit.  And I'd just sit there like a mannequin, a very dumb and ditzy mannequin that should have been in the tiled bathroom, and wonder what I should do next.

Fighting every one of my natural instincts to start cleaning the carpet, I lovingly cooed to Lakeland that she was so so brave, while taking her vile clothing off and and putting her in the tub.  And each and every time I removed her from the tub and wrapped her in one of our clean, but diminishing supply of towels, she'd poop.  Everywhere.

All I could think of was the growing list of stuff that needed to be cleaned, and after getting her diapered and re-pajama-ed,  I'd stick her in front of the TV with a Gatorade and some crackers.  Then I'd turn all ping pong ball and run crazily from the bathroom to the washing machine to the puke/poop-carpet to the bathroom, over and over again, double fisting bottles of cleansers, while accomplishing nothing.


I finally came up with a method that I'll not describe it here, as it is disgusting and you might never want to step foot in my home, but suffice it to say, I would have made Eli Whitney and Henry Ford proud with my swift methods. 

By noon, Lakeland was in her 5th (and original) set of pajamas, and I was experiencing the natural high that some runners describe:  a euphoria that I'd reached my maximum potential on a biological and psychological level.  As a barf cleaner.  Though it's more likely that I had spent nearly 7 hours awash in the fumes of OxyClean, Woolite carpet cleaner, Arm and Hammer detergent and Ms. Meyers, all mixed with that vinegary vomit smell, that was making me feel so high.