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.

Kinda bad news, or really bad news?

Here's what happened on my last night of kickball.

Yeah, I played kickball, and I got on base.  Once.  The entire season.  Count it!

The one time I got on base was the time that Seth and Lakeland came to cheer me on.  Just before I got up to bat, my cheering squad took off for a quick diaper change.  And that's when I kicked a heater right down the third base line, which is exactly what I'd tried to do every other time I was up to bat (and popped out to the pitcher). 

Anyway...they were gone a looooong time, and when they returned, Lakeland was not wearing the perfect kickball-watching outfit I had picked out for her.  She was in fact, not wearing anything at all.  Except her diaper. 

It's not abnormal, though, for Seth to change a diaper and not bother with redressing the child.  However, this being a public place, outdoors, I don't know...would he really do that?

Quizzically, I looked at my husband, who was slowly shaking his head from side to side as he shuffled toward me.  Here's what he had to say:

"So, do you want to hear the kinda bad news, or the really bad news?"

I was still on a high from getting on base.  How bad could this news really be? 

It turned out that Lakeland was unclothed for two reasons. 

#1:  She pooped through her diaper and onto her shirt and her pants.  Seth claimed no fault of his own.  He said (God, how many women have heard this??) "Babe, I think Lakeland must be sick or something.  That was NOT a normal diaper.  There was poop everywhere.  Her shirt and her pants are covered.

OK, how does this always happen?  I can change a shitty diaper, while Lakeland is squirming ON MY LAP, in a moving bus.  A moving bus that is going over speed bumps.  At 90 miles per hour.  And still not get poop anywhere it's not supposed to be.   

#2:  Somewhere in the process of flinging the dirty diaper round and round his head and then squashing it into her clothing (it's seriously the only way I can think of that poop got all over the inside and outside of the car, including a trail of chunks in the parking lot) Seth closed all of the doors, then picked up an unclad Lakeland, who had been playing with the car keys, from the back of the truck.  Then shut the door...the locked door...keys quietly lying on the floor inside, right where Lakeland left them. 

And this was the really bad news.