| Ducks et al Beware of Gators | | Date Created: Sep 07, 2006, 10:28 PM |
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Picture of James in our backyard "fishing" off the deck and checking out the ducks.
Why do all good stories include James having a massive breakdown in a public place? Thank you, James, for making sure I always have plenty of material. So the latest. On Tuesday Jessica the babysitter and I took the boys to the barber shop. And they all did great! And I even got ogled by one of the barbers who after he asked me what I used to do said, “I never had a teacher who looked like that.” Since I’m not really a fixture in the bar scene these days, I’ll take a line like that from a guy with a stuffed chipmunk ninja on his counter with sincere appreciation. When things go well, experience tells me to call it a day and let the guys watch movies until bedtime and not chance anything. But as always I decided to trump the odds and press on.
So Will’s mom, Penny, and I headed to the mall for school shoes. George found a great pair of New Balance at the first stop. John had a lot of fun at the Foot Locker and tried on several pairs of extremely urban black sneakers. Black suede with shiny black plastic trim, old school black leather Reeboks, and a pair of black Nike basketball shoes. I was willing to go with it, but when I asked he said he’d like to keep looking. James so far hadn’t wanted to try anything on, but urban really isn’t James’ thing so I didn’t think much of it. We walked to Dillard’s whose children’s shoe department was luckily pretty empty. The clerk didn’t usually work in the shoe department and it took her forever to figure out how I have to work shoe shopping. We needed two pairs of size 10s. What I usually do is point out a shoe and say, “Do you have anything that looks even remotely like this in a size 10?” Then they bring out a few boxes and we try on and whichever fits best we get. For the most part, the looks of the shoe is secondary, What would I do if I had three girls? Well, then they probably would be good and we could patiently shop for just the right shoe in just the right size. Anyway, finally the lady brings out three pairs of shoes. John and George are running around slamming the large metal shoe measurers making noise and coming close to cracking display shelves and each other’s heads. It’s hard to catch John to get him to try anything on, but he’s being rowdy not necessarily bad. If he weren’t my child and I didn’t have three boys I would think he were bad, but that is not the case. So I suggest James try on a pair that’s perfect for him. Blue, of course, and with orange trim. Florida Gator colors. He LOVES anything having to do anything with the state of Florida, including the Gators. But there was something wrong with the sock he said. And he rears that head back and Penny and I know we’re at the beginning of something very very bad. Then he tries to pull the sock up to his knee, and I say, “They don’t go up any higher.” And I’m thinking to myself, James, you have never in your life worn knee socks and I am doing you a favor by not giving into this idea of yours to wear knee-high tube socks. All I can think about for a split second is a picture of Will’s wonderful grandfather wearing knee-high brown socks and lace-up loafers. Anyway, the head-rearing turns into the face reddening and then the screaming, then kicking, hitting, and screaming screaming screaming so loud any words I try to use cannot be heard. Penny and I are out of options. We tried bribery, tried peer pressure pointing out John and George trying on shoes, flattery “look how good they look on you,” firmness with threats of time-out, going to the car, no shoes to wear to school, no going to school, no playing on the playground. Nothing worked. Finally I grabbed him and told Penny I would meet her at the car. Luckily by this time John had found a pair of too-big shoes he loved and at this point if he was wearing them we were getting them just to get out of there. I walked outside Dillard’s, since I didn’t want to walk James through the mall. For one, the sights and sounds would be a treat for him and he would be getting what he wanted which was to get out of trying on shoes. Also, even though I am less embarrassed by bad behavior than I used to be I didn’t relish the idea of being the one with the uncontrollable bad child marching through the mall making all of the other mothers think their child isn’t as bad as they thought he was. So we walk out into the 95-degree heat and onto the blacktop and I realize if you drew a line from one point of the mall to the farthest possible point that was where my car was. So first I am carrying him and I am so frustrated and he is screaming and kicking and I am gripping him so hard I know there will be red marks around his abdomen like my leg looked when I got stung by a jellyfish and had rings of red wrapping around. But I don’t care. Then we go around a corner of the mall and suddenly it’s as if we’re in an industrial Russian wasteland. Not a soul in sight and only the back ends of stores and loading bays and dumpsters. For a second I think to myself, what I am going to do if someone comes out of these shady corners and tries to steal James. And I think maybe I could use James as a weapon and fling his heavy thrashing body at the assailant. Or maybe I’ll just say, “Take him!” But then I realize no kidnapper in his right mind would take James at this particular moment. Then as we make our way toward civilized parking areas, James starts to calm down, and like a complete idiot and child this pisses me off. I’m thinking here I am carrying you trying to punish you and you are starting to enjoy the ride? I don’t think so. If I’m going to be stewing in my personal misery I want him to be, too. So I make him walk. Which he does for about four feet. And then he does the melt into the pavement, I don’t have feet, my arms are going to come out of their socket and then you’ll be sorry Momoe thing. So I swoop him up again and I whisper threats of time-out all afternoon until Daddy gets home from work and do a little more squeezing for good measure. We get to the car finally and we both fall back into our seats and breathe.
James fell asleep on the way home. Was it exhaustion that brought him to a frenzy or the frenzy that induced the exhaustion? I don’t know. But he was still asleep when we got home and then stayed asleep for all of 20 minutes.
Yesterday, James decided that the maniacal frenzy had been a complete attention-getting success. But he’d sort of been there done that and wanted to mix things up. So five minutes after I put him down for a nap he calls from upstairs, “Wipe me! Wipe me!” I step on the first step and the smell hits me and just about blows me back. There is a mudslide of poop down his leg, a bomb of it bursting through the fabric of his shorts and a circuitous trail of poop piles with smears in between the piles. What to do when you are shocked and disgusted and yet sympathetic and want to be reassuring. The only thing worse than cleaning up the mess before me was if I had been the one who made the mess. So I started a bath. And then I got out the Resolve. And then Jessica got there and I took myself out to lunch where I fed my stress and then went home and fed my stress some more and then last night I fed it yet again translating into about half of a delicious cream cheese and raspberry pie my friend Jessica (a different Jessica from the babysitter) and I had made (well I watched her make it). By the last helping of it last night I don’t know if I was even tasting the pie or if it was just a prop for the mountains of Redi-Whip I sprayed on top.
And that brings me to this morning. Will had to go out last night for work, and John had not had a bath in seriously five days. I HAD to bathe them this morning all by myself. And I should be able to. But between John being afraid of it and James and George getting into a hitting match it was all I could do to keep everyone from drowning or slipping and breaking their necks. What to do when you have three slippery boys in a tub all screaming all hitting each other all half-washed half-soapy? First you try to get everyone to call down and stop screaming. “Let’s everybody take a deep breath!” Then when that doesn’t work, you start screaming, too. Somehow I managed to get each one out and in a diaper and then I put them in their rooms. But even when I close the doors they can open them! I have NO recourse with them! No leverage and no control. So since I couldn’t lock them in, I locked myself in my room, as I’ve heard my grandmother had to do when my dad was a little boy. I know Will would be so much better at all this than I am. He never loses his temper. Never loses control. But he doesn’t have to do it as often as I do. Believe me, when he is home from work he is working harder than I am on stuff for the boys and the house. But ultimately, they are my charge for 90 percent of the time and all of the responsibility of stuff like making sure James gets his asthma medicine, making sure they have their toenails clipped, making sure the school bag is packed, making sure we have oatmeal and pancake mix, making sure they get bathed and get enough sleep and clean clothes to wear is my job. And I work so so so hard to get these things done. It’s so weird to work so hard at something and get nothing back! Believe me, I know I will one day when the guys morph into the sweet boys I know they can be. But right now it seems the harder I work and the harder I try to stay calm and sweet and patient the badder the boys get, the less they nap, the harder things are. I am busting my butt and what do I get? Tired, stressed, irritable. I won’t even mention the lack of financial compensation. But usually I LIKE to think that the harder you work and the more of yourself you put into something the more the rewards. Not financial, but pride in a job well done, positive results, recognition, improved performance. But I feel like no matter how hard I work nothing changes.
Fast forward to tonight…
All day my body and head ached. I felt as if the stress was literally consuming me and that my feet, temples, and neck were swelling with it. After a standoff with John that I’m too tired to describe in detail (let’s just say Will and I agreed that this weekend we are installing locks on the OUTSIDE of the bedroom doors), somehow they all fell asleep during naptime. And somehow that vibe made it out onto the street because while they were napping I got about 20 phone calls I had to answer and then the boys woke up. BUT they were in a great mood. They did let me know, though, that I wasn’t completely cool. They each ran up to me with their latest made-up word. “Foosa.” “James is a foosa. I is a foosa.” “What is a foosa?” I asked. Giggles and running. Oh well. I think I’ll live. If you are one of the twenty people who called during my naptime break, please don’t feel bad and know how much I truly truly appreciate your call. It’s amazing I have any friends left at all with the little attention I’ve been able to give them. So thank you, friends, for sticking by me. Tomorrow the boys have school. YEA! Their second day back. I forgot to tell about the first morning when this time JOHN wouldn’t wear shoes. But I have a feeling you can imagine it.
To wrap things up I’d like to leave you with a few funny things they said, but I can’t remember any…maybe just a few of John’s latest excuses…
For not taking a bath—the water’s too hot, I have a boo boo. My knee hurts.
For not wearing shoes—they’re too big, they’re too small, you can’t wear shoes inside.
And maybe some of John’s new expressions:
Hey! HEY!
You’re TEASING me, Dad!
That’s not right! (with a wagging finger)
And George’s:
I’m mad at you. (and then after I look at him like he’s crazy) I’m mad at the cowboy.
They’re monsters in the dark!
After they had a mom-inspired contest to see who could put the most toys in the toy basket (yippee!) and I asked who had won: We ALL did.
And James—I guess I remember more than I thought or maybe more than I’d like.
When asked by the pediatrician what his t-shirt said: "GO FLORIDA GATORS! GO FLORIDA GATORS!" Plus the gator chomp arm movements, of course. He told us later he was going to be in the band.
Do you have more qwackers for me?
Tonight’s prayers: Thank God for pirates, planks, treasure, pirate ships, and the ocean.
My prayer: Thank God for pirates, cowboys, and monsters. Friends and husbands and night time and pillows. US Open tennis on TV, laptops, and the boys’ school. Oh, and weekends. Have a good one.
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