Last week I received a plea from my favorite Uncle Boo Boo to please start up B&G again. I pompously informed him (via my mom) that I lacked inspiration these days: “Nothing super funny or shocking happens to me anymore”, I claimed. “I have a toddler,” I lamented. I even used the old standby: “I’m tired.” I had a plethora of excuses. Three short days later Karma gave me a gigantic bitch slap and what do you know? Lady Inspiration sang her siren song.
Let me back track- in the six months since my last post (ouch!) quite a few things have happened to the B&G household; fantastic but time consuming things. Progress has been made on the
money-pit dream home. I finally acquired/fashioned some decent nightstands. And our sweet Weezy has morphed into a chatty, darling, peeing-in-the-potty (and on the bathroom floor, but whatev), toddler before our very eyes! In all honesty, Brakes and I have had a blast watching our little monster blossom into an actual person and we’ve really soaked in every minute of surprise and development along the way. We’ve relished this time and lately, we’ve been feeling like we’ve hit our stride with this whole parenting thing.
Until it rained. This past weekend we learned it is much easier being exemplary parents when it is warm out and a park is just down the street. When things start to get hairy, we toss Weez into her Cozy Coupe and roll down the hill to the sweet mercy of swings, slides, and other parents (who are hopefully willing to share a bottle of wine or at least not judge us as we swig from ours). Our first rainy weekend with our newly (over)active girl there was still wine (lots of it) but it was more of the tantrum variety: “Oooooouuuttt! Want waaaaallllk! NOW!” (complete with a foot-stomp) and “NO! NO! Nonononononononooooooo!” Although I did catch Brakes gulping a suspicious purple liquid in the kitchen between frantic installments of “Rainy Day Activities” gleaned from my packed up preschool materials in the basement.
By Sunday late afternoon I had resorted to locking Weezy in her highchair with finger-paints and a Skype window open with terse directions to Uncle Patrick and Aunt Jessica in Arizona to give a holler if they saw Eloise start ingesting (too much) paint or painting the dog (again). This worked long enough for me to have a tinkle and cram a Fun Size Snickers down my throat. Getting drunk did not seem responsible (ehhm, Brakes!) but who would begrudge me a Halloween Candy Coma? We all cope in different ways. Don’t judge.
When Patrick and Jessica suddenly “lost their internet connection,” I knew Weezy and I had reached an impasse. I was going to have to get real creative, real quick or we would both be careening towards a meltdown of epic proportions. Just briefly I allowed myself to fondly remember simpler days when rainy Sundays were spent lounging in a warm bath with a good book. Just then my (weepy) eyes alighted on my paint covered daughter and inspiration struck!
Soon we were ensconced in bubbles with rubber duckies for her and a side of chick-lit for me. Things were going so well, I generously urged Brakes to plug into one of his fave podcasts and have a little alone time. Weezy splashed and played and I, between pages, soaked my cuticles and marveled at Eloise’s constant stream of dialogue: “I got ducky. Quack! Quack! Ducky? Doggie! Woof, woof, woof! Ducky. Doggy. Woof! I go poo poo. Woof!” I thought: “Adorable! What a sweetie. She loves duckies and doggies and wait! What was that?! Poop!” Shit. Just then I got a whiff. I shut my eyes and said a quick prayer that the unimaginable hadn’t happened but then I had to open my eyes and face the music, or rather the turd. Two turds to be exact. About 3.5 inches long and of a respectable girth. How my darling daughter somehow managed to squeeze these little shi
tps out without me noticing, I do not know. She has turned into a stealthy little shitter.
I scooped my little poopy-
pants up and shouted, yelled, screamed, and howled until Brakes heard me through his ear phones and came running. After he was done laughing and advising me to just bare-fist the offending turds, he grabbed our stinky daughter and brought me a plastic bag to scoop out the two stowaways that had ruined my nice, relaxing, rainy-day bath. When the toilet flushed, I had one of those out-of-body experiences. A mocking, eerie voice (or maybe it was Brakes?) whispered: “Gas ****** ******, this is yoooour life!”
By the time I was done scalding and scrubbing my entire body, Brakes had our sweet girl dressed in my favorite jungle animal fleece footie-pajamas and her sweet-smelling hair was combed to the side like a little banker. She greeted me with a smile and kiss, “Hi Momeee!” she squealed. With a giggle and another kiss, I heard that eerie voice again, but this time it did not sound so mocking. It was more of a gentle reminder to count my blessings. Even on a rainy, noisy, poop-in-the-bath-tub kind of day, I am still the luckiest “Momeee” in the entire world.
finally put Eloise to bed, I told Brakes, “I think I am going to start blogging again.”
He replied, “It was the poop that did it, wasn’t it?” I laughed. He was right. Who knew turds could be so inspiring?