3/6/12

I don't fancy myself a "mommy blogger". You know the type. Women who stay at home with their children, so naturally they have time to bake gourmet desserts, potty train their 18-month-olds, teach their three-year-olds how to read, and build their own television sets and bicycles out of pallets, mason jars, and Borax... but only after they've finished writing, editing, and posting their daily anecdote on their blog, accompanied by thousand-dollar-an-hour-photographer quality photos of their creations.

I'm not that.

To be honest, surrounded and bombarded by the social media that we are, I've always been intrigued by the people who post non-stop updates and blog about the daily lives that everyone else is just living. It begs the question: "Who gives a rat's ass?"

Let's be real. Unless you have the ability to hilariously describe a typical and mundane version of the exact same stay-at-home-mom situation I have going on here in my own house (I'm talking making me spit a mouthful of my 25% Wild Cherry Pepsi, 75% Diet Pepsi cocktail all over my keyboard)... when, where, or why would I spend naptime reading about your day instead of living mine?

That's why I won't only write stories about my kids. They are a huge part of my life, obviously. But they are not the only part, nor the only aspect of life I want to look back on and remember.

That being said, there are things that happen to us all, particularly mothers of young children, that are just too terrifying not to share. And after that blatant snobbery written up there, feel free to skip reading about my typical, mundane day as a mother of a three-year-old and three-month-old baby... I won't mind.

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The date was March 6, 2012. I only know this because when I told the story to my group of high school seniors, they dubbed it "3/6/12" as if comparing it to the Apocalypse or the end of the Mayan Calendar. On the day it happened, I was praying for the end of the world, so I liked the comparison.

Kealani had turned three a few weeks before. She'd been officially potty-trained for a couple months. (I consider "officially" to be going 99% of the time on the toilet before it's too late and not wearing diapers at night... and she was there.) Leila was a week shy of three months old and we were still in the process of learning how to take care of this new human. (Who am I kidding, does that ever end?) Jon and I were in a constant state of physical exhaustion from waking up in the middle of the night.

Because my brain has blocked the minute details in order to protect me, I can't even remember each factor... but whatever they were, together they created a perfect storm.

First, around mid morning, Kealani decided the best place to empty her bladder would be on the carpet. In three different rooms. Contrary to popular belief, which affirms that the best way to pee is to stop moving, KK thought it would be more philanthropic to share her wealth. And everyone knows how much people love the smell of urine. As I said before, KK was potty-trained. She hadn't acted out for extra attention in the 2 months and 3 weeks of her new sister's life, so I had no idea what the reason for this was. All I knew was the color red. For rage.

I huffily stripped KK out of her clothes, threw them violently into a plastic bag and onto our porch, deposited my daughter into the bathtub and proceeded to rinse her off. All the while, I lectured her, questioned her motives, and said what I could to ensure this would never ever happen again. Ever. Also, Leila was in the hallway lying on her back, screaming.

I had things back under control relatively quickly, fed both girls and got them both down for naps as soon as possible. It was only lunchtime and my mental, physical, and emotional levels of energy were already depleted. I was ready to sit on the couch and do nothing.

Kealani's naps have always lasted anywhere from two to three hours. She's an amazing sleeper.

But not on 3/6/12. She called for me about an hour and fifteen minutes after falling asleep. I had just begun to doze off on the couch, and being jolted out of my much needed slumber at least 45 minutes early did nothing to improve the mood I was in.

I stomped back to her bedroom, shoved her door open and said, "You did not sleep long enough. You need to lie back down and rest. I'll be back when you can get up. Do you have to go potty?"

"No."

"You may only come out if you have to pee or poop. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Having been rousted out of my dream-state, I knew I couldn't and shouldn't try again for a nap. I just didn't want to be bothered by the incessant conversation Kealani would bring out to the living room with her. Hence the lockdown. Another half hour or so went by before I heard a much quieter, more timid voice wafting from the back of the house. "Mom? I have to poop."

I quickly returned to her room, knowing that "I have to poop" doesn't mean I could use a toilet in the next fifteen minutes or so. It means some of the poop might already be peeking out and she needs a toilet urgently.

I opened the door to find Kealani standing next to her bed looking guilty. The smell hit me a fraction of a second after the realization that I had a large-scale situation on my hands. I crossed the bedroom in a stride and a half and found a tiny nugget on the floor, just before pulling back KK's waistband to find a patty worthy of a Hearst Ranch grass fed heifer. Instantly I entered Angry Mommy Mode. Not even a miniscule strand of patience was left for me to grasp as I began my tirade. Twice in ONE DAY???

"I TOLD you if you needed to pee or poop you could COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM!! WHY would you sit in here and poop IN YOUR PANTS?!?!"

"I don't know! I'm sorry Mommy!"

"Get into the bathroom NOW."

As I peeled the completely soiled undies off Kealani's butt, I realized I was in too far over my head. At this exact moment, Leila started to cry from her crib, no doubt ready to eat. A series of expletives ran in and out of my head, as I simultaneously yelled at KK to stay put and swooped into Leila's room, grabbed her, set a diaper-changing world record, gently set her in the hall (incidentally the precise spot she lay helplessly while I bathed KK a mere hours before) and lunged back into the bathroom, never breaking stride.

As Leila began screaming again (since no hungry newborn in the history of mankind has enjoyed being left in the middle of an empty hallway), I grabbed KK, plunked her back into the tub, and yanked the faucet on. Without warning, I turned the shower head on full blast.

Directly into my beloved first born's face.

It was cold. It was her first shower. It was traumatizing.

Soon KK's screams surpassed Leila's as their chorus from hell drifted out of every open window in our home. It's a true marvel that CPS was not called on me that day.


At this point I called Jon. I believe the conversation went something like this:

"Hello Babe."

"I... gasp, gasp... need... sob... HELP."

"What's happening?"

"KK... pooped... it's everywhere... I don't know *gasp* what to do... Leila's screaming... please come home!"

"Ok, I'll be there as soon as possible."


I returned to the tub and scrubbed Kealani's tiny butt, making no effort to be gentle. Poo chunks fell off and swirled in circles until finally being sucked down the drain as I suppressed the gag reflex induced by imagining myself taking a shower in this giant petri dish of bacteria. Once KK was "clean", for good measure I sprayed her face and guided the shower head back over her entire body as she crouched, shivering and crying in the corner of the tub. (Heartbreaking, isn't it?) It was like watching a captive spider trying to climb up the side of a glass jar to freedom. And it gave me the tiniest bit of sick, twisted satisfaction.

As I let Kealani stand in the shower, I began work on the next predicament. What do I do with a pair of three-year-old sized skivvies with a dinner plate sized crap oozing out of them? At that moment they were sitting in our one and only bathroom sink. This made me want to hurl, much like watching the poo chunks float down the tub drain. Oh, the disinfecting I was going to have to do. And remember Leila? Yeah, she was still screaming... probably assuming she was going to starve to death.

Tears streaming down my face, I knew I'd verifiably lost it. When Jon got there (in pretty amazing time, I must add), he seamlessly took over the bathroom scene and allowed me to take screaming baby #2 into another room to nourish her.  He finished the bathing/water torture (in a much gentler and more patient manner than I), found KK's crap-filled Nemo undies and simply dropped them in a plastic bag and took them straight outside to the trash can. (Hmmmm. Brilliant.) He then spot cleaned the carpet in KK's room where her first nugget had landed, and wiped up any trace of feces on the bathroom floor. KK joined her sister and me in the front room.

The same way one drives from point A to point B and can't remember how they got there, I had fed Leila and settled us all down to watch Sesame Street in a complete daze. When Jon returned to the living room, I could tell he was frightened. Gazing at my under-eye circles and tear-streaked face, I'm sure he was thinking "Could it have really been that bad?" 

I tell you what, it was a had-to-be-there scenario. With no comedy involved.

The derangement passed, Jon returned to work, I made dinner, and eventually bleached the bathroom sink, floor, and bathtub. Business as usual.

3/6/12 is, to date, the worst day I've ever had as a mom of two. The combination of exhaustion, Kealani's apparent memory lapse of how a toilet works, my newborn's hungry screams, and my reaction to each factor made for a heinous day. Looking back on it, I'm actually thankful this has been the worst to happen so far. As literally crappy as it was, it wasn't that bad.

And then there's Kealani. Leave it to her to lighten up any bad mood I'm in, regardless of whether or not she's the one who put me in it. Hopefully her phobia of showers will end before she is forced to share 2' x 2' stalls with thirty-seven other girls in a dorm hall.

That night as I kissed her goodnight and tucked her into bed, our discourse went like this:

"KK, I'm sorry we had a rough day today. We'll have a better one tomorrow, ok? I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom. I'm sorry I got in trouble when I pooped the floor."



 ***Epilogue ~ Kealani has not pooped the floor or her pants since 3/6/12.***

Class of 2000 - The 10 Year Reunion

Two summers ago all the teen movies I enjoyed in the 90s collided with all the returning-to-your-hometown-to-find-nothing's-changed movies I've enjoyed as an adult -- into one tragically entertaining though slightly unbelievable event:

 my Ten Year High School Reunion.

     

It all started the year before the reunion would take place. One of my best friends, Lauren, was our senior class president back in 2000, and she had come to the realization that SHE was supposed to be in charge of coordinating this bittersweet event (bitter because WTH, we'd already been out of high school for ten freaking years? and sweet because we couldn't wait to see everyone we'd graduated with so we could ridicule them). She asked if I'd be willing to help out when the time came.

Lauren wasn't enthralled with the idea of planning this once-in-a-lifetime event, having a toddler at home and being due to give birth to her second son a mere months before the party. I agreed, despite my lack of party planning skills, simply because I wanted to help my friend, and because I did want there to be a reunion (no party = no classmate ridiculing).

The start of 2010 rolled around and the passing decade must have flipped a switch in some of the 2000 grads, because I ended up getting Facebook messages from not one, but two, of the girls I graduated with. Let's call them Humpty and Dumpty. Both of them knew Lauren was the officiant, but Lauren, genius that she is, does not have a Facebook account. These girls began assaulting Lauren through me. Both of them requested Lauren's email address (which I only gave them once I'd asked Lauren's permission) and proceeded to tell me that if there was anything we needed while planning this no doubt amazing party, to PLEASE let them know.

What happened over the next couple months went like this:

1. Humpty and Dumpty, along with a handful of their Class of 2000 friends, completely took over the reunion planning. Just ripped it right out from Lauren's and my grasp. (Ok... we weren't holding on very tightly.)
2. Via Facebook (of course) I was bombarded, as was the rest of our class, with messages, posts, and embarrassing pictures from senior year, as the morbid countdown began. 
3. We were charged a ludicrous amount of money to attend our small town high school reunion.

I'll pick up a couple weeks before the event:

Lauren, Jasmine, Erin, and I had decided that we simply had to attend this party celebrating our aging process in a group. It was the only way we'd all survive. Every time we saw each other during this pivotal countdown stage, we'd make comments of disdain toward the event itself, as well as the self-inflicted "party planners". (I know, we were jerks... we didn't want the responsibility or to put in the work, but made fun of the people who did... it was fun.)

There's a piece of information I should include here. Humpty and Dumpty were part of the Class of 2000 "cool crowd". Meaning they were the "popular" girls who'd always thought they were better than everyone else despite all other categories of students staunchly disagreeing. The irony lies in the fact that Humpty didn't join our class until middle school (being a fresh-faced new 6th grade girl, she obtained an 8th grade boyfriend almost immediately and could be observed making out with him any given break); Dumpty came along in high school and finagled her way into the cool crowd much to most of our amazement (some people have a gift for convincing the Mean Girls that they're cool enough hang... either that or said Mean Girls must always have dorkier girls flitting around in order to make themselves look better... hence the permission to join). There were 73 other girls who actually attended Templeton Schools from kindergarten or first grade on (including myself and my entire group of friends). But that's cool... let the newbies plan our reunion. (No really, let them... remember, we didn't want to.)

Within a week before the main event, our class received a mass email informing us that when we showed up at the site, we would be required to pay an extra ten dollars per couple because the party planning geniuses had not brought in enough money for their legendary party. Real classy. Jon was beyond annoyed because he already thought the admission price was ludicrous for a party he'd rather be strung up by his toenails and tickled with razorblades than attend. But we got to pay ten MORE dollars!

Let the fun begin!

2010 Re-creation of a truly amazing Freshman Homecoming photo from 1996

The day of the reunion finally arrived, and our group had made plans to meet at Jasmine's house for a cocktail party before zero hour. I showed up even earlier to get ready. You know, like Prom? Our entourage of eight caravanned to River Oaks Hot Springs Spa in Paso Robles. This place has several buildings, and is actually quite a beautiful place to hold a wedding or other important lifetime event... like a class reunion. The problem was, the Party Planning Committee had booked the building that has no walls. It's a shelter. It has a bar. But it has no walls. It's on a hill. In Paso Robles. In August. At 7:00 pm, it was freezing. All the girls had done what all 28-year-old women do when they want to impress their former classmates -- worn sassy dresses and heels without sweaters.

We irritably handed our extra money over to Humpty and Dumpty at the entrance as we took in the scene. A cluster of tables, a buffet style food area cutting the room in half, and another cluster of tables. The wind blew through this place like a hurricane was coming as we hastily sat down at a table together. Jasmine, Kim, Erin, Steve, Lauren, Nick, Jon, and I stuck together, not too interested in mingling with the other 2000ers. We were having so much fun already, why would we break up our party to join the real party thrown by the Mean Girls? Besides, we were shivering too much to move. Except to retrieve some wine from the bar, of course. (Which was, by the way, being served by individuals -- younger siblings or underclassmen with residual fear of the Mean Girls, perhaps? -- who either had no practical experience pouring wine, or knew how badly we'd need it permeating our bloodstreams in order to endure the night... when Jasmine and Kim returned with their first round, their glasses were benevolently filled to the rims. No complaints.)

From this point on, it seemed as though no one was in charge. Eventually people awkwardly started to filter through the food line. Chicken, vegetables, bread. Nothing offered was gag-inducing, but it certainly felt like we were pilfering through boring wedding reception food... that we'd paid $65 for. After the meal we decided to get up and mingle. We had seen people we legitimately wanted to talk to, and figured we could do some laps around the room, maybe even some jumping jacks, in order to increase our body temps.

I was able to catch up with at least three (I know, SCORE!) people I'd graduated with that I truly hadn't seen, talked to, or stalked on Facebook since 2000. Pleasant conversation was had. I just made sure to stay away from the other side of the room, in which Humpty, Dumpty, Shauna (yes, that Shauna), and other assorted Mean Girls meandered about together. I glanced around the room and noticed that, not only were there hardly any people there, but most of the attendees were grouped in the same exact circles one would have found them ten years ago in the upperclass quad. No encouragement to mix these circles together and get people talking... the Mean Girls were too busy talking to each other, as usual.

At some point a Mean Girl, who interestingly enough helped Humpty and Dumpty plan the reunion, and is an actual party planner (like, that's her CAREER), yelled at everyone to make their way over to a sketchily-rigged up screen that kept blowing over in the wind. It was time to watch the slideshow! Months back, one of Dumpty's thousands of e-mails had requested we send her pictures from high school, or current pictures of us with fellow grads we still spent time with. I'd sent her six pictures, including one of Lauren, Jasmine, and me in fourth grade. I had tried to choose pictures I had with different people, knowing Dumpty couldn't include ALL the pictures people would send and it'd be good to have as many grads represented as possible.

Cue the music from She's All That, because now it becomes a real life nineties movie.

The slideshow began. Humpty with her friends; Dumpty with her friends; Mean Girls; Dumpty; group of dorks; Dumpty; Mean Girls; Mean Girls; one of my pictures; Humpty and Dumpty together... on the pattern went until the 15 people left at the party started to look around at each other, flabbergasted. Are they serious? we all inquired of each other silently. The slideshow ended and a few of us in the back just started busting up. This was the lamest and coldest party we'd ever been to, and we'd just been shown a personal history, in photos, of the party planners.

There was a total of 35 people at this party (I believe we had about 150 people in our graduating class), which obviously included people's DATES, such as my own husband, who did not attend THS. It felt like it was about time to go, when one of us checked the time. "It's only 8:30!!" This epic party, taken over by Humpty, Dumpty, and a legitimate party planner, had been morbidly attended, and was only going to last an hour and a half!

Our group made the decision to continue our party at the Crooked Kilt in downtown Paso, because we were all dressed up with nothing to do. Turns out everyone else from the reunion had the same idea. Almost every single person we'd seen at the party showed up at the Kilt... except the Mean Girls. Conversation commenced, drinks were poured, dancing ensued. I like to call it the Actual Class of 2000 Ten Year Reunion. It lasted until 2:00 am.

In 2020, I think we should just tell everyone to meet at a bar.

These poor girls don't know what awaits them in 14 years...

Truly amazing Freshman Homecoming photo from 1996