Dirty Pee Pants

Another 48 hours and a full moon…that’s what I’m blaming it on. I mean really, it’s becoming more of a shit-show than not. I think this might be my life – which is why I can find the humor.

 

Tuesday

4:45PM: Bub answers the phone and says “oh yeah, I’m just finishing this beer and I’ll be home.”

I pause… “oh, so you don’t have Pickle?”

More pause…”oh shit, I forgot I said I would pick her up.”

Um yeah…

 

5:10PM: Bending down to help Pickle remove her outdoor gear at school…she pats my belly and says “oh, look at your baby!”. I stop in my tracks…no, I’m not carrying any babies in my belly and I was thinking that my beer belly had shrunk recently. I played it off and said “no siblings for you” (in my soup nazi voice).

 

 
6:00PM: much needed walk with Missy and Pickle’s BFF…halfway around the loop, the threenagers decide they don’t want to be in the stroller anymore. Twenty minutes of cat-herding ensue; complete with stomping in every puddle, picking up sticks, “pleeeease can we play at the park”, and a “I HAVE TO POOP”. It was entertaining as heck and I was mostly laughing because Missy had to herd the cats…I was just pushing a delish baby, while being pulled along by a Deuce.

 

7:00PM: the walk was a good thing – the Pickle devoured two waffles, two scrambled eggs, and one raspberry. Just one though…”I don’t yike it”.

 

7:30PM: bathtime is over, Pickle is in front of her dresser debating on which pj’s to wear (there are at least a dozen sets in the drawer, but she’s only currently attracted to the same two sets daily)…Deuce walks between Pickle and the dresser and pees. Not a little dribble…full on pee.

 

Wednesday

4:30AM: woke up right on the cusp of being squeezed out of a bed by a 33# Pickle

 

4:42AM: walking Deuce down the stairs to go outside…he pees on the bottom four stairs and finishes up with a giant puddle on the kitchen floor. I should’ve prefaced this with a “by the way, we chopped his balls off last week and I think he’s still pissed…

 

10:00AM: text from ‘ol-whats-his-name’ telling me that he signed us up for some Easter-y craft thing at school. It goes something like “oh yeah…you need to get blah-blah for blah-blah kids”.

 

4:45PM: frantically run to Freddy’s for the blah-blah crafty thing.

 

6:00PM: the car is unloaded, the kid is on the deck with the dog…I start the carpet scrubbing. Did I mention that we have white carpet? Who in the name of fruit-juice-laden-toddlers-peeing-dogs-normal-human-beings puts white carpet in their house?! Right? Whatever. I start scrubbing with my two new cleaners that are guaranteed to work. They do…they’re lovely. But, it’s still white freaking carpet.

 

6:30PM: Pickle wants to help with her dinner…she wants waffles again. Weird, right? A threenager who only eats certain foods each week. I’m cooking her eggs…and she’s watching the toaster. I hear it pop up and I’m about to say “it’s hot”. Too late…she tries to grab her waffle. You can guess how the next few minutes go…cool water, crocodile tears, me telling her she’s so tough and the burn will stop hurting soon.

 

6:32PM: waffles are being shoved in her mouth, while she stands on her stool and pretends not to feed Deuce. She tells me she has a burn. I tell her it’s going to heal or we can just go ahead and amputate it.

 

7:00PM: I round her up for a bath…”I wanna take a bath in Mommy’s bathtub”…okay, get moving, kid. Deuce sprints passed us up the stairs and no shit, pees AGAIN…this time on the top seven stairs. I’m livid. Pickle is yelling that she wants mommy’s bathtub, I’m yelling at Deuce, it’s a three-alarm-shit-show. I grab Deuce by the collar and haul him downstairs – yelling at Pickle to hold on a minute. He’s bucking like a bronco – I’m whispering every curse word that comes to my mind. I finally get him downstairs and he bucks into a full length mirror…the mother-scratcher comes flying off the wall and shatters. Deuce stops cold as I send him to the garage.

 

7:02PM: Pickle is watching me as I come back up the stairs…”Mommy’s bath?”. I asked her if she would take a bath in her own bathroom, so I could clean up the pee while I keep an eye on her. She must’ve noticed the steam coming out of my ears because she sauntered into her bathroom and stripped her clothes off. I call Deuce’s dad and ask him to cut his event short and come home…before I lose my shit.

 

7:08PM: she’s peacefully lounging in the bathtub - after we got rid of the washcloth that she “didn’t yike”. I’m scrubbing the stairs…again. Then I hear wailing…I run into the bathroom and she’s crying that her burn hurts. “I need a band aid. I don’t want soap. I don’t want to wash my hair. No. No. No.” Literally the quickest bath of all time…and we even had time to put a mickey mouse band aid on the burn.

 

7:10PM: The crying continues and that hand doesn’t work anymore…she can only choose pajamas with her good hand – it’s quite dramatic. Threenager, anyone?

 

7:45PM: Daddy arrives home after my frantic call – she looks at him with those big eyes and tells him about her burn. He’s sympathetic and also asks if we have to amputate (yeah, we are assholes*). He helps me clean up the shattered mirror…and I just smile at him and think about how much I wished I had a bottle of bubbly in my hand. Pickle continues icing her hand, while lounging on the couch…then hollers “Mom, I peed my pants”. Yep, on the couch…what’s our pee count for the day now? 89? Feels like it.

 

8:20PM: I realize that the chaotic events caused me to forget the damned Easter-y craft thing for the day. Pickle hears me talking about the eggs and wants to help…suddenly her hand is fine. She talks non-stop for twenty minutes while I cut the stickers and she stuffs the eggs with stickers. At one point I look up from my task – she and Daddy are covered in stickers...of Elsa and Anna. We finally complete the project and she is suddenly needing more ice.

 

9:00PM: holy smokes, it’s way beyond bedtime…she whines that her burn hurts, rubs my arm with her good hand and then finally falls asleep. Sweet nugget was exhausted.

 

Thursday

7:00AM: I don’t know what happened this morning…I kissed foreheads, made a spinach smoothie, and hauled ass. Feels good to be a gangster.

 

*when she was small, we started the non-reactive “oh, good crash…you’re so tough” type of thing. And since I’m a product of Papa Kirk, I say stuff like “if you pout and put your lip out like that, a bird will poop on it”…and “hmmm…looks like we’ll have to cut that appendage off because of that injury”. However, if Pickle hears a crash or someone says ow, she immediately asks if you’re okay. I think maybe she has more empathy than we do…oh man.

 

I’ve come to the following conclusions:

1. Our dog is an a-hole and needs obedience school
2. Our child is a threenager and probably needs obedience school
3. I think our house needs to be covered in visqueen…might make clean-up a little easier
4. I need more vodka in the house. Period. Where are my drinking neighbors?!

xo