Monday, September 30, 2013

Oh S#%*

Mornings. Are there even words to describe how hectic and chaotic mornings can be? I know we all feel the same way and experience the same thing. But there are some mornings that reach a new level.
On one such morning it seemed to be just the usual chaos. The kids were "eating" their breakfast at the table with the three dogs circling under the table like sharks. Hubs was in the shower and I was already dressed in my suit downing my second cup of coffee. Now the easiest way for me to know that DC is done eating is when he gets two good handfuls of food, smashes them in his hair and then flings his plate like a frisbee across the kitchen. However, in my years of mommy hood practice I have learned to anticipate such an action and if I can swoop in quick enough I can avoid it. This is why I drink my second cup of coffee perched at the kitchen sink feigning disinterest all the while watching him like a hawk.
I began to see the signs and I quickly got the washcloth and ran hot water over it in preparation. As I rounded the counter top I saw him grab two handfuls of food. I started moving quicker trying to intercept him but I tripped over the dogs and came tumbling down. About the time I hit the floor I saw his plate fly inches above my nose and crash into the opposite wall. The dogs clambered over me to get the scraps. I jumped up and wiped his hands and hair and quickly unbuckled his seat belt. I sat him on the floor and he ran into my bedroom as I tried to ward off the dogs and clean up the smashed muffins and bananas.
From the bedroom I heard DC yell "UH-OH!" And saw him sprint out of the bedroom right past me and across the kitchen floor trailing footprints of something. It only took me a second to realize what it was.....poop. I jumped up and ran after him to see what on earth had happened.
When I caught up to him I saw that the diaper had just been no match on this particular morning and neon green (don't ask me why it is neon green) was oozing out of the diaper and dripping down one leg. At this point there is really only one option.
I could hear the shower still running so I quickly stripped DC down and ran holding him at an arms length toward the bathroom. As I opened the shower door and thrust him into the shower I heard my husband begin to protest.
"Babe! I don't have time to bathe him this- WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!?!"
"You have no choice," I breathlessly shouted back as I turned and ran back into the bedroom to assess the situation.
Right in front of the TV in our bedroom, on my cream carpet was a giant pile of neon green poop. Apparently when it happened DC just panicked, yelled "uh-oh," and ran to find me. As he ran out of the room he stepped in the pile and proceeded to track neon green footprints across my bedroom carpet and across the kitchen floor.
And this is how I found myself at 7:15 in the morning (wearing a very smart business suit) on my hands and knees scrubbing poop out of my bedroom carpet. I am almost certain that when I look back on my life and think of my thirties I will only remember the overwhelming smell of poop.


Tuesday, September 24, 2013

The Dump Truck

Saturday night we had a neighborhood cookout on my culdesac.  As we were winding down, my neighbor and I let the kids go inside and play as we cleaned up.  This was big for us as both our girls (both are 3 years old) are strong willed and usually require at least auditory supervision.  However, they have played together really well lately so we let them go.  As C and I are cleaning up and are standing in the kitchen, my daughter comes downstairs and the conversation goes as follows:

SK:"Mrs. C?"

C: yes?

SK: "ummmmmm....... E peed in the dump truck and when I tried to clean it up it spilled on your carpet...floor.  But I cleaned it up".

There was literally silence as C and I looked at each other trying to process this statement and figure out if this was in fact true.

Finally I said, "how did you clean it up?"

SK: "with paper towels".

Another long akward moment of silence as neither one of us know exactly what to say.........

C: "well thank you for cleaning it up".

SK: "you're welcome"

And with that she walked away leaving us to determine which was more shocking-the fact that her child peed in a toy dump truck or that mine cleaned it up.  I kind of thought she might be joking with us until I saw it.  The proof is in the puddle.


Sunday, September 22, 2013

The PJ Standoff

Being the parent of a toddler is all about picking your battles and having the discernment to know which battles to pick. I like to think that at least 50% of the time I get this right. No? Okay 40%? But there are sometimes when I get it dead wrong...

It was one of those days. I had been out of town for work and had a 4 1/2 hour drive back into town that afternoon. Of course I was running late and by the time I got to school my kids were the absolute last children in the building.
As a side note there are few things that bring such overwhelming shame and guilt as being the last parent at pick up time. I mean I wasn't even late!! I had a clear 10 minute window before the doors officially closed. But nevertheless as I entered the empty parking lot and pulled into the coveted first space in the pick up line (because there was simply no one else there) I felt it wash over failure as a working mom.
Well, of course the kids were exhausted from such a long day at school and the inevitable late bedtime last night (as I was out of town and not home to crack the whip). They screamed and whined and cried the whole way home. It was the longest 12 minutes of my life.
We finally got into the house and I frantically searched through the fridge for something that could resemble dinner. By this point DC had thrown himself down in the middle of the kitchen wailing as RJ tugged on my pants leg demanding an egg roll and "chicken china" for dinner. The dogs, who had been kenneled all day, were incessantly barking to be let out. I desperately looked at the much longer till hubby gets here? It's 6:45 already it can't be long.
I was finally able to pull something together and got the kids into their seats at the table. I got the dogs out of the kennels and took them outside. I was just beginning to take a deep breath when I heard screams from inside the house. I raced back in with the dogs to see that DC had flung his dinner plate across the kitchen strewing food from one side of the room to the other. I lunged for the scraps of food fighting off the Chihuahuas and got what I could back onto the plate. 5 second rule right?
It was at this point my phone rang.
"Hey Babe I was just calling to tell you I'm running late tonight and I'm going to be at least another hour and a half."
The tears welled up in my eyes.
"Ok" I managed to squeeze out before I hung up the phone without so much as a goodbye.
They finally finished dinner and by "finished" I mean threw half of it on the floor for the dogs and somehow managed to rub the other half all over their bodies. I mean noodles behind their ears and applesauce in their armpits. How do they even do that?!
I herded them up the stairs too defeated to even attempt a bath at this point. If you've never wiped your kid down with baby wipes in lieu of a real bath then you truly must be super mom. I, on the other hand, am not.
I told RJ to pick out her PJs while I put DC to bed and I would be back to help her in a few. DC at this point was kicking and screaming from sheer exhaustion. I wrestled him into his room and using all of my body weight to hold him down managed to change his diaper and get his pajamas on. Story time was a total bust as he screamed and kicked through half the book before I finally just gave up and put him in the crib.
As I closed his door behind me I took a breath. "One down one to go. I'm halfway done." I said to myself.
I headed into RJs room to find she had emptied her entire pajama drawer onto the floor. This moment I believe was my tipping point.
"I had to see which ones I want" she replied.
Crying and screaming ensued.
"Okay," I said trying to regain my composure. "Which ones would you like to wear?"
At this point she begins unfolding a pair of Hello Kitty pajamas.
"Good," I said and I started to reach for them.
"NOOOO!! I HAVE TO SEE THEM ALLLLLLLL!" she wailed as she stomped her foot and took a swing at me.
We argued back and forth a few times before I finally put my foot down.
"NOOOOOOOO!" she screamed as I grabbed the Hello Kitty pjs and started toward her.
I was at the point of no return. To give in then would negate all I had worked for. This was no longer about the pajamas. This was about control and who had it. I certainly wasn't going to let my 4 year old think she was the one in charge. I dug my heels in deep.
She let out a Banshee scream and collapsed on the floor. As I wrestled to get the suddenly boneless toddler into the Hello Kitty pajamas she continued to scream unintelligible protests. I ignored her and tugged and pulled and twisted and stretched until I finally got her into the pajamas.
When I finally let go of her she started to get up. When she stood up I noticed that she had a 3 inch mid-drift from a too small shirt and that the pants only reached midway down her calf.
Through her choked up sobbing I managed to make out a few words...
"These pajamas don't fit me" she whimpered.
Well then I was really in a predicament. To relent and let her change pajamas was simply unthinkable at this point. But to make her sleep in pajamas that were clearly two sizes too small? What would you have done?

I am not proud of it but for the sake of being totally transparent I will tell you that we did not change pajamas. I left her room that night with my authority, although maybe not my dignity, intact.


Friday, September 20, 2013

Oh Bessie.

The other day a friend of mine texted me to say that she was sitting on the floor of an airport terminal pumping since she couldn’t do it in the bathroom…and it got me thinking.  When you get pregnant, especially the first time, those wonderful books like “what to expect when you’re expecting” or “Breastfeeding: The Parents Guide”….explain so much to you.  HOWEVER, I think they left out the chapter on the realities of breastfeeding.  So here’s my list of what they forgot to mention.

1.       They forgot to tell you that you will pump/nurse anywhere…and I really mean anywhere.  The terminal of an airport, driving down the road, sitting in a parking lot, even on a boat.  Whenever and wherever you can.  I try to use the nursing cover so as not to expose everything though.  Thankfully a friend just gave me the hands free pumping bra and I am in heaven!!  In fact, just last night I pumped while driving to a meeting at church-I'm quite the multi-tasker what can I say??.

2.       They also forgot to mention in BOLD letters that the average woman only produces 2-4 ounces of milk TOTAL at each session.  When I was in high school, I went to church camp and they did a skit.  During the skit, one of the girls was acting like a farmer milking the cow, saying “Give Bessie! Give Bessie! Baby’s got to live!”  Do you  know how many times I have found myself thinking that very same thing begging the pump to give me more than an ounce or two?!?  So alas, I’m thinking, WHAT???  I’m actually normal and all those movies about women with freezers full of milk are abnormal?  Heck yeah-I’m finally normal at something in my life!

3.        I recently learned that you produce the most in the middle of the night (why did I not know this the first time around?!?) .  So of course, I set the alarm at wake up at 3am to pump in order to try and store some for my pending return to work.  Whoa baby-I excitedly woke my sweet husband from his slumber yelling “WE WON THE LOTTERY!”  As he’s trying to figure out what on earth I’m yelling about, I say again “I just got 5 WHOLE ounces!!”  Needless to say, he really was not near as excited as I was and certainly disappointed we had not in fact won the $400 million jackpot.  You win some and lose some right?  In addition, that saying, "there's no use crying over spilled milk" has never knocked over 5 oz of breast milk.  You will sob, weep, and throw quite a tantrum. 

4.       This being my second baby, I thought breastfeeding this time around would be a piece of cake since I was an old pro.  WRONG.  Having a three year old to constantly ask you questions makes life a little more interesting.  For example: “mommy, why do you have move-ly boobs?”  or proudly telling anyone, “my mommy’s boobies have milk in them”.  In fact, whenever I am pumping, she as affectionately named it “whack-up –ing” since she says the pump says “whack-up”.  REALLY?  But on further reflection, I’m pretty sure that pumping/nursing has made me “whack-up” or at least make those closest around me question my sanity at least once.  It also means she imitates mommy.....

5.       They lied when they said it does not hurt.  Sure, your nipples get used to the feeling but it does still hurt.  It’s not exactly comfortable when they first latch on.  And have you ever had someone bite down on your nipple?  Yeah I’m pretty sure it’s comparable to childbirth pain.  So don’t believe it…it will hurt occasionally.  Here's an example......

6.       Lastly, I’m not one of those “save the world breast is best” women.  In fact, I’d probably have given up breastfeeding this time around if it weren’t for the fact that my oldest has and we are now fairly certain my youngest has a severe milk allergy.  Formula just doesn’t work for them-at least not unless it’s the $60/small can type.  So we choose breastmilk.  And mommy sadly gives up cheese and dairy to help her-oh how I long for a milkshake, or a taco with cheese and sour cream.  But for all the struggles, one look at this sweet baby….and it’s worth every hurt/struggle/moment.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Kevin deconstructed

One year ago today my grandmother “Gammy” passed away. Thinking about her and this time last year also leads me to think about one of my not-so-shining moments in parenthood. You see, her death was the first death that my children would experience. Her funeral would be the first funeral they had ever attended. Now DC was just 1 so I wasn’t worried about him at all but RJ was 3 and I felt the need to explain things to her. The funeral would be open casket and I didn’t want her to be frightened or confused.

The night before the funeral as I was putting RJ to bed I pulled her close to me and began explaining.

“Baby, you remember Gammy right?”

“Yes Mommy.”

“Well, Gammy died and went to Heaven to live with Jesus and tomorrow we are going to her funeral. A funeral is a celebration of life.”

“Will Gammy be there?”

“Well, her body will be there.”

“How her body be there? You said she went to Kevin with Jesus…”

“Right. You see her body is just a shell and now it’s empty. Her soul went to Heaven.”

She thinks for a minute and then asks “Mommy, what’s a soul?”

At this point I can feel myself losing control of the conversation but I feel I owe it to her to try and continue. I struggle to put into words a 3 year old will explain what a soul is….

“Well, it’s your heart and your mind,” was about all I could come up with.

She thinks for another minute and then her face contorts and she lets out a wail.


Oh dear God….what have I done.

“Nooooo baby. No no no! Your spirit goes up to……” and at this point I decided to abandon the conversation entirely. “What did you have for lunch today sweetie?” I asked hoping to derail her from the trauma I had inflicted.

Thankfully, the distraction worked and she began telling me about the ski-daddy [spaghetti] they had for lunch. I finally got her down to sleep and as I crept down the stairs I was still reeling from the strange turn the conversation had taken but I was fairly confident that I hadn’t done any permanent damage.

As I reached the last stair hubby stepped out of the kitchen a look of disbelief on his face and the baby monitor in his hand.

“Well, I think that went well,” he said. “Tomorrow I think we should tell her hamburgers are made from real cows and donuts are made from the tears of unicorns.”

I think I will wait until DC is 16 before I try to explain life and death to him.



Sunday, September 15, 2013

Going green.

So I finally decided to buy into this whole green thing. Yes I know Im a late adapter. First I began with recycling (only, of course, after my trash service provided me with a receptacle and offered to pick it up each week). Then I decided the next logical step was to replace every light bulb in my entire house with these neat energy saving light bulbs. So, feeling rather proud of myself for reducing my carbon footprint I headed off to Lowes.

Let me begin by saying holy crap these things are expensive. But I was determined to do my part to save the world so I decided to ignore the glaring price tag and continue with my missiononly maybe Id start with just the downstairs first. So, list in hand I began gathering my merchandise. I needed 17 indoor floods and 28 regular light bulbs. Sheesh!!! I packed my cart full and headed to the cashier. I winced as she hit the total button and a whopping $180.34 popped up. I grudgingly handed her my credit card as I tried to rationalize almost $200 in light bulbs. I guess its a small price to pay for saving the earth but man oh man.

As I headed out of the store I decided to call my sister to vent about how much I personally am contributing to the higher cause. As I ranted and raved about the price of the bulbs I packed them into my car, shut the liftgate and returned my cart. Now Im not one you would call handy and I certainly dont always make the correct choices at Lowes so I decided to run by my hubbys work to make sure I had purchased the right bulbs.

He rolled his eyes at me as I explained to him he needed to double-check to make sure I had gotten the correct bulbs but he went out to the car nonetheless while I decided to grab a soda. He returned about 5 minutes later holding a Lowes bag that was FULL of broken lightbulbs.

Were these like this when you bought them?! He asked.

Of course not! I wouldnt buy $200 worth of broken bulbs!!!! I retorted.

Then what do you suppose happened? He asked.

I was totally confused as I began replaying the last 30 minutes frame by frame in my head. Everything seemed in place until I got to the point when I was angrily talking to my sister about how expensive the light bulbs were and was trying to close the liftgate on my car. I was passionately engaged in my argument that this going green thing seemed to be just a conspiracy to get me to pay triple the price for stupid light bulbs. At this point I remembered the liftgate wouldnt close and adding to my frustration I had to bang it about 5 or 6 times before the damned thing would finally latch.

And thus, I ended up with a $200 bag of shattered energy saving bulbs.


Wednesday, September 11, 2013

The Death of a Tradition

I assume that most families these days struggle with one thing above all others. Spending time with each other. Between jobs, preschool, afterschool activities, and other extracurricular activities there seems to be no time for just hanging out as a family. We, in particular, struggle with this as hubby works on Saturdays and our Sundays are filled with church and naps. So we try to take extra care to plan fun excursions together when we can.
One of our favorite summer traditions was to meet on Saturday nights for Five Guys. After gorging ourselves on ridiculously large hamburgers and the best fries you’ve ever had we would head next door to Cold Stone to get ice cream. There are these great little picnic tables with umbrellas outside where we sat and people watch while we enjoy our treats.
This was our tradition every Saturday night. One such night we were sitting at the crowded tables outside Cold Stone and laughing at DC (then 1) as he made his “ice cream face” with each bite. Everything was perfect. DC was sitting on my lap digging into my butter pecan waffle cone like a madman when it happened.
I heard it before I saw it. A strange rumbling sound. When I looked down to see what was making this strange wet noise I saw what I can only describe as a “Poocano”. It was bubbling out of the top of the diaper faster than I have ever seen. The next few moments stretched on as in slow motion.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!” I shrieked as I jumped up and reached for a napkin. By this point the overflow had reached maximum capacity and was cascading down the back of his pants, onto the bench, and splattering onto the crowded sidewalk. Mortified I jumped up and grabbed the baby running toward our car screaming “UNLOCK THE CAR!!! THE DIAPER BAG IS IN THE TRUNK!!!”
Hubby scrambled for the keys and quickly instructed RJ (then 3) not to move while he helped me. We frantically met at the back of my SUV and struggled to get the lift gate up. While hubby fumbled with the diaper bag I wasted no time in stripping the baby of all of his poo covered clothes and began desperately wiping him from head to toe with baby wipes. It was about this time that we heard RJ (who we had left all alone at the picnic table) let out an ear shattering scream. Certain that she was being abducted we both jerked to attention and hubby started running in her direction. In the commotion I lost my death grip on DC who saw his opportunity to escape. He jerked away from me and began streaking through the parking lot without a stitch of clothing on covered from head to toe with poop. I dropped my pile of dirty wipes and took off after him tackling the naked poo covered rugrat right on the sidewalk in front of a table of a happy family eating their ice cream.
Then the world stopped. As I looked up from the sidewalk they all sat frozen staring at me their ice cream quickly melting in the hot summer night. People were stuck in midstance halfway into the ice cream parlour mouths agape. I turned around to see what tragedy had befallen RJ and to ensure my husband was rescuing her. It seems she had gotten a finger caught in the wire mesh of the picnic table and had dropped her ice cream into the fresh pile of poo her brother had deposited on the sidewalk.
As hubs worked to free her from the evil picnic table I wrestled the baby back to the trunk of my car and was finally able to get a diaper on him. Of course there were no spare clothes in the diaper bag. Defeated we decided that this incident had cut short our outing and proceeded to throw out what was left the ice cream and sheepishly pack ourselves into the car. As for the mess on the sidewalk there was little that could be done.
I could not stop laughing as we drove away. My husband, on the other hand, did not seem to find any humor in the whole situation. He did remark about halfway home that he could not get the smell of poop out of his nose and it was at this juncture we realized that we had overlooked the fact that I too was covered in poo.
Cold stone and its patrons will never quite be the same after this incident. And now you know why we can never ever return. Ever.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Life Goes On.

Tomorrow morning I return to work after my maternity leave and summer vacation. I’m sad to be leaving my 7 week old, but hey this is the second baby and I’ve been down this road before. There will be bottles to make and breastfeeding schedules to figure out.  I’ll miss both my girls, but that’s not what has me most anxious.  Tomorrow, I will walk back into my office. The office that on June 6, 2013 my world went upside down. It was our last scheduled day to work of the school year…I was all ready for a summer vacation. I knew I was facing a move (or two) and a new baby ( I was 8 months pregnant). But didn’t quite realize that those were not the only changes I was going to experience on my “break”. It was 1:45pm and I had just walked into my office after returning from lunch with my colleagues. I looked down at my phone to see a text. A text that changed the course of my entire summer. You see, my father had been ill and in and out of the hospital for 6 months. I had told my friends that it was likely he was dying. I had told them trying to make it real, but I don’t think I ever really grasped that he was indeed dying. But when I saw this, I think my heart literally hit the floor in addition to me sobbing on my knees in the office.


The words that for so long I knew might come had finally come. If you knew my mother, you would know how painful it must have been to write that. She had been so strong that for her to say those words, I knew it was far worse that I could have ever imagined. If she was telling me to come home, he was close to death. I wept in my office with two co workers sharing tears with me. I called my husband and he immediately came to my office. We made the decision to go (because there was no other choice). We went by daycare and picked up our 3 year old after we had run home to our boxed up life (we were moving in two days). That car ride was the longest 4 hours I have ever driven. My mind swirled with what I wanted to say as my “goodbyes” yet I felt like I couldn’t find the words to say hardly anything at all. Occasionally my husband asked if I was okay and we took turns crying along the way. Halfway there, mom sent another text to ask if we were coming to the hospital. when we arrived.  I told her I thought we would just come first thing in the morning since we had our daughter with us and it would be close to 9pm. A three year old doesn’t really belong in ICU, let alone it would be past her bedtime. She wrote back another painful message….”the dr. says you should come tonight”. And there it was-confirmation that I was driving to say goodbye praying I wouldn’t get there too late. I felt like my already shredded heart was just ripped out of my chest again. We finally arrived and were whisked away to ICU-it was after visiting hours. My SIL kept my daughter while we went back. I will never forget walking through the doors of ICU with everyone looking at us with relief that we had finally arrived-the whispers that we were here and I'm sure prayers I wouldn't deliver a baby tonight. I slipped my hand into my husbands, and as we turned the corner and could see him through the glass door we both simultaneously let out a horrific sound-a sound of utter shock and disbelief. There he was, mouth wide open, grayish skin, and only a shell of my father on a machine forcing him to breathe. The tears stung my face as I listened to my husbands sobs. We opened the door and went in and sat there. My 34 year old, 8 month pregnant self wanted to curl up like a 6 year old and hear my father say, “it’s okay” or make some off color joke-really say anything at all. The only sounds in the room were our sobs and the machines. What do you say in that moment? How do you say goodbye in a matter of minutes for a lifetime of memories? When faced with death, how do you find the peace to let go, instead of being selfish and begging God for more time.  I had told friends I was at peace because I knew God was in control-in that moment that was a total load of BS.  How could God take my father like this? And I found myself so angry. Why hadn’t I come more often or why hadn’t I talked to him more on the phone while he was in the hospital. I had stayed away partly because of life and work, but partly so I wouldn’t have the memory of him looking so sick. Yet the irony was, my memory now is and will always be that moment and him not being able to simply say “I love you” back. We finally gathered ourselves together and said goodbye-our forever goodbyes. He died less than 48 hours later after we brought him home with hospice care and we were left to find comfort and peace knowing he was no longer suffering or in pain-faithfully trusting God was in control. 

So tomorrow I go back to work and I have to walk into my office where my summer vacation was forever changed. I never imagined that my father would not live to meet my new baby. He had told us over and over he was hanging on to meet his newest grandchild-and it was only 6 more weeks.  Tomorrow is about finding a new normal and getting back into a routine-coming out of the fog I‘ve been in for 3 months. I’ve spent the last three months moving, having a baby, and thinking I was grieving. But as I sit preparing to go back, I feel like I haven’t grieved at all. Many days it seems that the world has gone on, but in my world the sadness and pain are as raw and real as ever. I pick up the phone to call mom and have to stop myself from saying "how's daddy?"  I want to hear him tell me he's proud of me and how precious my 2 little girls are.  It’s been easy to hide behind feeding a newborn or unpacking boxes and not really dealing with reality.  We have been to church every Sunday since our daughter was 2 weeks old-I know people were amazed, but they didn't realize I was coming to somehow try and find peace or to be close to daddy.  Tomorrow, reality is going to slap me in the face. Tomorrow he will be there-a part of so much of my day in the small stuff.  So I’ve found myself thinking….tomorrow-ready or not, Life goes on.


Monday, September 9, 2013

The Weird Kid....

Do you ever worry that YOUR kid might just be the WEIRD kid at school? I’m not talking about the “march to the beat of her own drum” type weird. I’m talking “the smelly kid who stands in the corner alone snacking on her own boogers” weird.

It never crossed my mind that MY child could be the weird one. She’s beautiful!! She’s blonde with blue eyes. She’s really quite social and smart as a whip (too smart if you ask me). She’s into the normal things like dancing, gymnastics, princesses and ponies. Okay so I may have overlooked her tendency to watch episodes of “My Little Pony” in Korean on youtube but that’s not really so much of a concern. Until last week when she laid this whopper on me….

Let me preface by saying that she is fully potty trained and goes on her own, at will. But we still have the butt-wiping issue. It’s not that she doesn’t know to wipe her butt after she poops, it’s that she has these little alligator arms that just don’t quite reach. We have had many a conversation (not to mention the practice sessions) stressing the importance of letting her teachers know when she has to poop so that they can help in this arena (God bless preschool teachers).

So scene set, I’m picking her up from school and on our drive home we are having the usual conversation about how the day went.

“how was your day today honey?”

“it was good.”

“Did anything happen today?”

“Yes William wouldn’t play with me and told me I wasn’t his friend anymore.”

“Well that’s not very nice.”

“No and Maddy and Lilly kept running away from me and wouldn’t let me make bracelets with them.”

“Gosh I’m sorry I bet that hurt your feelings.”

“yes and I forgot to tell miss Julie today that I had to go poop. And I didn’t wipe very well so later it started itching a little so I stuck my finger in it and then my finger got poop on it and smelled like poop”

Dead silence as I try to comprehend what she said and how to respond to such a statement

“sometimes I forget to wash my hands”

“baby what happened????? Your finger smelled like poop???? When did you realize this?”

“oh when I was setting the table for lunch- [proudly] I was the table-eater [leader] today!!”

“well did you wash your hands then?”

“yep! And I washed my bottom out in the classroom sink”

Another moment of stunned silence

“um, did miss Julie help you wash your bottom in the sink?”

“no, I didn’t want her to see so I waited until it was just the kids”

“you washed your bottom out in the sink in front of the kids???”

“yep, just the little ones”

That was about the time she got bored with talking to me and asked me if we could have “quiet time” the rest of the way home.

I may have failed as a mother with not addressing this further. But sometimes there are just soooo many things wrong that I get overwhelmed and don’t even know where to start addressing. So we just let that one lie. Although I did casually ask the teacher the next morning at drop off “So how is RJ doing?......socially?”

My only shred of hope through this event is that maybe she set William, Maddy, and Lilly’s place BEFORE she realized there was poop on her finger.